Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Bilboo clenched his tiny fists. “Death to Geddon! Death to Lord Obsidian!”

  One imp jumped on top of him, trying to shut him up before he got the rest of the detectives in the room slaughtered.

  IT WAS A HOT EVENING in Central Soreltris. That didn’t stop Dakathiel Swiftfoot from practicing his archery. It was a nightly routine, rain or shine. He was one of the best elven marksmen in Soreltris, but he was always trying to get better. He had a competition coming up and he hoped to win the substantial reward. It would help his family tremendously.

  Dakathiel stared down the lane at the target, thirty yards away. It was a sheet of paper in the form of a blackguard. He grinned at the paper as he pulled back on the bowstring.

  He released the arrow and it whistled down the clear path. It tore through the paper and thumped the tree trunk behind it. With his expert vision—even in dim lighting—he could tell it had hit the blackguard’s forehead.

  He had invited two friends to come along to the woods with him, but they had declined, instead opting to go drinking. His friends were undisciplined elves. He had an inkling they were involved in an affair with one another. Their respective spouses would not appreciate that, but Dakathiel was no informant.

  Dakathiel’s long ear twitched as he heard a rustling in the bushes behind him, some thirty feet away. He squinted and immediately crouched, shortening his tall frame in a second. He scuttled over behind a tree, then reached into his quiver for an arrow. To his dismay, he found there was only one arrow left. He glanced down the lane: the other five arrows were stuck in the blackguard practice target.

  Sighing, he nocked his arrow on his recurve bow. He grinned—if this was Tormil or Lithoniel trying to sneak up on him, they would be in for a nasty surprise.

  “Show yourself!” he called out.

  He peeked his head out. An arrow smacked into the tree trunk, inches from his face.

  Dakathiel’s eyes widened. His adrenaline started pumping. His friends wouldn’t have tried to shoot him, no matter how angry with him they were—even if they knew he’d discovered their romantic fling. That much he knew.

  In the distance, Dakathiel could see a shape hiding behind two trees. The figure wasn’t protected in the middle, where the trees didn’t overlap.

  He closed one eye, stuck his head out from the tree trunk, and loosed his arrow, aiming for the small window of open space.

  A moment later, he heard a grunt. The black figure slumped behind the trees.

  Dakathiel took a deep breath. He glanced behind him, at the empty lane leading to the practice target. He needed those arrows. He’d have no cover if he made a run for it . . .

  “Screw it,” he said to himself. He’d never met a person who could outrun him in a sprint. “They’ll see why they call me Swiftfoot.”

  Feeling appropriately arrogant and charged by the action, he took off down the lane, racing like a cheetah.

  He zigged and zagged as he ran, his long, blond hair floating and whipping in the breeze.

  When he reached the target, he’d realized no arrows had come close to touching him, and he smiled. Maybe there had been only one assailant? But who was he? He took two of the arrows in one hand and pulled hard, extricating them from the tree trunk. He spun around and nocked one of the arrows.

  As he turned, he felt the wind go out of his lungs. He looked down and saw the feathered end of an arrow protruding from his chest. It became hard to breathe. He wheezed. Stuttering to himself, he fell to one knee.

  Another arrow took him in the shoulder, striking through him and pinning him to the tree trunk.

  Dakathiel cried out in anger and pain. He felt himself losing blood, but the adrenaline was enough to keep him conscious.

  He looked up and saw a blurry figure casually strolling down the lane toward him. He tried to raise his bow, but as he did it was shot from his hands and tumbled into the grass.

  Dakathiel groaned. “W-Who are you?”

  The figure approached and stopped less than ten feet away.

  “You know me, Dakathiel,” the man said. He was tall—as tall as Dakathiel, maybe taller. He held himself with poise and grace. “I bested you at the last archery competition.”

  Dakathiel’s mouth fell open. “L-Lord Sunstone?” He couldn’t believe it: a fellow elf, one of the most powerful people in Soreltris, was standing in front of him. “But why?” Dakathiel asked. He couldn’t find any reason why Lord Sunstone would be angry toward him, or jealous. He felt his lifeforce leaving him, his energy fading as the adrenaline wore off.

  “Overseer Malachite’s orders, my friend. I had no idea you were an ally of Geddon’s and a leader of the Vagrant Kinship.”

  “G-Geddon is no ally of mine,” Dakathiel said.

  A flash of confusion passed over Lord Sunstone’s face—a momentary chink in his perfect armor. Then, he shrugged. “It’s no matter. This was his fault, you see. Maybe he saw you as a rival and wanted to get rid of you? If so, the bastard’s more clever than I gave him credit for.”

  “W-Wait, my lord,” Dakathiel croaked, raising his hand, trying to keep his thoughts in order. “What did Geddon say?”

  Lord Sunstone lifted his bow and put one more arrow into Dakathiel, between the eyes. The elf’s head knocked back against the tree and he fell over, the arrow in his shoulder keeping him pinned.

  As Lord Sunstone left the scene, he frowned and shook his head, his elegant demeanor wavering. “The things I do for this damned government,” he said to himself. He couldn’t believe he had committed fratricide against one of his own brothers. Dakathiel had not been a blood brother, but he had been an elf nonetheless.

  He’d have words with Geddon when he returned to Overseer Malachite’s home for the wedding celebration.

  “If Geddon is still alive, that is.”

  “NO, YOU MAY NOT ENTER my home. And I will not ask you again to leave.” Mariana Lee spoke to four blackguards at her gate.

  They had no lord or lady with them. The officer of the group said, “My lady, I have been ordered to inspect your estate for a ‘forest queen,’ as the Overseer put it. Now, please step aside.”

  Mariana Lee bared her fanged teeth. Inside, she was frightened. She felt lucky Pua Kila was away with her husband, somewhere in the woods, searching for Charles’ body. At the same time, Mariana knew there were about twenty Nawao warriors housed in her abode. She couldn’t let them be found.

  Their discovery would be disastrous. She had no doubt her twenty Nawao could terminate these four blackguards. But the repercussions would be devastating. It would mean the end of her reign as a Council member. And Constantin’s.

  It had never been her intention to undermine the Brethren Council from within. But things were starting to head in that direction, she noticed.

  She said, “Sirs, I don’t care what Overseer Malachite’s accusations are. I am a Councilwoman of the Brethren of Soreltris, and I far outrank any of you. If you want to come into my home, you will have to return with an equal of my rank, or the Overseer himself. Now, leave.”

  One of the blackguards made the mistake of reaching out and putting a hand on Mariana’s hand.

  “Ma’am—”

  Mariana drew her hand inside the gate. “Touch me again and you’ll lose that hand.”

  The blackguard had the decency to back away. He stared at his three comrades and shrugged.

  The officer was put in an impossible place. He could anger a Councilwoman, one of the most powerful people in the three regions, or anger Overseer Malachite. He also had no doubt the vampiress in front of him could be quite dangerous.

  It was late in the evening. He was tired, while Mariana Lee seemed refreshed and revitalized. She’d likely been sleeping all day. The blackguard commander was hesitant about pushing the issue any further.

  Besides, Mariana Lee had a point. She outranked any of them. They had no legal warrant to search her house, only the supposed “command” from the Overseer.

  The blackguard command
er came to a decision.

  “Let’s go, men,” he said. Turning to Mariana one last time, he added, “We’ll be back, madam. You can count on that.”

  Mariana bared her teeth one last time and licked her lips with a smile. It unnerved the blackguard.

  “I hope you will, sir,” she said, still smiling as the blackguards wandered off her property.

  STEVE PUT THE PEDAL to the metal and listened happily as the cherry-red Mustang revved into gear. The car roared down the freeway.

  Aiden seemed a bit frightened in the passenger seat. Steve was driving like Scarlet usually drove.

  “Are we in a rush, mate?” Aiden asked, glancing out his window at the trees and freeway guardrail whirring by.

  Steve shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, easing off the gas pedal. “I wanted to see what this thing can do. It’s been a while since I’ve driven.” Ever since he first left for Mythicus, in fact.

  It was the wee hours of the morning, on a Tuesday, and the I-5 Freeway was not yet congested with commuters. He wanted to speed along while he still could, because if there’s anything he hated in life, it was traffic.

  As they headed north, Steve turned on the radio and switched the tuner to 101.5 KGB. “See,” he said, “this is how you make a radio. None of that touchscreen bullshit. I can actually use this thing.”

  Aiden said nothing.

  The song playing was Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild.”

  The song seemed appropriate.

  He put his foot down on the pedal and heard the engine rumble, giving him the power he craved.

  Steve smiled and said to no one in particular, “Laguna Hills, here we come.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was the day of Annabel Lee and Tiberius Reynolds’ wedding celebration. The celebration was more for the Brethren leadership than it was for the wedding party. As such, it took place at Overseer Malachite’s castle in the hills.

  The celebration began at noon. Guests arrived between then and 1:00 p.m. All eleven of the original Council members arrived in their best regalia, trying to outdo each other. The ladies wore crimson dresses with gold-trimmed skirts, fur coats, and floppy hats. The men wore their red-and-gold Brethren armor, looking more like royal bodyguards than lords.

  Malachite had a ballroom on the first level of his castle. It was prepared in advance for this raucous occasion. Musicians played classical music in the corner of the room. On the other end of the room tables were set up with hors d’oeuvres and a full bar tended by a festive looking young man. Gold and red ornaments hung from the domed ceiling. The entire floor was open for dancing and mingling. Servants with trays scuttled in and out of the room.

  Besides the lords and ladies of the Council, other lower-ranked members of the Brethren were there, too. These people were courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, military commanders, and specially awarded blackguards. There were enough people present to fill the room and make it lively, but not enough to overcrowd the place. Malachite made sure of that.

  Malachite watched the activity from a raised dais at the head of the room, with an air of easy boredom. He sat on a throne-like seat and sipped a goblet of wine. He seemed completely relaxed, as if the celebration was in his honor, rather than the married couple’s.

  A servant rushed up to him and knelt to speak in his ear. He whispered, “Two of the Vagrant Kinship commanders were removed from power last night, my lord. Krik the imp and Dakathiel the elf will bother you no more.”

  The Overseer nodded thoughtfully. Those names meant nothing to him. But still, if they aided the Vagrants, it was better they were gone. “Who took care of them?”

  The servant’s eyes wandered out to the ballroom, at a few particular guests. “Lord Obsidian extinguished the imp at his detective firm. Lord Sunstone snuffed out the elf in the woods not far from these hills, my lord.”

  “Very good,” Malachite said. “Carry on.”

  The servant dashed away, a nervous expression on his face.

  “Wait!” Malachite cried out before the servant could get too far. The man froze in place and tensed. He turned and trudged back to his master.

  “What about the Nawao woman, Poo Ancilla or whatever her name is?”

  A noticeable sheen of sweat appeared on the brow of the servant. He hesitated, then said, “Your guards were not allowed entry into the Lee’s household last night, my lord. They were unable to search the premises for the forest warriors or their leader, Pua Kila.” He pronounced the woman’s name slowly, so maybe Malachite would remember it.

  Malachite’s upper lip twitched. He growled, “Constantin would subvert my authority?”

  “It was the wife, my lord.”

  Malachite was shocked. “Mariana?” Then he remembered the power women used to hold in the Brethren Council. “They’ll need to be reprimanded and taught the error of their insubordination,” he said in a low voice.

  The servant creased his brow. “Pardon, my lord?”

  “Never mind, boy,” Malachite said, waving a hand at him. He continued staring out at the crowd and noticed something. Straightening on his chair a bit, he saw Lord Obsidian and Lady Chalcedony speaking with Lord Sunstone and Lady Moonstone. The group of lords and ladies had drawn a crowd of lesser gentry around them. At another part of the room, Lady Jade, the widow, told a story with her hands wildly gesticulating in the air. She had the rapt attention of five or six young blackguards, who looked upon her with smiles and open mouths. Jade was attractive, and Malachite scoffed at the sight of her attempting to seduce the young men. Or at least it looked that way.

  But something was missing from the ballroom.

  Furrowing his brow, Overseer Malachite said, “Where are those two?”

  The servant didn’t respond, but rather raised his eyebrows.

  “The Lees. Constantin and Mariana. This celebration is as much for them as it is for their daughter. They’re getting Named today!”

  The servant pretended to search the room hard, his eyes bouncing from head to head. He knew the Lees were nowhere in the room. It was his job to know who was attending and who had arrived, and he knew the Lees were currently absent. Still, he put on a show, then said, “I do not know, my lord. Shall I speak with the front?”

  “Yes,” Malachite said, a bit annoyed. “See if they’re arriving. It wouldn’t be right to begin the formal celebration without their presence.”

  “Quite right, my lord.” The servant dashed off quickly, making sure he didn’t give Overseer Malachite the chance to call him back.

  Malachite leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He drained his goblet of wine, then snapped his fingers at the nearest servant. “You, boy,” he sneered.

  The boy’s face blanched as he faced his master. “Y-Y-Yes, m’lord?”

  Malachite snorted. “No need to fear me, boy. And quit with the ‘m’lord’ stuff. We aren’t in the Middle Ages, are we?”

  “Y-Y-Yes, my lord. I mean . . . n-no, my lor—master.” The boy was immediately discouraged. He cleared his throat and got a hold of himself. “We are not in the Middle Ages, Your Grace.”

  Malachite stared at the boy for a moment, who refused to meet his gaze. The Overseer chuckled and motioned him forward. “Do me a favor and get me another goblet of wine. I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.”

  “Yes, my lo—my master.” The boy cursed himself as he wandered away.

  “Boy!” Malachite called, stopping the servant in his tracks. When the boy turned, the Overseer said, “Might as well make it a whole carafe, eh?”

  ANNABEL WATCHED THE goings-on in the ballroom from a room on the second level of Malachite’s abode. It was a small room—more like a study—but it had a window with a perfect vantage to the ballroom below. She couldn’t stop fidgeting and fiddling her fingers. She clasped them in front of her stomach, trying to hide her nervousness. She glanced down at herself: she wore a red dress, much more elegant than her usual white dresses, but it was loose fitting. Father had made her wear the dress. Sh
e chose the style because it didn’t show her belly. Though her belly was still flat—at least she didn’t think she was showing—she didn’t want to take any chances. No one could know about her pregnancy. Not yet.

  Where are they? she wondered, exasperated. Her parents should have arrived by now. Unless they are trying to time their arrival for a certain moment . . .

  Tiberius stood at the other side of the study, drinking a mug of ale and pacing around. It was the first time Annabel had seen her handsome, disgusting husband act nervous. She relished the sight. Tiberius had never shown anxiety in the bedroom—in fact, he’d shown overtly excited passion. She wished she knew how to summon that skittishness inside him at will. Everything would be a whole lot better if she could control him, rather than the other way around.

  Oh, well, she thought, shaking her head. It shouldn’t be long now until our marriage is null and void. Then I’ll never have to see his chiseled, boorish face again.

  “What are you staring at over there?” Tiberius snapped, as if trying to pass his jumpiness to his wife.

  “I . . . I think there’s something happening,” Annabel said in a low voice.

  Tiberius closed the gap between them and stood behind her. “What are you talking about, silly girl?” He peeked over her shoulder and saw Overseer Malachite standing from the dais, raising his hands. From the corner of his eye, he saw his younger sister, Emilene, mingling with a young, broad blackguard. She looked beautiful, in Tiberius’ opinion, too beautiful . . . with her clinging dress and bouncing hair. She seemed so giddy, too, giggling and putting her hand over her mouth as she spoke with the young man in front of her. It made Tiberius fume.

  “What in the three regions is she so happy about?” Tiberius said to no one.

  Annabel furrowed her brow. “Who are you talking about?”

  Tiberius scoffed and said, “Never mind.”

  Just then, Overseer Malachite snapped his fingers and the musicians stopped playing mid-song. It was relatively quiet without the music. Before long, the low rumble of conversation ceased as everyone faced the Overseer.