Island Shifters - An Oath of the Blood (Book One)

by Valerie Zambito

  Airron spent a fitful night at their makeshift camp, and was the first to wake the following morning. He set off for the wharf without waking the others, anxious to spend time talking to Elves for the first time in his life.

  He lifted his hands to pull up his hood but stopped short, realizing with satisfaction that it was unnecessary. The combination of silver hair and violet eyes so unique in other parts of Massa would be unexceptional here.

  A slight wind picked up as he made his way across the open grassy knoll between the docks and the Puu. All was quiet except the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the shore. He didn’t see any of the Elves as he approached the road that fronted the shops. He tried a few doors and was surprised to find them all closed for business and locked up tight.

  A muffled sound flowed to him on the breeze. Singing? Walking further down the road, he saw them then. All of the Havenport Elves were down by the lakeshore standing in a circle with joined hands. Their lips moved in unison to the words of a chant, the cadence in their upraised voices captivating, the lyrics poignant.

  The grief that Airron carried around with him like a lead weight since the destruction of Pyraan seemed to lighten with each word. Sorrow was replaced with thoughts of joy as he watched the Elves gesticulate in prayer, their beautiful faces bathed in rapture, silver silken strands floating in the wind.

  Suddenly feeling like an interloper intruding on a private ritual, he reluctantly backed away and returned to the docks to wait.

  The Elves returned to their duties several moments later. One of the dockworkers that Airron had met the previous day approached him. His name was Loren and he walked with an elegantly powerful grace as though one with the earth and forest around him.

  “Asha, brother,” he said, clasping forearms with Airron in the traditional Elven welcome. “If you plan to stay in Haventhal, you cannot miss the Morning Song to Elán.”

  Red-faced, Airron admitted his ignorance of Elven customs. Loren explained that Elán of the Earth was the Elves’ woodland deity and daily devotion at sunrise was expected of each and every Elf.

  Airron smiled. “When my duty is over, brother, I will be back here so you can teach me all I need to know about being a proper Elf.”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  Airron remained to chat with Loren and a few of the others for a time, and then purchased the items he needed for the trek on foot to Sarphia. Walking back to camp, he realized with a measure of contentment that he had gained more than supplies that morning—he had gained a friend in Loren.

  When he returned, Rory was awake and sitting by the fire, quietly stroking the embers, but Bret was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’s the Saber?” Airron asked, letting his bulging backpack fall to the ground.

  “Gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “Left for Iserport. You must have missed him at the wharf.”

  Airron shrugged. “Looks like it’s just you and me then, kid.” He walked to the fire and kicked dirt over the smoldering cinders. “And, there’s no time like the present. Let’s go.”

  Airron led the way onto one of the narrow paths into the Puu. Ducking his head under the trailing vines and ferns hanging over the entrance, he winced at the sudden thick humidity that enveloped him. He expected the interior to be cooler in temperature similar to the Grayan Forest, but it was hot and sticky, and beads of sweat popped out on his brow.

  His head swiveled in all directions as he walked, amazed at the plethora and size of the plant life in the Puu—palms, ferns, orchids, mosses, bamboo, and the forest giants, the ficus trees, that soared one hundred and fifty feet or more into the sky. The heavy foliage that encroached on both sides of the path restricted his visibility of what lay beyond and he silently prayed that a snake or jaguar native to the forest didn’t drop down on his head.

  Eventually, the trees began to thin and the first of Haventhal’s villages appeared before him. Airron inhaled sharply and stopped to stare.

  Winding paths twisted through a landscape of lily-filled ponds, colorful gardens and trees alive with twinkling lights—the source of which Airron could not even guess. Quaint cottages were sprinkled over the area, some on the ground, others built into the branches of the trees. Silver-haired Elven children flitted swiftly through the village on toes that barely touched the ground, the lovely sound of their laughter enchanting. The adults were busy laboring over one chore or another.

  Loren explained to Airron that although the Elven people toiled during the daylight hours, they loved to sing and dance and give thanks to Elán at night. He assured a skeptical Airron with a twinkle in his purple eyes, that the Elves really did know how to have fun.

  As profoundly moved as he was at seeing an Elven village for the first time, he felt an odd detachment to the people. In contrast to the humans and Dwarves he grew up with in Pyraan, he was light on his feet, but compared to the indigenous Elves of Haventhal, he felt clumsy and heavy. He didn’t have anywhere near their wraithlike movements and swiftness.

  “Are you going to stand there with a stupid grin on your face all day, Elf?” Rory asked, startling him.

  He hadn’t even realized he had been smiling, but it vanished quickly when two soldiers in uniformed tunics of green and brown suddenly emerged from the trees on either side of them, hands on the hilts of their swords. “Asha, good folk. It is not often that we get strangers to our village. May I ask your purpose?”

  Airron nodded and took his pack off his back. “Of course, I have—”

  “Slowly,” said one of the soldiers, lifting his sword a fraction out of its scabbard. “Whatever you have in your pack, bring it out slowly.”

  Airron swallowed and reached in to retrieve King Maximus’s decree and handed it to the Elf.

  The soldier read it very carefully, continuing to eye Airron as he did. The document only disclosed that he was a messenger with an urgent communication for King Jerund. It did not mention the invasion; that was for the King’s ears only.

  “I am Gardien Leif Oliver and this is Gardien Raine Aubry of the Haventhal Army. Sarphia is a five-day journey along that path,” he said pointing to a road that led further east into the Puu. “It seems your business is urgent. Would you like an escort?”

  Airron shook his head. “Thank you for your kind offer, brother, but we don’t wish to be a burden. We will be able to find our way.”

  Oliver nodded. “Very well. Safe travels to you.” With that, the Gardiens disappeared, melting back into the forest walls.

  “Come on,” Airron said to Rory and guided him through the hard-working village and into the darkened forest beyond. After walking in silence for several moments, Airron turned to Rory. “It’s dark here. Why don’t you give us a little light to see by?”

  Rory’s shoulders stiffened. “I can see clearly enough.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Airron said. “We can do without. Not to mention that it would be impossible anyway.”

  Rory stopped in his tracks. “Pardon me?’

  Airron smiled but his violet eyes narrowed dangerously. “You are no more a fireshifter than I and you know it.”

  Rory glared thoughtfully at him for a moment before throwing his head back in a disturbing laugh.

  Airron recoiled as the red-cheeked innocence that was Rory Greeley morphed into a dark, sinister presence with hate in his eyes.

  “Well, well, one of you Savitars has brains after all. What gave it away?”

  “Many things. Who are you?” Airron’s eyes never left the imposter as the air began to shimmer in the precursor of a bodyshifting, and a beautiful woman appeared in front of him.

  Airron briefly mourned the death of the little fireshifter they had all thought miraculously survived the destruction of Pyraan, but then quickly put it behind him. He would need all of his concentration on the task at hand. The woman circled him, and he shadowed her path, eyes never leaving her face.

  She tapped a finger on her
chin. “It will be nice to have an Elven form as I travel through Haventhal,” she murmured. “Of course, it would mean I have to kill you first.”

  Airron tensed his muscles as he prepared to fight. “You killed Bret Schwan, I presume.”

  “Of course. That is one body that will never be found.”

  His jaw clenched. “And, Titus?”

  “My, my, clever little thing.”

  “Kiernan?” he demanded.

  She glowered in frustration. “Unfortunately, no. The fool of a girl ran off before I could get her pendant. Adrian will be quite furious with me.”

  Airron’s suspicions were now confirmed. Avalon Ravener stood before him and the knowledge was not comforting.

  She stopped and faced him. “Enough of the questions. It is your death I am most concerned with now. After all, it will fulfill the second of the prophecies that the bothersome Mage blabbered about.” She checked her fingernails. “Yes, I heard all about it standing on the balcony outside of the Mage’s chambers.”

  “What do you mean by the second of the prophecies?”

  “I have already betrayed the earthshifter by ensuring that the Princess caught him with two whores. Of course, neither knew that I bewitched the boy with a glamour spell, but that’s besides the point.”

  Comprehension hit at that moment and a rush of terror-induced adrenaline coursed through him.

  So, it was to be him.

  He was the one to die.

  Better me than any of the others, he told himself shakily. Even so, he didn’t want it to happen. He enjoyed life too much.

  He fixed the witch in a defiant stare. If she wanted his death, it would cost her.

  “I guess I will have to satisfy myself with your pendant until I meet up with the Princess again. Toss it over.” Avalon held out her hand, and Airron acted.

  The air flickered as he shifted into a Meeko lizard, one of the most powerful and agile creatures on the island. A single bite from the reptile’s powerful jaws could sever an arm. But, he was going for the throat.

  The lizard scrambled forward, sharp claws digging into the dirt and leapt at the witch.

  Avalon proved just as fast, her body contorting downward into the shape of a Puuvian goliath arachnid.

  The lizard flew through the sudden empty space, tumbled over the ground and slammed up hard against the trunk of a ficus tree.

  The oversized spider, at least two hands in length, raced after the fallen lizard, swarmed up its leg and sank pointed fangs into the soft tissue of its underbelly, injecting a fatal dose of venom into its bloodstream.

  Demon’s breath!

  The spider’s murderous task complete, it scuttled back to the road and shifted into the form of Avalon Ravener. Not satisfied, the witch picked up Rory’s sword from the ground and stalked to the Meeko. She grunted with effort and swung with a two-handed chop meant to take the lizard’s head off.

  The Meeko managed to twist away in time and shifted into an eagle—the same eagle that saved the little Halfie child in the Balor Mountains a little more than two weeks ago.

  The venom spreading quickly now, Airron found it difficult to maintain his magic.

  The eagle flapped its enormous wings and reached out toward Avalon with sharp talons, raking viciously at her face.

  She cried out in pain, three long welts on her cheek pebbling with blood. She slashed her sword at the bird, but it wheeled behind her and tore a chunk of flesh from her back with its beak.

  With a harsh yell, Avalon exploded in size into a primate with a thick black body and muscular arms. The ape beat its chest once and then used human-like hands to grab the eagle out of the air and smash it to the ground with sickening force.

  The eagle, dazed, attempted to lift off, but was heaved into the air a second time and slammed down to the earth.

  The bird did not move again as it lay broken on the path, blood pooling beneath it in a small river. The air around the eagle flickered once, and the form reverted to Airron’s battered Elven body.

  Avalon limped over to him. “Like I said, Savitar, second prophecy fulfilled.” She bent down and grasped his pendant, ripping it from his neck. After tucking the pendant away in her pack, she returned to him and put her hands on his head.

  No!

  Airron’s mind desperately urged his ruined body to respond. To get up, to roll away, to lash out at Avalon before she turned him into a shrunken corpse like the guard in Nysa. But, it was no use. His body was beyond taking orders.

  But, he could still register fading sights and sounds.

  Avalon’s sudden scream as she batted her hands around her head at what looked like a bird clawing at her scalp.

  Running footsteps.

  A curse.

  The witch gathering her clothing from the ground and hastily retreating into the forest.

  Then, he was alone. Alone and cold. Dear Highworld, I can’t remember ever feeling this cold! His body convulsed and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He wished he had a warm blanket to throw over his shoulders, or a nice burning fireplace to warm his hands or even a mug of Master Martyn’s ale.

  Wait. Master Martyn is dead, isn’t he? They’re all dead.

  Airron smiled when he realized that he would not be alone for long. Where he was going, the shifters were sure to be waiting for him.

  Chapter 24

  The Search

  It was the fifth day of Kiernan’s disappearance, and Beck still had not uncovered a single clue as to her whereabouts. Thoughts of her haunted him. He lived a waking nightmare, not knowing if she was alive or dead, hurt or scared. He agreed with Airron’s assertion that she hadn’t left of her own volition since all of her belongings, with the exception of her sword, were still in her room.

  She had simply vanished.

  Beck stalked the streets like a man possessed and entered every tavern, inn and shop in Iserport, enquiring of everyone he met if they had seen a woman of Kiernan’s description. He spoke to men in rough coats and even rougher faces enjoying a game of dice or cards. Soldiers, innkeepers, barmaids, citizens on the streets. Anyone he thought might have the answers he needed.

  Pulling his cloak around his shoulders in the rain, he looked up at the sign dangling above the door of one of the seedier taverns he had yet to visit. The Rearing Horse it read, with an image of a stallion rearing up on hind legs under the faded script.

  He pushed inside, wrinkling his nose at the thick pipe smoke. All of the tables were full, the raucous crowd slapping their knees in crude delight at a young serving girl dancing timidly on one of the tables.

  “Do not be shy, lass! Show the good fellows a bit more leg!” yelled one of the patrons drunkenly. Color blossomed in the girl’s face, but she did as she was told and lifted the bottom of her wide skirts to show off her calf.

  Beck shook his head. The girl’s eyes had a now-familiar desperate cast to them. No doubt, the coin she made at the tavern supported several members of her family. He had heard similar stories many times during his hunt for information.

  He threaded his way to the bar easily enough. One glance at his bulk was enough to turn most men aside with ease. He ordered a mug of ale and leaned back on the bar with his elbows to study the clientele. Riffraff, mostly. There were no soldiers in sight or women except the barmaids. That was precisely why he was here. The innkeeper at the Queen’s Lair advised him that if he was thinking that foul play had been involved in the disappearance of his friend, he should go to The Rearing Horse. That lot, he was told, would be aware of the undercurrent of all criminal activity in the city, whether they had a part in it or not. And, of course, coin and drink would loosen most tongues.

  “Lass, if you do not show more leg, I will get off this chair and show it for you,” came a shout from the same drunken man in a disheveled brown cloak.

  The girl visibly blanched and held her skirts tight to her body. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years.

  Demon’s breath.


  Beck pushed away from the bar and strode to the front of the room. He held his hand out to the girl. “Get down.”

  She looked at him warily before placing her small hand in his. He helped her down and walked her to the front door. After reaching into his pocket, he pressed two silver coins into her hand. It was more than she could make in six months dancing at The Rearing Horse. “Take this,” he told her, “and find another job.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him gratefully and attempted a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you, my lord,” and she was off, running into the night like a frightened deer.

  Beck turned away and went back to his ale at the bar.

  “You!” someone screamed.

  Beck turned slowly toward the voice. It was the man in the brown coat. Beck kept his face impassive, but now recognized him. He was one of the men who had come to the defense of the wife beater, Sully, in Janis. “Grab that man! He’s a bloody shifter!”

  Beck stood motionless as the murmurs of the men around him grew in intensity. One rough ran to the front door of the inn and threw the lock, and Beck noticed the barkeeper duck into the kitchens.

  “Do I know you?” Beck asked casually.

  “You bloody do know me, shifter,” the man said, pointing at him. “You killed my friend, Sully!”

  Beck shook his head. Kiernan told him everything that had happened that night. “Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure. Sully’s wife killed him.”

  Feet shifted uneasily, but the men held firm. They probably didn’t know or care who Sully was, but they still had a shifter in their midst.

  All was silent for a moment as the men sized him up and then with a roar, Sully’s friend charged him.

  Idiot.

  Beck straightened and when the man was within an arm span from him, he reached out, grabbed him behind the head and slammed his face into the edge of the bar. The man crumpled to the floor.

  Outraged bellows spewed forth and the rest of The Rearing Horse patrons swarmed over him. As he was driven to the floor, he kept his knees tucked under so he could use his legs as leverage. A fist hit him in the jaw on his way down. He twisted his body onto his back and kicked out sending three men crashing into the now vacated tables around the bar.

  Another large hand licked out at him, this one holding a knife. Beck yanked his head back just enough to avoid a slicing cut. Turning again to protect his face, his back and ribs were pummeled by the string of men who managed to get close enough to his prone body.