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

by Valerie Zambito

“Your pendant?”Beck asked him.

  Rogan nodded. “It’s a long story, but I have it.”

  Beck exhaled a breath of relief.

  “Any news of Airron?” Kiernan asked as they walked.

  “Nothing,” Rogan replied. “And, that has me worried. I just hope he’s doing well.”

  “Apparently, you’re doing well,” Kiernan whispered under her breath. Unfortunately, it wasn’t low enough judging by the dark look Rogan sent her and the sly grin on Janin’s face.

  Beck related to them then all he knew of Airron’s misfortune. The news quickened their steps, the group anxious now to see Airron for themselves, and it wasn’t long before they emerged from the Puu Rainforest into the Elven capital of Sarphia.

  If Aquataine could be described as an underground paradise, Sarphia had to be considered an aboveground fairyland. From the twinkling lights in every tree to combat the unnatural darkness to the magnificent tiered gardens to the raw beauty of the Elven race of people. Every Elf, male and female, possessed an ethereal grace in the way they flitted from place to place that was purely magical to watch.

  Kiernan’s delighted perusal was interrupted by the arrival of a dozen Elven soldiers that approached them with a gait as light as air.

  “We have been expecting you, Savitars. This way,” one said to them.

  Taking positions on both sides of their group, the Elves set a hurried pace that forced the Savitars and Janin to trot between them. As they ran, the Elven people in the city stopped to watch the progression and most of their interest was centered on Bajan. If the white marble statue of a Draca Cat in the town square was any indication, Draca Cats were highly revered in the Elven world.

  The soldiers halted in front of a wooden building with a thatched roof and long porch. Two Elves dressed in white carried a stretcher inside. Kiernan thought it must be an infirmary of some sort.

  “You will find Master Falewir inside,” said one of the Elven soldiers, and then the regiment turned on their heels and departed, never breaking formation.

  Kiernan and the others went inside to what was indeed an infirmary—one heavily in use. Apparently, the demons had left their mark in Haventhal as well as in Iserlohn and Deepstone.

  She enquired about Airron.

  “Oh, yes,” said a pretty Elven girl behind a desk. “Master Falewir is down the hall in the last room.”

  Kiernan thanked her, and as they neared the door indicated, Kiernan was surprised to find two guards standing in front of it.

  “Is this Airron Falewir’s room?” Rogan asked.

  “It is,” said the stoic Elf. “What business do you have with him?”

  “Is that Fireball?” shouted a familiar voice from behind the door. “Let him in, guards!”

  The guards opened the door and one by one, they filed into the large room. There sat Airron, propped up in an enormous bed, with four Elven girls attending him. Two were rubbing his feet, one was massaging his shoulders, and one was feeding him grapes. Feeding him grapes!

  “Good, you’re all here,” Airron said through his mouthful. “And, it’s about bloody time! In case you haven’t noticed, we have a job to do.”

  Rogan took a step further into the room and planted his feet. “Do you want to kill him, Beck, or should I?”

  ***

  After dismissing the Elven nurses, it didn’t take long for Airron to pack. He accomplished the task while recounting his severe injuries at the hand of Avalon Ravener. Without the unsurpassed talent of the Elven healers and an antidote for the venom of the spider, he would have died. He told them of Rory, and they realized that it was Avalon who appeared to them after the destruction of Pyraan, and the young fireshifter had either perished with the others or Avalon had killed him outright.

  Also unspoken was the fact that all but one of Galen’s prophecies had come true. Airron had been gravely wounded, Beck had been betrayed, and Kiernan had been lost. That only left the most devastating prediction of all.

  And, it would come.

  Of that, she had no doubt.

  “The worst part is,” Airron said, continuing his story, “when the bloody witch thought I was dead, she tried to bodyshift me!” He shuddered. “Thank the Highworld something scared her off because she would have realized I was still alive if she had put her hands on me. The last thing I remember was her reaching down and ripping the pendant from my neck.”

  Three horrified gasps reverberated throughout the room.

  “His pendant is gone!” Kiernan said and threw up her hands. “Now what?”

  “We’re done,” moaned Rogan in anguish. “It ends here.”

  Beck didn’t say anything, but the floor beneath their feet buckled.

  “Take it easy,” Airron said smugly, fighting for balance. “Luckily, I suspected that something was up and I hid the pendant in my pack. Avalon stole a harmless piece of silver I purchased from one of the dockworkers in Havenport.”

  The room grunted in relief.

  “I guess now is as good a time as any to put our pendants together and retrieve the map,” Kiernan said and cleared a spot on the floor.

  Bajan and Janin looked on as the four Savitars knelt in a circle. They each held their pendants out in front of them, and Kiernan yelped in surprise as the four pieces flew from their hands and clinked together with some unseen magnetic force.

  The Savitars leaned back out of the way as the lodged pendants spun in the space between them, chains whipping around in a gray blur.

  A sudden gust sprang up from the center of the whirling metal. The air in the room began to swirl forcefully. Kiernan flinched when an oil lamp crashed to the floor. Her hair twirled above her head, her dress flapped violently against her skin. Yet, she couldn’t take her eyes from the transformation happening in the middle of the room. One by one, the links in the chains began to shorten and meld into the pendants. The molten silver pieces continued to fuse and reshape until all that was left was a single round disc.

  An explosion of light brightened the room, and the wind abruptly stopped as the silver circle fell to the floor with a tinny clink. A narrow orange flame flared to life over the pendant and etched a design of some sort onto the silver.

  When the glow disappeared, Kiernan reached out gingerly to pick up the disc expecting it to be hot, but it wasn’t. It was cool to the touch.

  “It’s a compass of some sort,” she said, noticing a thin orange flame still wavering on the surface.

  She handed it to Beck and he held the compass in the palm of his hand. “It’s pointing due east.”

  “East it is,” Airron said, hefting his pack.

  Rogan offered a clumsy and hurried good-bye to Janin, who was remaining in Sarphia to await the Deepstone Army, and together they raced out of the infirmary.

  Curiously, the people on the streets bowed down to Airron as they passed.

  “They treat you like royalty,” grunted Rogan.

  Airron laughed, purple eyes sparkling. “I am royalty, my friend! A fact I have come to learn since being with the Elves.”

  “Does King Jerund J’El know that?” Rogan asked with doubt in his voice.

  “Of course, although, I will admit that he was shocked at first.”

  “I’ll bet,” Rogan snorted. “I have my own royal story to tell when we have more time.”

  “In any event, I couldn’t communicate for weeks,” Airron continued, “but once I came around, King Jerund believed my story about the invasion with the help of King Maximus’s decree. He departed immediately after with the Gladewatchers to join with the Iserlohn Army at Starfell.”

  “How many Gladewatchers are there?”

  “A thousand maybe.”

  “What about the rest of the Elven Army?”

  Airron shook his head. “He only took the Gladewatchers.”

  “Dear Highworld, that’s not enough,” Beck protested.

  The soldiers who escorted them to the infirmary earlier intercepted them once again. “You must
hurry, Savitars. We have just learned that it has begun! Iserlohn has engaged the Cyman Army. They didn’t wait for the Elves or the Dwarves.”

  “What is my father thinking?” cried Kiernan. “They’ll be slaughtered without reinforcements!”

  Beck held up the silver compass in his hand. “Not if we can help it. Come on!”

  Chapter 38

  The Last Hope

  In the midst of the ongoing carnage and bloodletting, King Maximus sat despairingly astride his enormous warhorse at the devastation he could see but not quite comprehend. Hundreds of soldiers in the scarlet and black of Iserlohn lay sprawled across the Valley of Flame in frozen twisted death. Thousands more, at his orders, were now throwing themselves at the mass of Cymans and grappling in hand-to-hand combat. Men who had served the Everard family and the land of Iserlohn for years. Even the sons of those men.

  They never had a chance, and it was his fault.

  He foolishly disregarded the strength of this enemy and all battle strategies that may have made a difference. The Iserlohn Army alone was no match for the Cymans. These creatures from the north that did not fight with weapons were bigger and stronger and outnumbered his army three to one. The archers were useless as their arrows bounced harmlessly off the tough, leathery skin of their opponents, and the Cyman giants wrestled swords and pikes from the foot soldiers as if they were naught but toys and beat the men to the ground in bloodied heaps with their own weapons.

  Atop their powerful and war-ready horses, the Nysian Cavalry held its own against the Cymans, but the foot soldiers were being decimated. The mounted troops were doing all they could to protect the soldiers on the ground, but hour after hour, the bodies continued to pile up.

  Maximus growled and yanked hard on his horse’s reins as a Cyman grabbed at his leg and tried to pull him out of his saddle. The experienced horse reared up onto his hind legs in response and pawed at the enemy with his hooves. The King heard the satisfying crunch of bone, and the grip on his leg slackened. One more well-placed kick with his boot at the bloodied face was all that was needed to disengage and permanently disable the Cyman.

  Scanning the battlefield, he watched his vassals, all expert blademasters, cut into the Cyman horde fiercely with the battle cries of their Houses. Lord Etin called out valiantly to his Flying Eagles and Lady Knapp to her Shadow Panthers. It made no difference. Their colors were just as intertwined with the red and scarlet of his dead.

  “Your Grace, you must leave!” a man screamed and then there was Colbie Nash, standing alone in front of him like an avenging angel with his feet spread and thrusting his deadly saber at any Cyman who dared approach his King. One reached out to try to unseat him again and lost his arm to Colbie’s sword.

  Maximus hacked furiously on all sides, his horse dancing in a circle as he tried to defend from multiple attacks. Within seconds that felt like years, the rest of the Scarlet Sabers closed ranks around him.

  With horror, Maximus realized they were too late to help the beleaguered captain. The strength of numbers won out and the animals surged over Colbie and brought him down under flailing fists, some of which held rocks. Maximus howled in rage and broke free of the Sabers to use his warhorse to trample the Cymans crouching over Captain Nash.

  “To me!” he screamed, and two of the Sabers slashed their way into the enemy to hoist their captain onto the back of Maximus’s horse, only to be cut down in the attempt.

  This is it. I’m going to die right here, right now in this valley in front of Starfell.

  Regret raked through him in these final moments. Guilt that he had not waited for the Elves and Dwarves to arrive as his daughter had asked him to do. If he had, the island may have had a chance still to prevail. His men may have had a chance to live.

  Responding to a harsh wrench on his arm, he dazedly swung his sword at a Cyman and sliced open his belly, the creature’s entrails spilling out onto the ground.

  All at once, painful, ear-splitting shrieks rang out over the valley from the west. Maximus whirled his horse toward the sound and gasped in panic, unable to believe his eyes.

  Hundreds, if not thousands, of children teemed down into the valley like locusts! The implausible sight of children on a battlefield caused defenders and invaders alike to stop and stare in confusion. Dressed in loincloths and wielding small spears, closer inspection revealed that these were no children, but armed warriors. The pint-sized fighters circumvented the Iserlohn soldiers and crashed into the Cyman horde with deadly purpose. Maximus had never before witnessed anything like the scene playing out before his eyes, and was only grateful that the new combatants appeared to be on the side of the Massans. At least, he hoped that was the case.

  Brandishing their weapons, they caused a great amount of damage darting in and out between the Cyman giants, stabbing at their legs and inflicting debilitating injuries. The invaders floundered helplessly, unable to offer a defense against the speed and stature of the ruthless little people.

  Wherever they came from, Maximus refused to squander the opportunity presented by the distraction. With his captain still on his horse, he yelled, “Forward!” and dug his heels into his mount and thundered back into battle. Buoyed with hope, the Scarlet Sabers and Iserlohn Army smashed into the tide alongside him, hurling it back.

  “Again! Forward!” he shouted, and a second vicious blow by the Massans pushed the Cymans back even more.

  Straining bodies grunted and howled. Formations disappeared in a mindless tangle of fists and swords and knives. Every detail came alive for Maximus, lasting an age. The brutal combat, the sounds of the dying, the smell of the dead.

  Yet, he could feel the enemy line weakening, losing heart in the face of such fearlessness.

  “Push!” he bellowed one last time, and that was all it took.

  Maximus sagged in relief as the Cyman Army retreated—for the moment—their big bodies lumbering away to regroup.

  He called to Lord Etin. “Davad! I need to take Captain Nash to the healers!”

  The confident lord nodded. “Go! We will drive these bastards back to Starfell Keep!”

  Maximus quickly shook his head. He would not throw any more lives away today. “No! Withdraw! The soldiers need to rest before the next assault!”

  Lord Etin’s mouth tightened in disagreement, but he nodded stiffly. “As you command, Your Grace.”

  “I do!” Maximus growled. He reached into his saddlebag for a rope, hastily threaded it under the unresponsive captain and then tightened it around his own waist. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he sped forward, sending soldiers scattering out of his way.

  At sight of the red and white flag mounted high on the tent of the healers, he hauled on the reins and had one leg over the saddle before the horse came to a complete stop. He untied Colbie, gently carried him to the ground and knelt beside him.

  The pale blue eyes were open, but unseeing to anything in this world.

  The handsome young captain of the Scarlet Sabers, who Maximus had once hoped would become his son through marriage one day, had made the ultimate sacrifice of his life for his King’s life. As the healers looked on, Maximus tenderly cradled the captain’s head, his only wish at that moment that he could take the man’s place.

  He tried to swallow past the pain lodged in this throat, but it refused to budge. Bloody hell, but this one hurt. Colbie was more than the captain of his Royal Guard—he was family. As was his father before him. Each and every man in the Guard pledged to lay down their life for him, but this was the first time in his reign that it had been necessary.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and gestured to a soldier standing nearby. “Find Captain Franck. Tell him to retrieve our dead from the field and burn their bodies in a warrior’s tribute.” He looked down one more time at Colbie Nash and stood. “Prepare the captain’s body as well. He will be honored in death as he was in life. Summon me when the preparations are complete.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, but remounted and made hi
s way back to his tent with what was left of the captain-less Scarlet Sabers following silently behind.

  When he arrived, he swung down and ordered that a scout be sent to the south to find out whether the Elves or Dwarves were close to their location yet—something he should have done before engaging the enemy.

  Fatigue and grief gnawed at him as he ducked inside the shelter and sat heavily on his cot.

  A request for entry came from outside and he granted it tiredly.

  Captain Bo Franck entered, his uniform torn and bloodied. A long wound across his left eye and down the side of this face oozed with blood. If he lives, he will be disfigured for life.

  Maximus yanked one of his boots off. “Good, you’re here, I—”

  “You will need to put your boots back on, Your Grace.”

  The King looked up with raised eyebrows.

  “The Elves have arrived.”

  “Thank the Highworld, Bo!” he said, his weariness fading with renewed hope. “Now, we may have a chance!”

  “I’m afraid that’s not all, Your Grace.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Adrian Ravener approaches as well. Only he is accompanied by an army that makes the Cymans look like a child’s plaything.”

  ***

  Beck led the Savitars into the Puu Rainforest at a ground-eating lope, the beauty of the jungle lost on them as they concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other. It had been decided not to expend all of Rogan’s energy using magical fire until it was necessary, so Beck guided the way with a torch dipped in long-burning pitch.

  They struggled forward, maneuvering through a forest thick with vegetation and trees. The constantly altering terrain put strain on their muscles. The humidity sapped their strength. Minutes turned into hours.

  Beck called a brief rest at midday for a meal of dried beef and cheese that the Elves had pressed into Airron’s hands on their departure.

  Then, they ran again.

  Beck continued to take periodic readings of the compass and it always showed an easterly heading. It never wavered from that position, and he began to wonder if the bloody thing worked—especially when an impenetrable wall of verdant rock emerged in the center of their path.

  He turned to look at his companions, shocked at their disheveled state. Faces and clothes were covered in splattered mud, hair was plastered to foreheads. Even Bajan, whose white fur was always impeccably clean, looked gray and limp.