Dark Lady_s Chosen cotn-4

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Riqua's sent all of her brood she can spare-everyone who's not needed to guard the

  manor house," Laisren replied. "We don't dare pull anyone from there-it would make it too

  easy for Malesh to double back and strike."

  Gabriel pursed his lips, thinking. "My brood is small. Mikhail is in Margolan, and those who aren't with us tonight are at Dark Haven. There isn't time to find Rafe and Astasia and beg them

  for help-assuming they'd side with us. We're on our own."

  "What about Uri?" Jonmarc asked. "Wasn't he supposed to bring Malesh back under his control?"

  Laisren snorted. "If I know Uri, he's fled Principality and he's holed up in a nice, comfortable crypt on the far side of Isencroft by now."

  "Malesh isn't going to listen to Uri," Gabriel replied. "It's too late for that. We've got to finish this." He glanced up at the sky. "We need to clean up here and get to safety before dawn. It's less than a candlemark's ride to Wolvenskorn through the forest from here-but we need to hurry."

  Jonmarc nodded and turned, reaching down to pick up one of the discarded cloaks from a dead vayash moru. He walked over to Eiria's body, and exchanged that cloak for his own, carefully wrapping her in the makeshift shroud. The vyrkin still sat guard, and even by moonlight, Jonmarc could see that they also had received injuries in the fight. He lifted Eiria's body into his arms and gasped as it strained his ribs.

  "We can bury her in the crypts beneath Wolvenskorn," Gabriel said quietly as Laisren brought up their horses. "Generations of the vyrkin rest there." He glanced from Jonmarc to the vyrkin. "And we'll see about patching you up."

  Laisren swung up to his saddle and reached down to carry Eiria's body. Jonmarc gritted his teeth as he mounted and the movement jolted his ribs. The group set off, leaving the moonlight behind them as the shadows made it too dark for mortal sight. Jonmarc kept his sword in hand. After a long trek, they saw the hulking form of Wolvenskorn outlined in the moonlight.

  Wolvenskorn's tall, sharply sloping peaks stood out against the sky, topped by narrow gables. Three levels of wooden and stone wings, one behind the next, rose from the snow. Each level had a deeply slanted roofline. The building was capped by a tall cupola ringed by carved monsters. The oldest wing was daub and wattle, with a sod roof that sloped back into the forest soil.

  Grotesques and gargoyles looked down from the roof onto the front courtyard. Between them, intricately carved runes were both decoration and protection. The wooden sections of Wolvenskorn were set with carved panels and the lower halves were covered with overlapping shingles. An ancient circle of stone pillars circled the manor, placed there, Gabriel once told him, over a thousand years ago. Jonmarc hoped that their magic was as strong as Gabriel believed it to be.

  Despite the time, servants ran to meet them, taking their horses. Jonmarc entered Wolvenskorn surrounded by the vayash moru fighters whose torn clothing told the tale of battle even if their wounds had already healed. The vyrkin followed them, some limping, some bleeding from their battle wounds. Two of the vayash moru carried dead vyrkin, shifted back to human form. A servant motioned to the vyrkin and they turned down a corridor. At Gabriel's nod, Jonmarc followed.

  A fire blazed in one of the three huge fireplaces, and Jonmarc guessed it was a courtesy to him and to the vyrkin, as the vayash moru had no need of it. Piles of clothing lay in rows near the fireplace, and the vyrkin who were not too badly wounded padded over to them. The air seemed to shimmer and fold onto itself as the wolves shifted shape, their outlines blurring as they became men and women. Servants helped them dress, or wrapped blankets around those too wounded to dress themselves. Eiria's body lay covered with a cloak near the door, and Yestin, now in human form, sat beside the corpse and rested his head in his hands. Jonmarc walked slowly toward his friend and sat down wordlessly beside him.

  There's nothing I can say that will help, Jonmarc thought. And I know too well what he's feeling.

  One of the vyrkin, an older man with a trim, gray beard and deep-set eyes, took a large cloth bag from the shadows and laid it on a table. He lifted his hands over the bag and spoke in the language of the vyrkin, a clipped, tonal language that seemed to Jonmarc to be the speech of wolves adapted for humans. The man lifted his hands in turn to the four corners, and bowed to the north before carefully loosening the knots which bound the bag. A vyrkin shaman, Jonmarc guessed.

  From the bag, the shaman withdrew a stole made of woven hair, set with pieces of bone. Chanting under his breath, the man smudged a dark kohl mark on his forehead, chin and cheekbones. His eyes seemed to glow as he took a scepter set with a carved head of a raging wolf whose eyes were rubies. Two mortal servants came to assist him, bringing clean cloth for bandages and water to mix poultices. The shaman slowly moved through the vyrkin, beginning with the most badly injured. As servants prepared the bandages, the medicine man chanted over the injured vyrkin, and sprinkled powders or dark liquids into their wounds, taking what he needed from the pouches and vials that hung from his belt. Over those worst injured, the shaman laid his hand on their forehead as he chanted, letting the scepter rise and fall in his other hand. The music

  was strange to Jonmarc, ancient and decidedly not human. Jonmarc could see the badly injured vyrkin relax under the shaman's touch, and saw their breathing come more smoothly.

  Finally, the shaman stood in front of Jonmarc. "Will you accept my healing, wolf-brother?" Jonmarc nodded. The shaman indicated for him to stretch out on the floor, and Jonmarc did so, grimacing as his broken ribs protested. The medicine man put his hand on Jonmarc's forehead, resting thumb and forefingers on his temples, and Jonmarc felt the pain lessen. The shaman frowned, and pulled the throat of Jonmarc's tunic to the side, exposing the mark of the Lady. A shadow crossed the shaman's face.

  "Bloodsworn," he said in heavily-accented Common. He spoke words Jonmarc did not understand, and let his head fall back, raising his arms.

  "He's given you a blessing," Yestin said without looking up. "He's asked the Wolf Father to heed your oath and deliver your enemy into your hand. You're fortunate. Such things are not granted to those outside the pack."

  "Thank you," Jonmarc murmured as the medicine man returned his attention to Jonmarc's badly cut arm. He felt the tingle of magic as the wound closed under the shaman's touch, but it felt completely different from Carina's healing. The shaman laid his hands on Jonmarc's broken ribs, and Jonmarc could feel the warmth of his magic binding the broken bone together.

  When the shaman had finished his healing, he turned to Yestin and laid his hand on the top of his head. In a quiet baritone voice, the shaman began to sing, and although Jonmarc did not understand the language, he knew it to be a dirge. He listened closely, and strange, wondrous images filled his mind, of thick forests and deep snow and the speed and power of the ultimate predator, of the solidarity of the pack and the warmth of the den. When the song was over, Yestin looked up, his eyes bright with tears, and nodded, unable to speak. The shaman carefully put away his things, murmuring prayers or incantations as each item was placed in his bag. He left the room, accompanied by several of the uninjured vyrkin. Servants brought out food-platters of raw meat for the vyrkin and a plate of cheese and dried meat for Jonmarc, along with a glass of brandy.

  When they had eaten, the shaman appeared in the doorway. He wore a long cape stitched with runes that seemed to shift and move as Jonmarc looked at them. Around his neck on a broad strap hung four disks of silver. The first was a waxing moon, and the second round disk was the full moon. The third was a waning moon, and the fourth was a ring, symbolizing the new moon.

  Two streaks of dark red paint had been added to the markings on his face. At his appearance, the vyrkin stood and gathered up their dead, filing from the room in silence. Gabriel touched Jonmarc's shoulder, approaching so soundlessly that Jonmarc jumped. Without a word, Gabriel indicated for Jonmarc to come with him. They followed the silent procession down flights of stairs hewn into the rock of Wolvenskorn's foundation
. Through torch lit, narrow corridors, they moved steadily lower, and the air grew colder. After many turns, the passage opened on a huge room. Torches in sconces set the room in flickering light. Large smooth stones seemed to rise from the bedrock and disappear into the ceiling, and Jonmarc wondered if they were the same ancient pillars that ringed Wolvenskorn. On the walls of the cave, stories unfolded in detailed paintings made onto the rock itself. And in the center of the room a large slab had been pulled back to open a shared crypt. Laid out in front of the crypt were three shrouded bodies, each wearing a single silver disk on a thin leather strip around their necks. From their outlines, Jonmarc guessed that two of the bodies were male. And he was certain that the third, smaller body was Eiria.

  The vyrkin ringed the crypt, while Gabriel and Jonmarc stood behind them. Jonmarc saw Yestin, black-clad like the others, standing near Eiria's body. The shaman stood in the front, between two large torches. When the room was quiet, the shaman began to sing, and his voice echoed from the rocks in the yips, growls and clicks of the vyrkin language. He began a slow dance as he sang, and Jonmarc guessed that it was a story in movement, although he had no idea of what was being told. Even without full understanding, the ritual was moving, and Jonmarc fought to keep control, to keep his thoughts away from his last sight of Carina, lying still and pale back at Dark Haven.

  The shaman ended his song, and three of the vyrkin men stepped forward, gently lifting the bodies into their arms. Yestin sagged to his knees and made a cry of complete desolation as the bodies were lowered into the crypt and the heavy stone lid ground into place. The two men standing next to Yestin helped him to his feet, although it seemed to Jonmarc that Yestin leaned heavily on them for support as the group filed soundlessly from the chamber and back up the stairs to Wolvenskorn. Once back within the lower level of the manor, the vyrkin headed away down a corridor, and Gabriel laid a hand on Jonmarc's arm, shaking his head to keep him from following.

  When the vyrkin were gone, Jonmarc turned to Gabriel. "Now what?"

  "We rest. When we rise, we'll see if we can intercept Malesh at the next village." "What if we're wrong?"

  Gabriel looked solemn. "Malesh wants to be found. He intends to confront you. I suspect that he knows how fiercely we'll protect you, and his goal is to reduce our numbers before he attacks you."

  Jonmarc wandered into an empty bedroom. Beyond the mullioned window, the first streaks of dawn lit the sky. "I thought you had to be at rest before dawn."

  Gabriel stepped up beside him. "Four hundred years allows me to see a glimpse of sunrise and sunset. I've missed them." He paused. "As Laisren told you, our strength grows over lifetimes. For those of us who survive this long, a few moments in full sun will burn us, but not beyond what can be healed. Much as if you thrust your arm into a fire. At first, the damage is reversible. After a point, no healing can restore what's been consumed. I don't fear death, but I'm no fonder of pain than I was when I was alive. As you saw on the battlefield tonight, there are better ways to die."

  Jonmarc looked at the glow above the mountains in silence for a moment. "I expected

  Malesh to be at the battle. I thought we'd fight, and it would be over."

  Gabriel regarded him, as if guessing his thoughts. "Perhaps Riqua and the others will find a

  way to bring Carina back. It's not impossible-it just hasn't been done before. There's still

  hope."

  Jonmarc did not turn. "Personally, I've never had much luck with hope."

  Chapter Two

  "That went well, don't you think?" Malesh of Tremont stretched out on the divan. Although he'd observed the night's battle from a distance, killing the Caliggan Crossroads villagers had more than sated his thirst.

  "An excellent start," Senan replied. "Any particular reason you watched from the forest while the rest of us did the fighting?"

  "For the same reason generals don't fight on the front lines. I wanted to see the way the forces aligned. See what Gabriel and Riqua could bring against us. And I wanted to see how Jonmarc Vahanian would handle true battle against vayash moru." "And?" Berenn asked. Senan and Berenn were two of Malesh's inner circle, young nobles near his own age whom he had brought across to make existence within Uri's brood more tolerable. Tonight, they took shelter together in one of Malesh's safe places, the remnants of a family crypt beneath the ruins of an old manor house. It was one of the many such places Malesh had prepared for the night when battle would begin. Comfortably outfitted with chairs and beds, stocked with a supply of bottled goat's blood and lanterns, this safe place and the others like it had room enough for Malesh and his coterie. "Our strategy is sound. Send the volunteers from the other broods against the Old Ones defending Vahanian. Pick off his best defenders."

  "Vahanian killed three vayash moru himself," Senan countered. "I've never seen a mortal fight like that."

  "Another reason to let the newer fledges find his weak points for us," Malesh replied. "Can we expect reinforcements? What of Rafe's and Astasia's broods?" Berenn asked. Malesh smiled. "Neither Rafe nor Astasia want to take sides. By not opposing us, they support us. Their broods are free to decide for themselves-and some of them are joining our ranks." "This must end."

  Malesh and the others looked sharply toward the corridor. Uri stood in the doorway. For once, Uri was completely lacking the golden chains and jeweled rings that were his signature.

  Gone, too, were his elaborate waistcoat and his frilled shirt. Dressed in black without ornamentation, Uri looked more like a mourner than a lord.

  "End?" Malesh questioned, languorously swinging his legs down so that he sat up to face Uri. "We're only getting started." He fingered the talisman around his throat, the blood magic charm that shielded his thoughts from his maker. "What's the matter, Uri? Hurt that we didn't invite you to the party?"

  Uri's dark eyes glinted with anger. "Riqua and Gabriel are bloodsworn against us-not just your fledges, but against all of my house. Tresa and Calthian are dead-killed as a warning and left at Scothnaran's doorstep. I've sent the rest into hiding."

  "Some may be hiding-but the rest came to me. If they didn't want to fight before, seeing Tresa and Calthian murdered made them ready to see my point of view."

  Uri stepped into the room. "You've destroyed two villages. How long until King Staden sends his troops against you? Even if you kill Vahanian-and it's going to be harder than you think-Staden can't let you succeed. Once the burnings start, the mortals won't be worried about 'good' vayash moru and 'bad' vayash moru. They'll burn us all."

  Malesh looked away, pointedly toying with the gold chain at his wrist. "Then we will unite against a common enemy and take what is rightfully ours. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it, Uri?

  Burning?" He stood and faced Uri. "Do you know what I fear? I fear an eternity

  pretending to be less than I am. Playing the servant when I'm born to be the master. We deserve to rule over the mortals. You said so yourself. We deserve to rule with the Goddess because we are gods ourselves."

  Uri's move toward Malesh was blocked by half a dozen vayash moru. "This isn't the way to do it. Mortals outnumber us. We can't make fledges as quickly as they breed. Even if they die by the hundreds, by the thousands, there are more of them left to hunt us." Uri looked around the impassive faces of Malesh's circle. "I remember being hunted in Trevath." He swept aside a crystal pitcher with his arm; it shattered on the floor, spraying blood across the room.

  "You think you're safe in your hiding places. The mortals can track you if they want to badly enough. There are Hunters out there; Trevath and Nargi have never stopped using them. There are mortals just looking for provocation to send out the Hunters, and you're giving them exactly what they need to turn others against us."

  "All these years you've protested the Truce-it was just empty bluster," Malesh goaded.

  "We rule best from the shadows, behind the throne." "That didn't work too well for Arontala."

  "He pushed too hard-and he was a traitor
to our kind. Many mortals want what we have- eternal life, eternal youth, beauty. They're willing puppets to gain us what we want-a say in how the kingdoms are run, power over our own destiny."

  "I don't care to rule from the shadows," Malesh said disdainfully. "War's coming-a war that will sweep up the mortals of the Winter Kingdoms. When it comes, we'll feast on blood, and we'll be the only ones strong enough to rebuild from the wreckage. The mortals will turn to us to save them."

  "This is madness. You have to end it-now."

  "No." Malesh swept his arm to indicate the room and the half-dozen vayash moru in it. "Your time is past. We rule now."

  Uri moved before Malesh could stop him, crushing Senan's throat and tossing him aside. Berenn rushed toward Uri, and Uri dodged him, faster on his feet than Malesh expected, swinging around to strike again. Berenn maneuvered Uri into position with his back toward Malesh as Malesh withdrew a shiv from under his sleeve. As the vayash moru circled Uri, Malesh dove, sinking the shiv through the back of Uri's coat and into his heart. Uri sputtered blood and dropped to the ground, immobilized.

  Malesh smiled. "I had it on good authority that the Old Ones don't die from a strike through the heart-at least, without other, magical weapons. My blood charms may not let me destroy you, but I can keep you from getting in my way. We're creating what you've always wanted-a world where the strongest rules." His smile faded. "My sources were a bit unclear as to how long I can keep you like this. The guesses ranged from a few days to… forever." He signaled to his group to move toward the door. "Enjoy your rest while we fight your battle-the battle you never had the balls to start."

  Chapter Three

  "She's moving. Let's see if she comes around."

  The voices were distant, dream-like. The darkness was so complete it seemed to have mass, a smothering dark liquid instead of nothingness. She fought her way through it with a desperation close to panic. The darkness impeded her, making every motion an act of will. She focused her waning energy for a final push, and burst through the barrier that kept her in darkness.