Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  Wickedly sharp talons curled into the dirt right before her face. A rank, oily musk filled her nostrils. She looked up at the lighter-colored underbelly and realized a horror straddled them. The wedge-shaped head swung down, mouth opening to reveal huge yellow teeth.

  Her father rolled off her, sword ready, an angry growl coming from his throat. The creature’s head came straight at her. Tellan surged, grunting as he stabbed for the eye—then he was gone!

  The horrors bellowed in triumph.

  Rhiannon scrambled to her knees, numb with disbelief. Her father’s broadsword was in the mouth of one of the beasts! It spat the twisted metal out, then gazed back down at her, eyes pulsing in demonic fury.

  Frantically, Rhiannon searched for her sword. Her hands finally bumped across the hilt, and she brought it up. Both beasts hissed and stepped toward her—

  When suddenly she felt something shift.

  The two horrors felt it as well. They halted, looked at each other in seeming bewilderment, their ferocity draining away like water from a cracked bucket. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhiannon noticed the third beast cartwheeling through the air, wings flapping in a desperate effort to maintain flight. It slammed into the ground with a heavy, dust-raising thud and remained motionless.

  Looking back at the two before her, Rhiannon thought they seemed smaller, and the round ball behind their jaws had disappeared.

  The three warriors pounded over the top of the outcropping, screaming the Dinari battle cry, bows drawn and arrows nocked. They knelt as one, took careful aim at the confused beasts, then loosed the arrows. This time the arm-long shafts penetrated deeply into flesh.

  One horror collapsed at her feet with an arrow protruding from its eye. The other screeched in surprised pain as two arrowheads dug into the bones of its face, one just forward of an eye, the second a finger’s length away. Whimpering, it whirled and fled back down the slope. It did not get far. With the speed of long practice, the warriors sent two more volleys into the now vulnerable horror.

  It died at the foot of the rock formation, six feathered shafts embedded in its chest.

  Rhiannon watched what happened next in stunned disbelief. Within the space of a few heartbeats, the bodies of the two horrors crumbled inward and blew away like dust, leaving only the bloodstained arrows to mark where they had fallen. The other two beasts that had died away from the outcropping crumbled away as well, disappearing in the spring breeze as if they had never been.

  Tellan came limping back up the slope. “Daughter, are you all right?” He squatted beside her, his eyes full of love and concern as he checked her from head to toe.

  She nodded, dazed. “What happened to you?”

  “The horror grabbed my sword in its mouth, and before I could let go, it flung me down the slope.” He rolled his shoulders and grimaced. “I am bruised, but nothing seems broken.”

  Relief washed over Rhiannon like warm oil. Leaning her head against the rough surface of the stone, she took a deep breath. Never had life been so sweet! The breeze was a gentle caress across her skin; the damp, earthy smell of the rock was as fragrant as her stepmother’s finest perfume. She could feel every ridge and contour of the sword hilt in her hands.

  The sword she’d drawn without realizing it!

  She had risen with it in her hands after her father had rolled her off Nineve. She had come to her feet, sword held correctly, ready to face the winged horrors like a true Dinari warrior!

  She basked in that fact for a moment. Then, incredibly, she started to shiver.

  Girard came scrambling up the slope. “I gathered up Creag and Phelan, m’lord, and kept them a safe distance away. They are unharmed.” The loreteller walked to where the closest beast had died; he picked up the arrow. “Lore come to life. And then gone.” He shook his head. “No wonder many accounts are disputed.”

  “But we can kill them,” declared Nerth, who had killed the first one. “Aim for the eyes.”

  Tellan rose stiffly to his feet. “Can you explain what happened just now, loreteller? What allowed the beast at the bottom to be penetrated when just moments before arrows bounced off?”

  “Aye, m’lord. And the horror not being able to stay in the air.” Girard rolled the shaft back and forth in his fingers. “Then there is their appearance during the day when every account of accepted lore only mentions them during the night.”

  “Night!” the youngest warrior exclaimed. “We can’t hit their eyes at night!” He licked his lips. “I thought winged horrors were just stories. They can come from anywhere. We won’t be safe anywhere . . . ”

  Tellan touched his arm. “Easy, son. You acquitted yourself well today. And will do so again.”

  The lad visibly gathered himself. He glanced at the other two warriors, embarrassed.

  “And we have Covenant,” Girard said. “Some stories say Destin Faber discovered how to cut these creatures off from the power they drew from the Mighty Ones. That rendered them vulnerable to swords and arrows. Many loretellers consider those accounts untrustworthy.” He regarded Tellan soberly. “But that must be what happened here.”

  “How were these horrors cut off from their power?”

  “Perhaps someone, some group, or the monks at Kepploch learned to pray as did Destin Faber and the Founders.”

  “How did they know that we needed this kind of prayer at this moment?”

  “How indeed, m’lord? How indeed?” Girard tapped the arrowhead on his palm. “We have conflicting accounts about the battles before the Cutting of the Covenant. But if our lore is correct, then a siyyim had to be watching just now, controlling the horrors’ actions.”

  Rhiannon frowned. “A siyyim?”

  “Spirit beings second in power only to the Mighty Ones.” Girard paused, clearly struggling to come to grips with all this. “Some say that under the right circumstances a siyyim could take control of a human body and use it to carry out the Mighty Ones’ desires. Dinari clan lore does not recognize those tales.”

  Tellan growled. “Where is this siyyim? If it was controlling this attack, we must expect it to continue.”

  Rhiannon’s breath caught. She checked the hillsides and up and down the trail. Nothing.

  “I agree, m’lord,” Girard said. “Mistress Rhiannon will not be safe until it has been dealt with.”

  Tellan looked at her closely. “Rhiannon? You sure you’re all right?”

  She nodded numbly, although the trembling was increasing and she did not think she could stand. A siyyim was after her! And after her still! Her breathing became ragged; her teeth chattered, grinding against the dirt that coated the inside of her mouth. She ran her tongue around, trying to build up enough moisture to spit the dirt out.

  More winged horrors could appear at any moment!

  Tellan squatted beside her again. Cupping her chin, he gazed straight into her eyes. “I am so very proud of you. You faced those beasts eye to eye and did not waver.”

  She opened her mouth to tell about drawing her sword—but to her surprise, she found both her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

  Tellan enclosed her in his arms and rested his cheek on her head. “Sweet girl, my brave sweet girl.” He stroked her hair. “From the moment you were born, you have been special, very special indeed. Never fear, we shall hunt this siyyim and kill it or bind it or whatever we need to do.”

  She knew what he referred to. All of her life she had taken secret pride in her birthing prophecy that she would be “Protectoress of the Covenant.” The prophecy was seldom mentioned, and no one—not even the monks at Kepploch—had any idea what it meant. She had envisioned grand and heroic deeds accomplished to the acclaim of all. The account of the struggle with the deranged monk and her mother’s death only added to the mystique. But never, never, had Rhiannon thought it would be like this!

  Although part of her mind protested that a warrior would not do so, she buried her face in the security of her father’s chest and allowed deep shuddering sobs to overtake
her.

  Chapter Five

  HARRED

  LACHLANN LAY NESTLED on a flat shelf of land in the Clundy River valley. The river was still young here, barely beginning its journey to the Great Sea. It cascaded through the middle of town with violent energy, frothing and whirling down the boulder-cluttered bed. An arched stone bridge wide enough for two wagons to squeeze by each other linked both sides of town.

  The east bank was considered the most prestigious, and it was there that Lachlann’s prize inn, the Bridge Across, was located. Like most buildings in the region, the ground floor was constructed of river stone. A second and third story of whitewashed boards jutted out two arm lengths around the structure, topped by a sharply pitched thatched roof. Several paces behind the main building a stable provided lodging for the patrons’ horses.

  Inside the inn’s double doors, tightly woven rush mats protected the floor from muddy feet. Immediately to the left, an arched entranceway opened into the dining room with a score of red oak tables and a roaring fireplace. At the end of the main hall, a winding staircase graced by a polished, hand-carved railing led up to the second and third floors. Each level had eight well-appointed rooms facing each other across a wide hallway. Every room had a window.

  The sun had slid below the horizon an hourglass ago, and the dining room was bursting at the seams with Dinari merchants who traveled the circuit of wool sales. Eager to provide their newly wealthy clan members opportunities to lighten their coin purses, the merchants brought a variety of expensive wares—linens for gowns and cloaks, swords and daggers, dyes, furs, brightly colored tapestries, saddles, beveled glass for windows, and gems and rare spices from the fabled lands in the Southern Sea. Most of the merchants knew each other and gave nods of recognition as they settled into their chairs and waited for the young waitress to bring tonight’s dish.

  One table along the far wall drew more than its share of attention. Lord Gillaon Tarenester, an Arshessa lord from the foothills of the Ardnamur Mountains, and a young warrior sat waiting to be served. The Dinari merchants caught one another’s eye, then glanced at the two Arshessa clansmen, then back to each other. Some lifted eyebrows, some pursed lips, others remained blank-faced.

  The room stilled when three Sabinis wool merchants strode into the dining room with a flutter of rich garments. The first two greeted the innkeeper by name, then went straight to their reserved table in the far corner. The third merchant slid by with only a slight nod of his head. He was a weasel of a man, almost completely bald except for a thin fringe around his lower scalp. His eyes moved among the diners until they found Lord Gillaon, then the merchant’s face closed into a neutral mask. He scurried on to the table.

  Behind the merchants strutted their three hired bodyguards. All eyes in the room darted warily to the two Arshessa several paces away. The guards paused, their gazes resting on Lord Gillaon. The atmosphere in the room changed.

  Gillaon remained calm and assured, ignoring the stares of the guards. The nobleman was short, barrel-chested, with iron-gray hair, and projected immense energy and purpose. Tonight he was fashionably dressed in a white linen shirt and dark trousers. The knee-length cloak fastened at his shoulders was trimmed in ermine. He wore a pair of knee-high leather boots shining with polish.

  All Dinari were aware of Gillaon’s discussions with Lord Tellan to acquire the wool from the Rogoths and other smaller Dinari kinsmen. The Arshessa clan was proposing to bypass the Sabinis’ stranglehold on shipping by hauling the goods across the Ardnamur Mountains into the pagan Broken Stone Land. It was a move bold enough to crack the Sabinis’ monopoly and benefit every Dinari clansman.

  But no deal had been struck. Everyone anxiously awaited tomorrow’s meeting.

  The warrior sitting next to Lord Gillaon might have been twenty. He had dark hair and even darker eyes to go along with chiseled features. The warrior wore leather breeches, a soft gray woolen shirt, and similar boots as his lord’s. His mouth firmed and his eyes narrowed as, unlike Lord Gillaon, he glared back at the three mercenaries.

  The biggest of the three guards stepped toward the Arshessa table.

  The noise level dropped. Everyone held his breath. Several sat frozen with spoons of food halfway to their mouths.

  After looking contemptuously at Lord Gillaon the guard turned back to his companions. “Best we eat down there,” he sneered, lifting his chin toward the direction of the wool merchants’ table. “The air on this end of the room seems . . . tainted.” The other two snickered loudly in agreement before they sauntered off to join their employers.

  The warrior was halfway to his feet, eyes flashing and right hand reaching for a sword hilt that was not there. Lord Gillaon gripped the man’s arm and whispered curtly. The warrior hesitated for a heartbeat, then settled stiffly back into his chair.

  All present let out a pent-up breath and returned to their meals.

  Harred swallowed his anger. From the look in his lord’s eyes, he knew he had erred.

  “They did that under orders from their Sabinis masters,” Lord Gillaon lectured coldly, his face expressionless. “Why?”

  “My pardon, m’lord.”

  “I do not want your apology! I want you thinking!”

  Harred watched as his lord’s gaze swept the dining room. Normally, when Gillaon Tarenester was angry, his face would wither a tree. Not so tonight. The man’s expression was bland with a hint of a smile on his lips.

  The innkeeper came up to inform them that the meal was coming soon. Gillaon nodded pleasantly and continued. “Harred de Tarenester en Wright, your skills are formidable. You are the best swordsmen we Tarenesters have produced in my memory—and your prime is yet to come. Beyond that, I believe you have the potential to become more than a gifted warrior. But if you are to remain by my side as rhyfelwr, you must learn to control both your emotions and facial expressions and to use your mind as a weapon.”

  Harred took a deep breath. He unclenched his fists, relaxed his shoulders, and tried to appear as calm as his lord. He grappled with the swirling subtleties involved in what he had naïvely assumed would be a straightforward process of buying wagonloads of wool. You offered more than anyone else did, and it was yours. That seemed simple, as had everything else in his life to this point—which had been man to man, sword against sword, with the strongest and quickest walking away the acknowledged winner.

  But he was learning that if his clan bought Dinari wool, it could have an effect on the balance of power among the six high lords. That level of maneuvering was beyond Harred. But for the moment, it meant he must ignore sneering comments made by ill-mannered, pot-bellied ruffians whose loyalty was to a coin purse.

  “Think upon this as a different type of battle, fought with different weapons,” Lord Gillaon went on, continuing his closed-face inspection of the dining room. “While I have no doubt that you could have killed all three, what would you have gained me? The Sabinis would be almost blameless. One of their hired guards said something indiscriminate. They render an apology while commenting on how difficult it is to hire good men. And my rhyfelwr would have proved himself a quick-tempered lout while calling my judgment into question.”

  Gillaon swung his gaze back to fix Harred with an anvil-hard stare. “And my judgment, my trustworthiness, is what I am attempting to prove here more than anything else. All that would have gone to the Sabinis side of the ledger at the bargain price of three hired blades!”

  Harred had no reply. Thankfully, further conversation was halted when the young waitress wove smoothly among the tables toward them. Perched on her shoulder was a round tray of dishes. From brief conversations during previous meals, Harred knew her to be the innkeeper’s daughter. Fifteen or sixteen years of age, she was pretty, with a long neck and slender figure. Her dark blond hair was pulled back and tied with a leather string.

  She lowered the tray with practiced skill and placed a loaf of dark brown bread, several yellow clay dishes, and two pewter mugs on the table. “The white sauce on
the mutton may be a little hot if you are not used to it,” she warned. Then she looked straight at Harred. “If you want anything else, let me know.” She held his gaze just long enough. As she left, she managed to brush a hip lightly against his shoulder.

  The promise in her eyes and her warmth as she moved by caused Harred to turn his head—until he crossed Lord Gillaon’s icy blue eyes.

  “Not to worry, m’lord,” Harred said. “There will be no problem. I have told the other warriors that if I catch any of them being distracted by a woman while we are here, the next time they carry a ladylove to the blankets they will be seriously impaired. The same applies to me.”

  Gillaon kept him fixed with the stare a moment longer before nodding curtly. “Have you heard anything more about Lord Tellan’s hlaford burning?” he asked while tearing a chunk from the dark loaf.

  Harred breathed an inward sigh of relief. The issue of his responding to the taunt from the guards was over. That was one reason he held his kinsmen lord in such high regard: Gillaon Tarenester was a hard man, but fair. Err or displease him, and he would point it out and explain why in no uncertain terms, and then it was over.

  But do not make the same mistake again.

  “Only what we have all heard, m’lord. After Lord Tellan and the others returned this afternoon, everyone was saying it must have been a kitchen fire.”

  “Hmmm.” One of the plates contained slices of a crumbly white cheese. Gillaon placed one on the bread and bit into it. “I stayed at the Rogoth hlaford in the fall when I first approached Lord Tellan about his wool. It was the smallest hlaford I have ever seen. At that time, the only household servant was that toothless old crone upstairs. Everyone there then is here at the inn now.” Gillaon took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “The messenger galloped up bringing news of the fire a glass before dawn?” Harred nodded. Gillaon gave him a level look. “I wonder who had been cooking,” he asked in a tone not expecting an answer.

  Conversations like this with his kinsmen lord were still a novelty to Harred. Though he had seen the man almost daily since entering his service three years previous, Gillaon had been a distant, revered figure. Harred had been stunned when Gillaon had asked him to function as rhyfelwr when they left the Tarenester hlaford. In the three warrior clans—Arshessa, Landantae, and Dinari—a lord’s rhyfelwr served as commander of the men-at-arms and was considered an advisor equal to the loreteller. It was unheard of for a youth of nineteen to hold such an exalted position. Harred understood this trip to be a test, and, until the incident with the guards, he thought he had done well. The counselor function had not been an issue. But Harred could not imagine Gillaon Tarenester needing advice from anyone—rhyfelwr or loreteller.