Dahlai wrapped herself more tightly in the faded silk coverlet, looking clearly annoyed. "I am not a child. I am just small."
Roahr attempted a smile–something he found he was dreadfully out of practice at. He'd never considered himself very good at dealing with people, especially women. His very size tended to frighten them to insensibility. He tried his best now to offer up a placating tone. "Forgive me, M'Lady. How do you know of Faerie?"
"Being small does not make me slow of wit. I am no more a Lady than I am a child. I know of Faerie because my mother was born there."
Roahr rubbed a hand through his grizzled beard. It was Tranorva who came to his rescue. She made no attempt to be gentle with the little imp. "Where is Faerie, Dahlai, and how do we get there?"
Dahlai's entire attitude changed at once. "I know not precisely, Mistress, only that my mother said it was a beautiful place, lush and green and surrounded by water, and that the sun rose always to shine on her village. They lived by day on co-co-a-nuts and danced on the beaches by night. She said it was a wondrous place, filled with magic and laughter, and that the weather is always warm like summer."
Roahr quickly regained his feet. "South, then."
Mâkakao fingered his chin as if searching through a long missing beard. "Must be near the equator if the weather is always warm."
Seanen nodded his head in agreement. "We can travel by foot for three days or so to City of Port where the ocean meets the desert. From there we can book passage south."
"South to where?" Cassadara argued. "If none of ye, as well traveled as many of ye are, know of this place, then what assurance have we that the mariners will?"
It was Mâkakao who answered her. "You are a Shaman. People expect you to know the casting of spells. We too expect the mariners to know the finding of this place."
Ayailla pointed her staff at the tents. They disappeared as if they had never been, leaving a scattering of personal belongings in their cleared circles. "We will know better once we make our way to Port City. The day is wasting."
Roahr grinned at her, winking mischievously. "It worries me, Mother, when we think alike."
Chapter Eight
They made an odd pack. Six wolves, a panther, two bears, and a small childlike sprite who clung to the she-bear's back, accompanied by one animated corpse. Evalayna decided they might have inspired some brave bard, had he not feared for his reputation.
They traveled fast, running side by side in the open, too large a pack to brook interference from the few stray packs of wandering Orcs who occasionally dotted the hillsides. Yarwyn took point, with the Warriors, Tranorva, Roahr, Seanen, and Mâkakao behind her, and the Shamen, Ayailla, Evalayna, Tyrell, and Cassadara each taking a flanking position off their respective Warrior.
By common consensus they chose to travel in a nearly straight line to Port City, with one night's stop at Lord Mâkakao's great house along the way for clean garb and a night's rest in a real bed. The route by necessity funneled them through the pass of St. Gregory, rather than skirting the mountains by traveling the more circuitous route through the plains formerly guarded by the Orc King's Castle, now held by their allies under Garreth's command.
Evalayna's concentration rested on Mâkakao's kitchens, where there would be serving girls with hot water to bathe in and hot mead to drink by the fire. Tranorva's claim to the Élahandara throne and the size of their party made the pass of St. Gregory seem relatively safe, though it brought them very near the front gates of Talandar itself.
She had never seen Talandar, nor its sister city of Élahandara, the two guardians to the northern expanses of the barren wilderness that was the arctic. She had been big with child when the Dark Priestess declared war on the Bear Clan, too far along to follow Roahr into battle, unable to fight at his side as his Shaman or his wife.
She could have delayed the pregnancy, of course, had they had any warning that the world as they knew it was about to cease to exist…
"'Twould have made little difference."
Evalayna looked up into Roahr's eyes as he lumbered along at her side. "What?"
"You were blaming yourself. You were thinking that you should have been there beside me on the battlefield."
"I was thinking no such thing."
"You snuffle when you brood. You were thinking that somehow your presence would have changed the time that we lost."
"By the gods, Roahr, I should have been there. A Shaman fights at her Warrior's side. A Shaman–"
"Dies beside her mate. Though I could be wrong. You might have lived to see the dungeons of Élahandara with me, but our youngest daughter would have been born a slave, and you would not have had these years to watch Tranorva grow to be the fine Warrior she has become, nor to see Tyrell grow into his promise as a Shaman. A mother's duty outweighs a Shaman's call to battle. I regret what we lost, but never would I blame you, and had I to do it again, knowing the outcome, I would still have been waiting for you in these mountains, my heart."
Evalayna laid her head against his shoulder for a moment as they ran. "I do not snuffle when I brood."
"Of course not, my love."
"And though I know ye to be right, I still regret the lost years."
"As do I, my heart. But we shall make new memories to gradually replace the lost ones. And we shall have many years yet to watch the cubs grow and blossom."
"I would like to test my powers against the forces of Talandar some day, that they might feel the wrath of my vengeance."
"That day may be sooner than you think."
Evalayna followed the line of his muzzle as Yarwyn dug in her cat claws, sliding on the icy pass as she attempted to bring the party to a quick halt. "There are only three. We can take them." She shifted quickly, setting both hands before her on her gnarled old walking stick.
Roahr indicated the slopes above the pass with a flick of his chin as he shifted, his hands already reaching for his ancient blades.
"Ogres!" Evalayna hissed, loud enough for those around her to pick up her warning.
The Shamen drew back, taking up their stances as befitted their stations. Yarwyn held the bow Nemesis at the ready. The deep blue Iolite gems set in the risers caught fire in the sunlight, an unearthly glow blazing forth as she notched her first arrow, her aim steady on the High Priestess who blocked their way.
It was Tranorva who took the lead, striding forward to meet the priestess, her face a mask of outraged dignity. "Know me! I am Tranorva, High Priestess of Élahandara! Put down thy weapons and kneel at my feet!"
Cold laughter rang out across the crystal ice walls of the pass. "Know me, poseur! I am Nafésti, High Priestess of Talandar! Put down thy weapons and beg for mercy, that I may kill you swiftly!"
Tranorva reached beneath her tunic to draw forth the symbol of office she wore about her neck. "Ye will show me proper respect! I have defeated High Priestess Géndalaine in combat. I have defeated First Chair Maelyn to defend my throne. By thy own laws I claim thy fealty. Step aside and let me and my party pass!"
Roahr knew even as he watched his daughter's display that it was only a show, designed but to buy them time as the pack members took a tighter formation behind her, and the Shamen picked their targets and silently formed a strategy.
As for himself, Roahr's own strategy was simple. Kill everything in his path and keep himself at all times between the enemy and his Shaman.
Nafésti raised her staff and struck it into the frozen ground with a loud echoing ring. "As there are no witnesses to this so called defeat you claim over Géndalaine, I contest thy claim, Human, and I challenge you for the throne of Élahandara. I shall take back what is mine!"
Inexplicably, the Dark Priestess seemed to be indicating the not-quite dead Mage who had taken up his accustomed place two paces behind and to the right of Tranorva.
Tranorva's laugh boomed out across the tundra. "Ye think to impress me with insults? Ye are not the first to face me, Sister, and ye shall not be the last. I accept thy challenge!
Ye shall not live to see the sun rise again. I shall have not only Géndalaine's trophy but all thy worldly possessions as well. Thy harem shall be mind to command as I drink thy blood!"
They were to fight over possession of a dead man? Roahr shook his head in confusion. The world was indeed a strange place.
Tranorva turned to speak quickly over her shoulder to the party standing ready behind her. "Ye will not enter into this fight. Roahr, I ask ye to act as my first. 'Twill be thy duty to see that none from our party interfere in any way with the challenge. Do ye accept?"
Roahr nodded once, sending his unruly red curls spiraling into the wind. He understood only too well. He was to stand by and watch his daughter get killed, without once raising his hand.
"Believe in me," she whispered as she strode forward. The breeze brought him her words like a twisted song echoing across the frozen tundra.
Nafésti was not High Priestess without reason. She dispensed with the formalities of the challenge to strike first and strike hard, bringing her staff once again to quick impact with the earth. Blue lightning shot out across the ice, wrapping itself around Tranorva's ankles and bringing her quickly to the ground.
Tranorva should have pulled back, writhing in agony, but instead she dove into the attack, her momentum carrying her free of the snaking energy almost as soon as it touched her. She came up hard and fast, the top of her head her weapon as she toppled Nafésti to roll with her in a tangle of limbs that left Roahr no clear view of who was winning. Moments later both women were back on their feet, cautiously circling as they looked for some sign of weakness or tiring in their opponent.
Forgetting the artifice of her lost staff, Nafésti raised her hands fingers pointed out and shot jagged beams of fire hissing through the air at Tranorva. Tranorva merely laughed, raising her hands, palms out, to deflect the energy back at the user. "Ye underestimate thy opponent, Nafésti! I am no mere Human! Know ye not that I am Tranorva, daughter of Evalayna, High Shaman of House Lochinvar? Granddaughter to Ayailla, the most powerful Shaman who has ever lived? Think thee that I would fall for such an apprentice's trick?"
She was trying to anger her enemy with insults, goading the Dark Priestess into making a mistake she could take advantage of. Roahr nodded his approval at his eldest as their eyes met across the frozen pass.
"So ye are skilled in the arts of self defense," Nafésti sneered. "A High Priestess must not only serve our gods, but must also defend our peoples. You would lead us to butchery by the thousands, all in the name of revenge. You are a traitor among traitors, and ye shall never rule over the Élandra!"
Tranorva tucked and rolled, coming up behind the tall priestess's back, grabbing her arm and pulling it up towards her shoulders until the bones began to twist. "The only butchery I intend this day is of ye, Nafésti. Surrender and swear to me thy oath of Fealty and I may let ye live out of the goodness of my heart."
The Dark Priestess laughed as she lifted her feet off the ground, though the pain must have been incredible as her shoulder dislocated from her own weight. Roahr flinched as the pop of bones separating echoed through the stillness of the pass.
Nafésti's shriek was not a cry of pain, however. Lightning issued from her staff as she spun to face Tranorva, and madness shone in her eyes. At the sound of her command the Ogres who had previously looked on with no apparent concern now swarmed, leaping down the icy cliffs with reckless abandon as they charged. Tranorva loosed her hold on Nafésti's arm to unsheathe her war axe, dodging most of the damage from Nafésti's lightning bolts, though a dark singe marred the finish of her fine mail shirt.
Roahr screamed out his own war cry as the Ogres descended, heading first for the Dark Priestess herself, but he needn't have bothered. Tranorva's blade swept past the space where the fine dark head had once attached to the neck, quelling the evil laughter that echoed through the pass one last time before the Dark One dropped to her knees, reluctant to die even without her head.
Then he was too busy to pay further notice to anything but the Ogres who found it necessary to end their lives on his blade.
There were, he estimated, twenty or more of the dark foul beasts, lumbering toward them at an incredible speed for their bulk. He had not time to access their fighting style. The first one went down from a blast from Evalayna's staff before his blades had a chance to close over its neck, but the second one had time to look him in the eye as it died, its pike dropped neatly to the ground along with the arm that had held it.
They were big. They were strong. They were fast. But they were no match for the Wolf pack they faced that day. The carnage stained the snow red with blood until the ice became slick with it, yet still they came, the battle lust too strong to heed the senselessness of their deaths. Piles of singed and headless bodies began to make the pass difficult to negotiate as the wolf pack worked their way down the mountain, fighting now with their backs toward Yarishet as they descended, no longer individuals, but one cohesive killing machine, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.
And still the Ogres came, more than thirty by now, their numbers as staggering as the quantities of their blood left dripping down the icy slopes. Roahr looked up once from his own butchery to see Lord Mâkakao raise a horn to his lips, sending three long shrill blasts ripping through the frosted air. Roahr gave no further thought to the horn until he found his flank supported by a large Warrior who wore Mâkakao's green livery. On either side men appeared, though none so large as that first, and the Ogres at last began to hesitate in their attack, the sheer numbers of the defender's ranks apparently reaching their diminutive brains when the score of their own deaths could not.
Roahr's swords were beginning to feel heavy and his arms were aching as the last of the Ogres turned to flee, only to fall in their tracks as Yarwyn and her deadly Nemesis chased them down. For the first time since the battle had begun Roahr had time to appreciate Yarwyn's marksmanship as her arrows landed precisely at the base of the creatures' skulls, dropping them instantly. The Shamen also pursued the fleeing monsters, sheathing them in coats of fire, so that their burning bodies left a foul stench in the air as they fell next to their companions.
Wiping his blades in the snow, Roahr turned to survey the pack. The blood that dripped from Tranorva's arm might have been in part her own. Mâkakao sported a gash across his cheek that was being ministered to by Ayailla, while Cass looked on as if absorbing some lesson in the finer arts of healing. Yarwyn rested heavily against Seanen's arm, looking both older and more frail than he remembered. Even the dead one was dripping with blood, his blade sheathed once again. Tyrell walked quietly among the humans, healing small wounds and speaking words of encouragement as the men cleaned their weapons and assessed the damages.
Evalayna appeared at Roahr's side, grim and bloody, but otherwise looking no worse for the day's battle. He draped his arm around her shoulder, heedless of the gore that covered them both as he pulled her close. "I believe your count topped mine. You fought well, M'Lady. I am honored to fight beside you again."
"We fought as a pack," she observed. Then her pride faded as she sagged against him wearily. "Never did I think to see such cohesiveness within this family again."
"You raised them well."
Evalayna looked up into his eyes and smiled, a smile that reached beyond the blood and the stench of battle to touch his heart. "They are Warriors all, my heart. Ye bred them true."
* * * * *
The hospitality of Lord Mâkakao's House Yarishet offered amenities Roahr had not known for many a year. Bathed and groomed by anxious servants who were horrified when he suggested they simply sheer his hopelessly tangled hair, he endured their ministrations with less grace than those of the tailor and armorer, both of whom seemed to take great delight in clothing him more suitably in the latest of fashions. Nearly two hours after their arrival at Mâkakao's great house Roahr finally escaped the women from the bath house, only to be captured by other servants and led into the dining hall, where their party had re
assembled to feast on delicacies that could not be produced over an open pit campfire.
Ayailla held out her hands to him as he entered the room, her smile worrying him more than the Ogres' attack. "Ye look most handsome, my son. The diligence of the serving wenches astounds me. I never would have thought that hair salvageable."
"They near ripped it from my head," Roahr complained. "'Twould have been easier to simply shave the lot and start over."
Ayailla laughed, and, though he had no understanding of her humor, he realized that he had finally found a place in her heart as she reached up to kiss his cheek. "Keep him, Daughter. He is useful in a fight and not too unpleasant to the eye. But never allow him to dress himself or make any decisions about his grooming."
Evalayna laughed in agreement as she moved into his arms, "Aye, my love, 'twould have indeed been a great loss had the wenches heeded thy wishes."
Roahr closed his eyes at her touch, savoring the feel of her fingers running through the hair the servants had struggled over so relentlessly. "Perhaps 'twas all worth the aggravation if it pleases you, my heart."
"Everything about ye pleases me," she assured him as she offered him a bite of roasted pheasant from her fingers. "Everything."
Roahr felt a blush stain his cheeks as her fingers roamed elsewhere beneath the laden table, promising the night would not end any less passionately than the day had begun.
* * * * *
"Shhh."
Evalayna tried unsuccessfully to smother her giggles. "Thy children will be scandalized if we are caught."
"'Tis good for them. They are so proper, much like their mother. And we will not get caught unless you give us away."
The gate to the gardens swung open easily, its hinges well oiled. Roahr slipped through the shadows as easily as he might have strode down a path in broad daylight. Once clear of the house walls, he set her back on her feet and tucked her arm though his, steering her safely past mud puddles and potholes in the dirt track that lead to the common places beyond the great house. Evalayna looked askance at the seedy tavern doors. "Are ye sure 'tis safe?"
Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I Page 32