by J. C.
Sister
of
the Dead
The Nobel Dead
Book III
J.C. & Barb
Hendee
PART VAMPIRE
PART HUMAN
PERFECT HUNTER
The Noble Dead saga continues as Magiere and Leesil, the slayers of the undead from DHAMPIR and THIEF OF LIVES, embark on a quest to uncover the secrets of their mysterious origins—and those responsible for orchestrating the events that brought them together....
Synopsis
Magiere is a dhampir—half human, half vampire—sired for the purpose of slaying the undead. Outside the village of Chemestuk, where she was born and raised, stands her father's keep. Within its walls, she hopes to discover the secrets of her past and figure out why a vampire would wish to breed a creature capable of slaughtering his own kind....
But there are those who don't want Magiere to learn the truth— and when her half-elf partner, Leesil, makes a startling discovery in the keep, he can understand why. Before Leesil can reveal the truth to Magiere, they must vanquish a creature of unimaginable and unlimited power who has damned a small village of people with a horrifying curse....
Don't miss the exciting
beginning of Magiere, Leesil,
and Chap's adventures in
Dhampir
&
Thief of Lives
Pronunciation Guide
All non-English languages are presented with a shared set of English letters, characters, and marks for a common standard in pronunciation.
There are no silent letters; all letters are pronounced.
All vowels are generally in the English "short" manner, though exceptions not noted do exist. At first, languages may appear similar in print.
The table below explains the more basic rules of pronunciation, and by sound and syntax, you will note the differing flavor of individual languages.
GRAVE ACCENT: An English standard "short" vowel, but its voiced duration is short, as well. It is little more than a way to shape the transition between surrounding letters. Example: i = i (nearly unvoiced) as in bit.
ACUTE ACCENT: An English standard "short" vowel in most cases, but the voiced duration is elongated. Example: a = a in ban (slightly longer).
UMLAUT: An English standard "short" vowel of standard duration, but with the back of the throat open, producing a wider or deeper sound. Example: ai = a in father.
CIRCUMFLEX: An English "long" vowel of standard duration most often followed by a short i as a diphthong. Example: a = ai in rain.
APOSTROPHE: ' Indicates a brief pause in voiced pronunciation, similar to a brief catch of air or voicing before continuing. Sometimes used to clarify syllabic separation in complex words.
HYPHEN: - As for English, it occurs in compound words or for the use of a specialized prefix or suffix, as well as showing correct syllabic separation when the hyphenated term is pronounced as one word.
HK: In the Suman language (Sumanese), pronounced as represented in a "breathy" manner. In Belaskian, it is more quick and sharp. In Elvish, it is the ch in the Gaelic word loch. However, the sounds are similar, and any will do for basic reading.
CHK: Occurs mostly in Elvish and Dwarvish. At the end of word, it is pronounced as written. Similar to the ending of the word latched, where the e is unpronounced and the d becomes a k. When it appears midword, it is a syllabic separation; the ch ends the previous syllable and the kbegins the following syllable.
This one is for our parents...
with appreciation.
CONTENT
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Amber light spread across the dirt floor from a fireplace embedded in the cottage's sod-and-timber wall. It barely illuminated a rough table and stools, two low beds with patchwork quilts, and other hand-me-down fixtures so old, no one remembered whose father's father or mother's mother had first acquired them. And on the tail of nightfall, a tall and black-haired woman in her twentieth year lit but one candle upon the table, for even that was a luxury.
She was straight-boned, with deep brown eyes beneath eyebrows that arched high, and strands of hair escaped her long braid. Beneath her wool coat, she wore an age-stained apron covering a blue dress. She swung a cook pot out from the fire on its iron arm so the stew wouldn't burn, then stepped to the cottage's one front window. Brushing aside burlap curtains, she cracked the shutter to peer anxiously up the village path.
Few villagers moved among the huddled huts, carrying in firewood or heading for the common well, buckets in hand. She closed the shutter, let the curtain fall into place, and returned to the table to set out two clay bowls and wooden spoons. From the shelves she gathered a cloth-wrapped bundle and a knife, then settled upon a stool. She unwrapped a loaf of rye bread to cut away the dried end. There was nothing more to do, and she watched the fire's flames recede.
When the knock came, she sighed in relief.
Before she stepped to the door, a hollow voice growled from outside. "Enough pleasantries!"
The crack of shattering wood filled the small hut as the door slammed inward. Its top leather hinge broke away, and splinters skittered across the dirt floor. She backed into the table, nearly tripping over a stool.
Three shadowed figures stood in the opening, their features hidden by cowls and cloaks. The tallest lowered his foot as the broken door ceased shuddering.
"That was not necessary, Father, " said the one next to him. Dressed in a charcoal cloak and hood and crafted riding boots, his gloved hand was still raised to knock again. He let it drop to his side.
The third figure hung back as the father entered and, in three strides, grabbed the woman by the throat.
She clutched the table for balance as he bent her backward. His thumb levered her chin sideways to face his companions as he studied her profile. Even with her head tilted, she kept her gaze upon her assailant.
Candlelight partially exposed his face inside the hood. Nearly colorless crystalline eyes stared back at her, and his features were paler than those of her own fair-skinned people. A long aquiline nose ran down to a thin-lipped mouth. He wore steel vambraces on both forearms, and beneath his cloak was a crestless, burgundy tabard over a shirt of mail. She fumbled for better support on the table, and the base of her palm scraped something sharp.
"This is the one?" he asked, but his question was not to her.
The one who called him Father took a step into the hut, allowing the third figure to drift toward her.
His long, hooded robe swirled like black oil as he glided across the cottage floor. Firelight made faint markings and strange symbols shimmer in and out of sight upon its folds. Where his face should have been was a mask of aged leather that ended above a bony jaw supporting a withered mouth. The woman saw no eye slits in his mask. He reached toward her, as if he "saw" her, but his gaunt fingers stopped shy of her cheek as she struggled to pull away.
"Get out of my home!" she shouted. No one gave her notice.
"Yes..., " the masked one whispered with a voice like windblown sand. "The one shown to me. The one sent into my dreams by our patron. "
The father glanced back to his son.
"You
should be pleased, " he remarked. "She'll make you an attractive bride. "
The woman's eyes widened. She wouldn't be the first or the last to suffer the whims of a vassal lord assigned to a fief, but nobles did not take village women as wives.
"Bride?" said the son. "I doubt, Father, that your lackey"—and the masked one hissed over his shoulder— "would bother with the customs attached to such a title. Take her and let us leave. The sooner done, the better. "
The masked one's fingers inched forward, and she felt her captor's grip tighten to pull her up. At the touch of fingertips on her cheek, her hand closed about the knife on the table.
The robed one recoiled to the room's far wall before she even moved. She twisted forward, thrusting low and upward. The knife blade slipped into the side slit of her captor's mail shirt and buried in his abdomen.
His grip clenched harder about her throat. No one in the cottage moved.
Her rage drained when she stared into the father's face and saw no hint of emotion in his eyes. He pulled her upright by the throat, not bothering to remove her hand from the knife hilt. The masked old man glided evenly toward the door and out into the night. The father pulled her along by the neck as he followed the old man.
She staggered and regained her footing. The son turned away as she passed, and she caught no glimpse of his face. Two large horses waited outside in the village path. The son mounted the closest, a tail bay, and the father lifted her up behind him as if she were no burden at all. Shouts rose out of the dark.
Villagers emerged from cottages and huts, but most stayed well back. A few held torches or candle lanterns that barely illuminated the path between their homes. Three young men came forward in smudged and grimed field clothes, armed with hoes and hay rakes. Two hesitated, but the third showed no fear. Even in the dark, the woman recognized his brown unwashed hair hanging loose around angular features and a square, dark-shadowed jaw.
"Adryan, don't!" she called, as much in anger as concern for his safety.
A villager who assaulted a noble was a corpse sooner rather than later, and no one of importance would question it. The young man barely glanced at her, his attention shifting between the masked figure and the tall, armored father.
"Release her!" he snapped. "She's mine. "
"You fool!" she shouted back. "Stay back. There's nothing to be done. "
She was about to slide off the horse, but the son swung his arm back to block her.
"You should listen to her, " the son said.
Adryan rushed the father. The tall nobleman brushed back his cloak to expose the knife handle protruding from his abdomen. The young man faltered, and the masked old one slid forward into his way. The robed figure slapped Adryan across the cheek with one gnarled hand.
Adryan buckled and fell backward to the ground, screaming and clutching at his face. As he writhed, the father gripped the knife hilt and withdrew the blade from his own flesh as if from a sheath. He tossed it to the ground beside Adryan, and the young man's two companions backed away.
The masked one closed on Adryan.
"Enough, " ordered the father. "We've no more time to waste here. Meet us at the keep. "
The robed figure turned and nodded agreement. His arms stretched out to the sides at full length, palms up to the sky, and his breath came out in a long, audible exhale. The air in the village path began to churn.
Sitting upon the horse, the woman watched leaves and twigs swirl on the ground in a circle about the dark robe. Flickering shapes shimmered in the turning breeze. The light of the villagers' lanterns and torches caught something taking shape in the air.
Faces with sunken cheeks and hollowed eye sockets, flesh shrunk across phantom bones, materialized in the whirling air. Their translucent hands clutched at the dark robe on all sides, and the masked figure faded from sight as the whirlpool breeze died.
The night's cold sank sharply into the woman's body as she stared at the empty space.
The father mounted his horse and turned down the path into the forest. The keep was some distance beyond the trees to the top of a knoll. The son turned his horse to follow, and she heard a shout from behind in the village. Smothered in despair, she didn't hear it clearly and looked back, grabbing hold of the son's waist as the horse stepped into a trot.
Up the path came another woman, stout and black-haired, wearing a purple dress. She was running after the horses with the fallen knife clutched in her hand.
Gripping the horse's sides with her knees, the woman shouted, "Bieja, no!"
Relief filled her. Her older sister had once again come home late from the market in the central village to the north. The horse lurched forward into a gallop, and she tightened her hold on the son's waist, no longer able to look back. She heard her sister call out again.
"Magelia!"
Chapter 1
Magiere sensed the instant of dawn, though the inn's small room was dark and shuttered. It called her from sleep. This first night with Leesil in her arms lingered in her memory, his shoulder beneath her cheek and her outstretched palm on his chest beneath the blankets. She still feared for him, but perhaps if she kept him always this close, she could keep him safe even from herself.
A more troublesome thought wormed into her awareness. She fought it down, recalling the scent and taste and touch of Leesil in the night, until they'd settled into warm slumber. But the thought wouldn't leave, and perhaps in part it was Leesil's closeness that fed it strength.
Magelia—and Nein'a.
Two mothers waited. One dead, but the second still lived, or so she hoped—for Leesil's sake.
Magiere opened her eyes to see her fingertips peeking from beneath the blanket's edge across Leesil's chest. When she lifted her gaze past his shoulder, still bandaged from their battles, she found his amber eyes looking down at her.
"You're awake, " she said.
"I like watching you sleep. It's the only time you're peaceful. "
Did he always have to make jokes? Magiere tried to sit up, but his arms closed around her.
"Not yet, " he said. "It's early. I don't think the sun is even up. "
"It will be soon, " she lied, and relaxed back against him.
Her dhampir nature had grown more pronounced in recent days. She felt the sun's presence even when indoors. In the night, the heat Leesil stirred in her made her heightened senses open wide. With only a sliver of moonlight through the window's shutter crack, she'd clearly seen his white-blond hair, narrow face, and lithe body. His amber eyes, almond shaped from his half-elven heritage, were locked upon her. At most times, her unnatural senses frightened or sickened her for what they revealed, but in that night, she hadn't cared so long as all she sensed was him. She was in Leesil's arms, and little else mattered.
Except for two mothers, who'd each left her child with a dark and bloody heritage.
"Did you sleep all right?" she asked.
"A little, " he answered.
She knew he might be lying. He often had trouble sleeping, now that he'd stopped drinking. This, as well, was linked to a mother he'd thought dead for years. Magiere peered about the room.
"Where's Chap? Did he stay out all night?"
Leesil smiled. "For once, he showed some manners. "
Magiere scowled. She rolled over to reach for the sulfur stick on the bedside table and lit the one candle resting there. The night before, they'd taken this room at the first inn outside Bela, the capital city of Belaski. The three of them had often slept outdoors in past years. Their dog, Chap, would be well enough on his own, but it bothered Magiere that she hadn't thought of him all night.
She rolled back to find Leesil leaning up on one elbow above her. He slid his fingers between hers, a striped pattern of flesh in the mingling. Half-elf and half-undead, they were a strange contrast with his golden-brown skin and white-blond hair and her blood-tinted black tresses and pale flesh. A mischievous smile crossed Leesil's lips, and Magiere lost all concern for the moment. Chap could wait a li
ttle longer.
The candlelight revealed their surroundings more clearly.
It was all simple, neat, and pleasant, but it wasn't home— wasn't the Sea Lion tavern in Miiska. Her falchion leaned against the bedside table, close within reach beside the bed on which they lay. Their travel chest and belongings sat under the window, reminding her that soon they would be on the move again.
"What?" he asked.
"Another journey, " she answered.
Leesil settled back on the bed, comfortably close as he brushed stands of hair off her face.
"The sages gave me some supplies, but as we get farther north and into the Warlands, restocking could get difficult. More so as we move on to the northern mountains and the Crown Range between there and the elven lands. We'll need more before we leave. "
Magiere hesitated. How could she make him face her new choice?
In youth, he'd fled from slavery as a warlord's assassin, knowing his escape would cause his own parents' execution. For years afterward, he drank himself to sleep each night to smother guilt-spawned nightmares. Even Magiere hadn't known, until he'd confessed but a few nights ago. Then an assassin named Sgaile—one of the elven anmaglahk—had come to take Leesil's life. Leesil's mother had betrayed her own caste by teaching him and his father the anmaglahk's cold-blooded ways. The assassin changed his mind and let Leesil go. From this encounter, Leesil suspected his mother still lived, imprisoned all these years by her own people.
Now that he had hope, Magiere had to make him wait even longer.
"Before we seek your mother, if she still lives, " she said, "we need to go to my home village in Droevinka. "
She'd fled from there nine years ago at the age of sixteen, and the thought of returning made bile rise in her throat. Her discomfort vanished when Leesil's smile faded.
He rose up in the bed. "If she lives? What does that—?"
Magiere quickly covered his lips with her fingers as she sat up.
"I didn't mean it that way. I want to believe as much as you... but I had a mother, as well, and a past neither of us knows. I need answers, too. "