Let us maim that which defiles.
Let us free all who are enslaved.
Let us sing the song of sorrow in victory.
Let us lament
That which we must not forget.
Come to me, my people,
At the water’s edge.
Come to me, my Warriors.
Let the blood flow.
Come to me, my children.
Let us cleanse the Earth.
Let us sing the Song of The Bear.
The room stayed silent, all staring in horror as the dreams Tâkuri had sent them played out across the ceiling, too real to escape. As the scene faded, with the final chorus, Ayailla focused in on Tranorva, General Tranorva now, her army standing ready at the gates of Élahandara, filling the pass of St. Gregory. Ayailla turned her General to face the crowd in the room, slowly raising her bloody battle axe high over her head, her projection some twenty feet tall.
As Donovan’s song faded and the lights came back to full, Roahr VinDall raised his battle axe high over his head. “Tranorva!” he shouted. He shifted smoothly to his Ursine form, a giant Grizzly who nearly touched the ceiling when he rose to paw the air. His roar became a chant that echoed around the great hall. “Tranorva! Tranorva!” Following his lead, the others took up the chant before they shifted as well.
Ayailla leaned her head close against Tyrell’s. “We will have to help them. We haven’t got time for them to all run around fucking everything in sight until they shift for the first time. Take one from each rank. And think small. They won’t all fit in here if they all turn into grizzlies!”
Tyrell merely nodded, the laughter she was so fond of lighting his eyes. He was not one of those Shamen who attracted attention to his work. He barely tapped his staff to the ground, and a middle-aged woman from the first shift assumed the form of a large brown bear. He was subtle. Unobtrusive. Just as she’d taught him to be.
She was faster, of course. Amidst the noise and confusion of the rallied masses, small brown bears started popping up all over her side of the room. After the first few they began appearing on their own as the battle lust took hold.
Even as the last of the bears shifted, the grunts and the growls still held the same message. “Tranorva! Tranorva!”
Clan Bear was ready for war.
* * * * *
“What in the name of the gods is all that racket?”
Élandine/Darvon shrugged as if it were unimportant. “Games of some sort. Apparently today is some national holiday someone just remembered. Who knows? They don’t seem to be causing any trouble. Just making a lot of noise.”
The new pair shrugged, looking terminally bored. “Well, as long as we don’t have to do anything about it.”
“Maybe you better check it out.”
“I’m not going. You go.”
Darvon shook his head emphatically. “I’m not going down there.”
Garrot sighed heavily. “Well one of you better go. I’ve no desire to have some priestess take a chunk out of my backside because she finds out there was a riot and we didn’t report it.”
One of the new ones gave a long, delicate shudder. “You know what happened to the Males who lost Mistress Anika. If it IS a riot I’m out of here. I’ll take my chances outside. I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the Dwarves at the Monastery before I let myself be dismembered joint by joint to be eaten alive by a hungry Queen.”
The second new guard, who had been quiet until now, shuddered more violently. “Good point. I’ll go.”
Tâkuri turned to walk down the row of prisoner’s cells as the other one disappeared. “Hey!” she called back after a moment. “Take a look at this!”
Élandine ran to her aide. The new guard was not far behind. As they moved aside to let him see into the small cell, Élandine snapped his neck.
The remaining guard came running back, “You won’t believe this! They’ve all turned into bears!”
“Bears? You’re kidding. I thought that was just a myth. Come take a look at this!”
As the last guard looked in on the bodies of his dead companions, Élandine added his corpse to the pile. “The Dwarves would have killed you on sight,” he told the dead Élandra. “This death is more merciful than any the Priestesses above would have shown you.”
* * * * *
The woman Tyrell had changed first, the apparent leader of the First Shift, was the first one to change back to her human form. She came to the center of the small amphitheatre, her gaze determined as she met Ayailla and Tyrell head on. Had she somehow figure out that they’d helped her shift? Such did not seem possible.
“What about the cubs?”
“The cubs?”
“We cannot leave the cubs in the Élandra’s possession.”
Ayailla sifted through the picture of the party before her. There had been no one here much under the age of sixteen. Of course. How better to keep the slaves in check? The Élandra held the cubs. How had they missed that part? How had they not known?
Simple. Neither Braunnan nor any of the other Bears in their party had cubs.
She should have known things would not go this smoothly. “We will find the cubs. Tyrell goes to join Shammall and Tâkuri. Organize thy people. We have little time. Tell them to take only what they can carry easily in a pack on their shoulders. When ye shift, what ye wear will be bound to ye as if it were part of thy skin. But a bear has no hands to carry household goods.”
“We have little enough. ‘Twill not take us long to gather what we cannot live without.”
“Tell thy people to reassemble here within the hour. We will awaiting ye with the cubs.”
Tyrell nodded once, understanding immediately what needed to be done. He shifted to wolf form to cross the Great Hall faster than he ever could have on foot. As unobtrusively as she could Ayailla gathered her party to her. One by one they shifted back to human form, immediately reading the worry she let show on her face.
“I want ye to think, all of ye. Remember everything ye know or have ever heard about this place. A passage that is no longer used. A tunnel that has been closed. A mineshaft that had to be sealed off suddenly for no explained reason. There must be something. If Shammall and Tâkuri encounter resistance, and I fear they may, we must have another way out of here. We canna’ retreat through the tunnels if we are under attack. The tunnels are too small. Those awaiting entrance would be too vulnerable.”
The group fell silent. Braunnan answered first. “We could fight our way up, killing them as we go. Some would live to see daylight again.”
Cullaelon nodded. “I will die before I let them put a torc back around my neck.”
“A tunnel… There was… I think I remember…”
All eyes turned to Roahr VinDall. “My memories of this place are fractured, as you know. But many years ago, when I was cared for in the Monastery, I seem to remember the Dwarves discussing of a tunnel. They were the ones who originally dug the mines of Élahandara, you know. That was not its name then of course. In any case, apparently when the Élandra were driven below ground, the Dwarves sealed off the entrance. When I was brought here, they became much concerned about the Clan bear. They gathered a council. I believed they thought to mount a rescue operation. Nothing ever came of the idea that I know of. I am not even sure the tunnel really exists.”
“If it did, it would have to open somewhere near the Monastery,” Ayailla reasoned. “We at least know what direction to look. Which halls or tunnels are closest to the Southern tip of Élahandara?”
“This one is.” Donovan gestured toward the back corner of the hall, where it narrowed into a darkened tunnel. “Only Third Shift has a great hall like this. That and the lake make this shift’s chambers unique. No one ever goes down the tunnel at the other end. There was a rockslide there many years ago. It happened long before I was born. We were told the area was unstable.”
Braunnan turned to face Ayailla, her face grim. “If there is another way out, that collapsed tunn
el holds the key, M’Lady. We are miners. We can fix a tunnel. Give us enough time, and we can dig a tunnel through the mountain itself. We have food and water and all the tools we would ever need.”
Braunnan gestured over their heads toward the arch of the roof where the other end of the Great Hall met with the shift change area leading to the mines and the tunnels. “For many years I have lain on this stone floor at night, studying this roof. That which the Dwarves have constructed is perfectly symmetrical. This is not. There is a fissure, there, that runs through the far end of the chamber. With the right force and proper timing, we could seal ourselves off from the rest of Élahandara, just as the Dwarves must once have sealed themselves off from us.”
Donovan stared up at the crack in fascination. “How did you plan to apply enough force? Have you calculated what it would take to blow that fissure?”
“Well, there was the flaw in my plan. We would have had to climb up there somehow and plant charges in the crack. And we don’t have the charges. The guards give us those as we need them. I figured I might steal them one at a time over the course of a year. I did not think to have to manage such a feat in a few hours. Soon Cullaelon’s may be strong enough to be cause the fissure to collapse with his thoughts alone. He grows stronger every day. Yet I fear that day is not yet.”
Ayailla stared up at the rock, and the hairline fracture that transected its highest point. So. This was how it was to be done. There was always logic behind magic. She had learned early on that one could not ask for what did not exist. There were no mirrors to be had in a land without glass. No huts could be built on a piece of the wind-swept tundra where no trees grew. But as long as the ingredients were at hand…
“Whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea, and shall not doubt in his heart, whatsoever he saith shall come to pass.”
Chapter Eight
“Halt!” General Tranorva raised her hand palm out. “Ye will show me proper respect! I have defeated High Priestess Géndalaine in combat. I have defeated First Chair Maelyn to defend my throne. I have defeated Nafésti, High Priestess of Talandar in combat. By thy own laws I claim thy fealty. Know me! I am Tranorva, High Priestess of Élahandara! Put down thy weapons and kneel at my feet!”
By the gods. This was Tranorva’s great plan?
While Tranorva’s voice had the power to carry across the courtyard before the gates of Élahandara, Anika was too far away to hear the startled responses of the unfortunate guards. She could see, however, that the Sentinels held steadfast to their posts at the gate, as she would have herself. Anika resisted the urge to bury her face in Calibeth’s arm.
“Who are ye?” General Tranorva demanded. “I would know thy names before I kill ye. How dare ye defy my divine right to thy fealty?”
It hadn’t been so hard yesterday. She had marched with the army, at Calib’s side, as they crossed the plains, heading directly for The Pass of St. Gregory and the gates of Élahandara. She’d been caught up in the fever of Prophecy and war, as had the others. Those around them knew who she was, or who she pretended to be. It was easy enough to travel as Calib’s slave, and she played her part well, well enough to keep suspicions and animosity at a minimum.
She’d even made a few friends. Calib’s men trusted her. And there was Braunnan, and the woman at the bar, Giselle.
She’d never had friends before. She’d known and been known to many. Her mother’s advisors and confidants, her classmates, the males who were always there to serve her in any way she chose. But she’d never had friends. The concept of friendship was not part of the Élandra society.
Now General Tranorva stood at the gates to her home, demanding entrance. An army made up of her friends and acquaintances filled the pass, shadowing the meadows below. When Tranorva failed, and she would fail, when the gates of Élahandara opened to devour the enemy, Anika’s friends would die.
If Tranorva’s army prevailed, all that Anika had known before would be destroyed.
She had made her choice. She was not Élandra. She was—whatever she was. She was Dragon. Somewhere she had a people of her own. Somewhere she had a family. A father. People who would love her as Calib loved her, not for her birth, or her social status, or the color of her skin, or for what she could do for them.
If they did not, even if she never found her own people, she had Calib. His love was unwavering. And Giselle, and Braunnan, and Donovan. She had already chosen. Now was not the time to question her own decisions.
‘Twas not as if the Élandra would welcome her back. Once her secrets were discovered she would be set upon by the Circle of Eight and devoured.
She must be as ruthless as her mother’s people would be. She must fight to defend her new clan as she defended herself. She called forth the dream, once again watching helplessly as the Élandra forces swooped down on Clan Bear, destroying all in their way. She felt again her anger and helplessness. No. Those who were capable of such destruction were not her family. Nafésti had never loved her as a daughter. Love was not known to the Élandra. Only power and fear. In the dream she had not been with the attackers. She had been at home, among friends and family.
The destruction had been so devastating. These were a people who loved their children, as every child should be loved.
As Calib would love their children. Even if they had wings and coughed fire at him.
Maybe, just maybe, what Tranorva had in mind might work.
If it did not, could she stand by and watch her people, her charges, be slaughtered once again?
* * * * *
“Halt!” Tranorva raised her hand, holding the Sentinels back as much with the element of surprise her appearance called up as with the substance of her demand. “Ye will show me proper respect! I have defeated High Priestess Géndalaine in combat. I have defeated First Chair Maelyn to defend my throne. I have defeated Nafésti, High Priestess of Talandar in combat as well. By thy own laws I claim thy fealty. Know me! I am Tranorva, High Priestess of Élahandara! Put down thy weapons and kneel at my feet!”
The Sentinels looked one to another, but none chose to lay down her weapons. Instead two parties of males, a dozen in each party, appeared on command, as if they had materialized out of the rock. One of the two Sentinels stepped forward, bowing slightly from the waist. Tranorva couldn’t see where the other one had disappeared to. “I must apologize, Mistress Tranorva, but I have no authority to grant you admission. I have sent for someone of higher rank who might be more aware of proper protocol than I am.”
“Who are ye?” General Tranorva demanded. “I would know thy name before I kill ye. How dare ye defy my divine right to thy fealty?”
A familiar presence stepped forward out of the shadows. “Take your army and go home, Tranorva. Had you managed to destroy the entire Council of Eight, still you cannot change the blood that flows in your veins. You are not Élandra. You shall never be Élandra. Only an Élandra High Priestess may sit on the counsel. The High Seat on the Council of Eight is mine by right of succession!”
“Ye are wrong. I have already sat on the Council of Eight, Nellióne, and ye have sworn fealty to me. Ye did swear falsely then, or ye do now, one or the other. Ye have broken thy trust with the Council of Eight. I contest thy claim, Nellióne, and I challenge ye for the High Seat of Élahandara. I shall take back what is mine!”
Nellióne’s laughter echoed through the pass. “I accept thy challenge! Ye shall not live to see the sun rise again. I lay claim to not only Géndalaine’s trophy but all thy worldly possessions as well. Thy harem shall be mine to command as I drink thy blood!”
Géndalaine’s trophy? Élandine? Surely Nellióne knew Élandine was dead. She had been present when he met Maelyn’s knife, one of the few council members to have escaped with her life. Unless things had gone wrong below and he’d already been captured.
She could not, would not think of that. Not now. Élandine had been taking care of himself for centuries. Surely he could manage th
is one day alone. Tranorva fed on the anger that glimpses of Élandine’s broken, battered body brought to her mind. She let her emotions show in a twisted, malicious grin. “Should ye, by some miracle, win, I fear ye shall be sadly disappointed. I do not have a harem just yet, Nellióne. I believe I shall have to take yours!”
Nellióne didn’t waste time. She threw herself forward into a series of kicks that seemed to roll off her hips in rotation. The first kick caught Tranorva low on the ribs, sending her staggering back as she feigned injury. With the second she dropped to one knee, diving forward to come up hard under Nellióne’s leg, yanking her off her feet. Nellióne’s grin told her she had miscalculated. While Tranorva’s hands were still fisted tightly around Nellióne’s ankle, the cat-like Sorceress twisted in midair to send fireballs flying at Tranorva’s head.
The smell of burning hair filled her nostrils. Damn it. She was rather proud of her hair. Fortunately not but a few recalcitrant wisps usually escaped her helmet. Still, it was her hair. Tranorva yanked upward, hard, on the ankle in her hands, throwing Nellióne off balance. As she released her grip on the smaller woman, Tranorva reached for the broad-bladed battleaxe strapped in the scabbard across her back. “I have had time to think about it, and I want neither thy Chair or thy Harem, Nellióne. I only wish to watch ye die!”
Tranorva lunged as she spoke the words, her great axe springing into her hands as if the scabbard had been spring loaded. A single swing of the axe sent Nellióne’s head tumbling across the courtyard, where it landed at the feet of the closest Sentinel. The Sentinel didn’t hesitate. She screamed out a warning as she turned to run back through the gates. Both gates swung wide, now, making room for the soldiers within to spew forth.
Yes. This was as it was meant to be. Tranorva raised her bloody axe high over her head, screaming in defiance. Her army answered her call. The Élandra had let her come too close. The battleground was the courtyard, barely big enough to hold the advance guard of her army. There was not room for the Élandra to bring but a few units out of the gates before the courtyard was too full to allow further access. Those who fell dead at her feet were trampled under the feet of those attempting to rally the attack. Soon the courtyard was puddled with blood, and bodies began to pile up.
A Bard's Prophecy: Song Of The Bear 4 Page 8