A battle, however, was rarely won by the foot soldiers alone. A blast of pure energy zapped by her head. Tranorva ducked, looking up in time to see the Élandra High Priestesses gathering on the balcony above the gates, their blasts now raining down on her troops. Well, she had some magic power of her own. The Shamen had already joined the battle, some deflecting the blows from above, some returning the attack.
One of the High Priestesses raised a horn to her lips, blowing three long, shrill blasts before one of the archers—perhaps Yarwyn herself from the precision of the shot—ended the call on a wavering note.
Too late. Somewhere high above them the ground began to tremble. The main body of the army turned to face the new attack. Tranorva looked over the headless body of her newest casualty to face the latest threat. Wonderful. Trolls. A fine way to spend the advancing morning. Trolls were huge, true enough, but the main danger one faced from them was being crushed beneath them as they fell. And of course there was the smell. An odor like rotting meat wafted off of them, even before they died. Tranorva’s nose wrinkled at the thought.
Deep within the heart of Élahandara, the Earth began to shake. All movement on the battlefield stilled for a moment as the seismic vibrations became stronger. Rocks began to rain down from the walls of the pass. If the pass collapsed…
“Retreat!” Tranorva ordered, her voice carrying across the stunned troops. “Sound the retreat!”
As the mountain trembled beneath their feet, the organized assault turned into chaos. Those who hadn’t heard the order didn’t need to be told. They turned to run. Boulders were raining down on the pass by the time she reached the relative safety of the plains below.
Tranorva rallied her troops, far enough from the pass to be safe from the onslaught of falling stone. Looking back she saw that stones were not all that funneled out of the mountains. Freed of the confines of their own limited space, the army of Dark Elves seemed to be growing at the base of the pass. There was no sign of the Trolls.
Very well. Bear against Dark Elf. Army to army. This was as it was meant to be. Tranorva waved her axe high above her head, welcoming the challenge.
Élahandara was not yet done. All eyes turned toward the mountain itself as the rocks began to emit a high-pitched scream. The noise grew in pitch and intensity. Far above them in the collapsing pass Tranorva could see Dark Elves pouring now from the mouth of the crumbling fortress. So be it. She would take them all on. She screamed out her battle cry, a defiant challenge to end it all in one final battle. From somewhere behind her the cry echoed, taken up now by her army.
Another cry echoed across the battlefield—the Dark Elves were regrouping at the opposite edge of what was to be their battlefield, ready to meet their attack. The enemy would be more dangerous now. They had no means of retreat. As the Earth ceased her shaking, the last of the pass fell to the edges of the battlefield.
Tranorva glanced over her shoulder at the sound of a new, different cry. Hundreds of Bears with an old debt to settle came charging up from the direction of City of Port, their enraged calls a demand for battle.
So. Their mission was accomplished. All that remained now was to destroy what was left of the enemy.
Tranorva led the assault, her army at her back. A wall of Sorcerers’ fire blocked their way. Now Evalayna’s power was displayed in an awe-inspiring blizzard. Shards of ice crystals quelled the flames, slowing the assault of their attackers. The Dark Elves battled the small stinging missiles with shields raised as they charged. The ground shook again as the two amassed armies flung themselves at each other’s blades.
A shrill cry sounded, loud enough to be heard above the din of battle. Another wall of fire shot down between them, this one untouched by the Shamen’s spells, the flames so intense both armies halted their attacks, scrambling back from her flames.
The sounds of battle faded into small whimpers of pain as the wounded clutched burnt skin or peeled out of glowing armor. The stench of raw power settled over them all. Battle lust still raging in her veins, Tranorva shielded her face with her arm, looking for the source of the fire. She had one mission. To kill. All who stood in her way would fall.
The source of the flames was not hard to locate. All she had to do was look up.
By the gods. Just what she needed. Another Dragon to contend with.
A giant white Dragon with a wingspan of more than forty feet hovered over the advanced lines of the armies. “No!” the shrill voice screamed, spraying more fire. “Enough!”
Blood still pounding in her ears, Tranorva slowly lowered her battle axe. Obviously the charge was on hold for the moment.
The Dragon squelched her flames long enough to transform herself to the form of the Dark Elf slave who had traveled with one of the Clan bear. An Élandra? How could an Élandra Priestess take the form of a Dragon?
The Élandra priestess, too, disappeared. Her ebony skin glowed, radiating an inner fire that spoke of immeasurable power as the Élandra Priestess took on the form of a Child of Light.
Another Sidhe. Lovely. Perhaps Pajja himself would show up soon to deliver some lecture about the sins of mankind.
This one looked just as incensed.
“What will this war accomplish? You will fight one another until one side or the other can no longer field enough soldiers to continue. For generations you have done this! With each new generation the hatred grows. If the Bears win, there are still the Trolls to be dealt with. And the Ogres. I hear the Orcs are already making a comeback. And if the Élandra win, the Wolves will still stand in your way. And the Elves. And the Dwarves. Will you continue until there are none left to fight? Sheath your blades, or do battle with me! I may be but one, but both armies may well perish before your destroy me!”
A second voice joined in, older, gentler, slightly amused. The great blue Dragon Tranorva had seen on shipboard appeared at the opposing end of the small space between the armies. “You are not alone, Sister. Too long have the Dragons stood by and watched as Mortals plotted the destruction of their races. There will be no great battle here today. In the future you may kill each other a few at a time if you escape our notice, but no longer will the Dragons stand by and do nothing as you lay waste to entire populations. This ends today!”
The great black Dragon swooped down now between the two, the downdraft from his wings nearly knocking Tranorva’s helmet from her head. He circled, letting his power be felt, before he landed between the two armies. The Dragon faded, leaving the Dark Elf known as Élandine in its place. Only he was not Élandine. The now familiar glow of power suffused his skin, until he stood between them, Élandine, but more. A dark skinned Child of Light. The blue Dragon faded, leaving Tâkuri standing in her place, arms folded across her chest, an angry scowl on her beautiful face.
Élandine turned slowly, so that both armies could see what he was, his arms outstretched. “Has there not been enough death here today? With great power comes great responsibility. Too long have the Sidhe hidden in the shadows, leaving the affairs of men to be observed, but not interfered with. No longer will we be silent. As a people, each of you has a right to exist. No race has the right to commit genocide against its enemies. You must choose. Will you join forces to battle the Sidhe so that you may continue to slaughter each other? Or will you seek peace?”
Well, damn. The day had started off well enough. An entire army at her back, and an enemy to kill. Tranorva sighed. There was no point in trying to reason with one Sidhe on a mission, let alone three of them. She wiped her blade on the trampled grass and slid the great axe back into its scabbard.
From the opposing side, Maelyn’s sister Analeas stepped forward. “Out of respect for the title you once claimed at the Circle of Eight, I grant you and your clan safe passage from these fields, Tranorva. Take your lover and go, before I change my mind.”
Tranorva smiled. “I rather like this field. I thought perhaps we might rebuild the fabled great houses here. Take those of your kind who survive and leave whilst you c
an. We will not pursue our victory this date. It is enough that Élahandara lays in ruin.”
“You are hopeless!” the one known as Anika shrieked. “Go! All of you! Take your armies and go before I lose what little patience I have and hunt you all down for the good of the Earth!”
Élandine and Tâkuri exchanged glances. Tâkuri looked up at newcomer speculatively. “I know where my children are. Besides, she has your temper.”
Élandine shrugged. “She could be one of Father’s get. She doesn’t have to be mine.”
“When was Pajja ever within the halls of the Élandra?” Tâkuri turned her attention to the two opposing leaders. “I’d hate to have to toast all of you, but I really can’t stand by and watch while the fledgling does all the work. I suggest you go, while she’s still willing to let you leave.”
A perfectly good war, wasted. Damn it. Tranorva stared at the pair in disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
The Dragons reappeared, all three of them. Flames licked at Tranorva’s feet. The great black who was Élandine seemed to make her his personal mission, though his flames singed most of the front line of her army. Tranorva didn’t have to sound the retreat. Analeas’s remaining followers scrambled North, along the shattered base of the Élandra Mountains.
Tranorva led her army South. By the time they reached the Dwarven Monastery, the Dragons seemed to have given up pursuit. The Dwarves were waiting, their door open as the leaders gathered together within their great hall.
Tranorva gathered her injured dignity about her, taking stock of the situation. All in all, the day had been profitable, and the losses acceptably few. She took count as the leaders joined her. Her parents, Roahr VinDall and the lady Evalayna. Her brother Tyrell and her sister Cassadara, with her husband, Mâk. Seanen and Yarwyn. Braunnan and Cullaelon. Balthain. Calibeth and the Bard, Donovan. And lastly, the three Dragons, now in their more familiar forms.
Tâkuri joined Balthain. Anika, the one who was apparently Élandine’s daughter—they would talk about that later—went to join Calib. Shammall was the last to appear, crossing the hall slowly to her.
Well he might drag his feet. If he thought he was going to share her bed, after a performance like that, she’d…
Grief glittered in the handsome Mage’s eyes as he approached her. Tranorva glanced around the room again, fear tingling down her spine. No. She was misreading his face. It was only that he feared her anger. Everyone was here. Everyone but…
No. That could not be right. Shammall did not cry. Not ever. No…
“I am sorry, Tranorva. I could not stop her. She said to tell you…” his voice wavered.
No. She was a little older perhaps, a little slower, but no less powerful Nothing could ever stop her. No…
“What happened?” Was that her voice, sounding empty and hollow?
“She said Roanen had been waiting too long.”
A thin, keening wail tore through the ancient hall as Shammall’s arms closed around her, and then everything faded to black.
Epilogue
She was positive that if she so much as blinked her eyes her head would explode. By the gods. What had she done? She knew well the price of expending too much energy. She knew where to draw the line. Had known since first Roanen called her to these lands.
Roanen.
Funny. She’d dreamed of him of late. Stupid, really. An old woman lusting after a man who had been dead half a century. But in her dreams she was young again, and he…he was as she’d first seen him. Young and handsome and virile, his skin bronzed and lightly oiled, his hands strong and sure as they stroked over her skin.
Nylanéfer’s skin. Sennedjem’s hands. A temple made of carved stone, much like the stone that surrounded her now.
She tried to turn her head to get a better look at the room, but the pain was too intense. She wanted to call out, ask some kind soul to bring her a damp, cool cloth to unglue her eyes, but she was afraid the sound of her own voice might shatter her brittle eyelids.
As if by magic, a cool cloth draped itself across her eyes.
Moving each muscle with care, she concentrated on slow, deep, even breathing. She could will the pain away. She’d done it before.
“Good morning, my love.”
The voice was as it had ever been, smooth and low and charged with sex. With a word he could tell her that she was the center of his universe. With a touch she could feel the strength of his love. She laid her hand over his, experimenting with a smile. Her lips didn’t break.
His fingers closed over hers, a gentle squeeze telling her all she needed to know. Who she was, where she was, no longer had any meaning. He was here. He loved her.
“Kiss me, my love, and all that ails me shall be forgotten.”
The long, silken waves of his hair brushed her chest as he bent, his kiss but a brush of a butterfly’s wing, soft and sweet as a flower’s nectar. She caught his lip with her own, sucking it gently until all that prime muscle melted beneath her touch. As he kissed her in earnest, she trusted herself to open her eyes at last.
She leaned back a little, getting a better look at him. So familiar, yet different. Skin bronzed by the sun. Dark, knowing eyes. Broad, powerful build. Long, dark hair that wrapped around her like a sensuous waterfall. The robe that hid the rest of his body from her might have been silk. It might have been nothing more than a housecoat. Or it might have been more…
You couldn’t go back in time, could you? This had to be the future. Her future.
What was his name this time? What was hers?
Broad, blunt fingers traced her cheek with a gentle touch. “What troubles you, my love?”
“I—Nothing. It was but a dream.”
He gathered her in his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. “You dreamed of the past again.”
“Aye.”
“I’m sorry, Lydian. I know how the dreams distress you.”
“It was so real. We were in the halls of Élahandara, leading the Clan bear to the surface. Shammall and Tâkuri found the cubs, but they were pursued. There was a weak place in the ceiling of the great hall. But it wasn’t weak enough. It took all I had…the Dark Priestesses fled as the roof began to crumble. Shammall was calling to me, telling me to come, but it was already too late. They made it. They must have made it to the surface. The others had already found the tunnel that led to the Monastery…”
“They all made it out, my love. All of them.”
“And Clan Bear?”
“Clan Bear flourishes, darling.”
“It was all over a long time ago.”
“A very long time ago. Later today, when you feel stronger, I shall send for Shammall, if you like. He loves talking about the old days with you.”
Yes. Of course. Shammall was Fey. He would still be here. Wherever, whenever here was. The past began to fade as she looked around the room at familiar surroundings. The bedroom. Her bedroom.
Her bedroom that she shared with her husband, Eireamon. Ayailla and Roanen had been long, long ago. Lydian swept her hand across Eireamon’s cheek, tracing her fingertips up to the tip of his long, pointed ear.
Elves. They were Elves. Death would not claim him this time. Not for more lifetimes than they’d already lived together. Laughter bubbled to her lips as he nuzzled his head into her touch. “Another time, another place, another world, it matters not. I love you, Sennedjem. As I have since the world was young. I shall love you still when our world begins to wither and die at the end of time.”
“As I love you, Nyla. For ever and always, my love.”
“Forever and always.”
About the author:
Margaret obtained a BS in Education/English and Communication from Shepherd College in 1982. She tried her hand at teaching and also worked as a D. J. for several years. She knew, however, that she wanted to write. The advent of On-Line publishing has provided yet one more valid reason for avoiding 'housework' of the common type.
Residing in West Virginia with her husband
of 21 years, Bill, Margaret enjoys building computers and online role-playing games. When she's not on-line, Margaret can be found in the garage tinkering with her motorcycle. The list of grand children has now grown to five.
Shelby welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.
Also by Shelby Morgan:
All I Want For Christmas
Cardboard
Plain Brown Wrapper
Redemption
Song Of The Bear 1: A Mercenary’s Prize
Song of the Bear 2: A Prisoner’s Desire
Song of the Bear 3: A Senteniel’s Secret
Taken
The Marker
Threshold Volume 2
Way Of The Wolf 1.5: Too Hot To Handle
Way Of The Wolf: The Northlanders 1
Wild Geese
Discover for yourself why readers can't get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora's Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.
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