by C. A. Szarek
He carried something. There was a glow around his joined fists.
A force shield of some sort? What on earth does he have?
Elissa’s stomach fluttered. Instinct told her it couldn’t be good. Her insides recoiled. She shifted her feet, squinting so she could see better through the hazy magic of the protection bubble.
The half-elf appeared to yell something, and the huge man left Lucan’s side. He, along with the smaller blond man flanked the half-elf.
He must be their leader.
Lucan readied himself for another attack. Elissa did, too, tensing. It didn’t come in the way she expected.
The half-elf threw something at Lucan. It was small and held its glow as it sailed through the air.
The young mage’s magic body shield poofed from sight.
Even at the distance she was, Elissa saw the shock on the lad’s face. His back bowed and his arms extended, his face red and tight, as if in agony. She gasped when Lucan collapsed.
He didn’t move.
“Nay!” Her shout bounced off the bubble, resounding in her ears. Tremors started in her hands, working their way up her arms, into her shoulders, then shimmying down her back, down to her thighs. Elissa’s knees knocked together and her teeth chattered.
Lucan was the most powerful magical being she’d ever met.
What could have taken him out? Was he dead?
Blessed Spirit, no. Please. Have mercy.
Her bottom lip wobbled and she fought tears, then lost the battle. Elissa’s vision blurred even as the half-elf darted to Lucan’s crumpled body and grabbed whatever he’d thrown at the lad.
The look on his face was the same discomfort as before. He threw at her and the bubble disappeared. An iridescent piece of something—maybe a rock—landed at her feet.
Elissa looked down at the same time her knees buckled. Pressure compressed her chest, making it hard to breathe. She panted, not sure whether to grab her bodice and pull it loose, or try to push herself off the ground.
Everything…hurt.
She tried to move, but her limbs weighed a ton. She tried to call to her magic, but the response was agony that doubled her over and scorched her skin from the inside out.
Nothing magical happened.
A whimper slipped from her lips.
Her whole body was on fire, as if her bones were melting. She didn’t have the strength to try to call water to her again, which had always required the smallest efforts.
“What’s…hap…pening?”
Her shoulders hit the ground because her torso couldn’t hold her up any longer. Then, Elissa couldn’t move. Numbness poured upward from her toes, but it was blessed relief from the pain as it spread over her whole form.
Six booted feet came into her blurry line of vision.
“My lady, meet Dimithian. It sucks your powers away. But no worries, it’s not forever.”
Dimithian? It’s not supposed to be real.
Elissa met a pair of very blue eyes. He smiled.
Her eyes were too heavy to look anywhere but at his face. Even holding her lids open pained her. She tried to open her mouth, tried to say something—anything—but her lips refused to part.
The half-elf touched her forehead with his gloved hand.
Everything went black.
* * * *
He kept her asleep with a spell so she wouldn’t get hurt fighting him—or kick their arses with her magic. Charis kept her with him on Barley’s back, too. He didn’t trust Bracken or Nason with her. Not after they’d worked so hard to get her away from the knights with magic and brute strength.
Thank the Blessed Spirit for the Dimithian. Drayton had been right. They’d needed it. It was currently locked away in his saddle bags, and his magic had returned to him, and the lass’ to her.
Even unconscious, her power radiated around her, her aura throbbing so brightly that if he sought it out directly he had to squint. Now that the protection spell around her was gone, Charis could feel the strength of the elements beneath the surface of her skin.
She had more magic than any other elemental he’d ever encountered.
Like that lad, though the young mage’s powers weren’t elemental. That lad could do…anything, Charis suspected. He almost regretted having to leave him. With the power of Dimithian perhaps the lad could’ve been controlled. They could’ve explored his magic.
The lass moaned and started to stir against his chest.
Charis cursed and cupped the back of her head, saying the spellword to keep her asleep. They had two days’ hard ride—if they really pushed their horses—back to Drayton’s cave, and he needed to be careful with his sleep spell. It was intended for short periods. Using it over and over could damage the lass long term. She was so powerful the spell burned out even more quickly than with someone with no—or less—magic.
He could use the rock, but then his powers would be taken down, too, since he needed to keep the lass close physically. She had to remain asleep, or she could—and would—free herself.
Charis knew a spell that should damper her powers, but since she had so much magic, he didn’t have faith that it’d work. Or, it might for a little while, like his sleep spell. Either way, he didn’t want to chance her getting away.
If she did, Drayton would probably kill him—them. Unless they went on the run. There was too much opportunity for coin in the Provinces. He’d be as careful as required to deliver his charge.
They wouldn’t stop to make camp tonight—they couldn’t afford it. Whatever guards weren’t dead would come after them. And her bondmate. They needed to get far enough away so the wolf wouldn’t be able to locate her through their shared magic. It’d be a challenge, because Charis didn’t know just how far they had to be before she’d lose the ability to thought-send to the beast.
He’d put his greatest masking spell in play to cover their trail, but that lad would no doubt sniff it out in seconds. Someone that powerful was feared, and rightly so.
Charis had thought about fleeing with no magic at all, but that’d leave them to detection even faster. Being at top speed didn’t allow for careful coverage of what they’d left behind, no matter how much other traffic marred their trail on the roads.
“Ride hard and fast, lads. We can’t stop. Get as far away from here as we can.”
A grunt was all he got from Bracken, and Nason didn’t say anything, just leaned in hard and pushed his horse harder.
Charis clutched the lass closer and kicked Barley.
Chapter Thirty-two
It was dark, it wasn’t just his imagination.
Alasdair’s temples pounded as he sat up, and he gripped his head with both hands. Couldn’t help but hunch his back. His leg smarted when he bent it, and his side throbbed, which turned to white-hot pain shooting into his chest when he explored the tear in his tunic and came away with blood-tipped fingers.
He hissed, then swore.
Around him, other men were moaning as they came to. Some had gained their feet, others were still on the ground, like him. Everyone seemed groggy; one of the men-at-arms wandered between the tents like a drunkard.
The bonfire at the center of their camp was burning, lighting up the surrounding area, but no one tended it, which told him they hadn’t been out so long.
What the hell?
Last thing he remembered, it hadn’t been quite twilight, and they’d made camp to eat, right? Rest for the night before continuing on at dawn.
His gaze darted around the large clearing, and it all smacked into his mind, memories of the fight, men screaming, swords clashing, colored flashes of magic.
Alasdair scrambled to his feet and found his sword. His last conversation danced into his thoughts. Then the kiss. “Elissa!” he gasped.
Lucan had been with her, so she was fine.
She has to be.
His side screamed when he broke into a run and his leg protested, but he ignored his body, as well as whoever had just called his name.
He saw Mischief first. The wolf lay unmoving, and his gut seized. If her bondmate was dead—
“Nay!” His shout was greeted by nothing. “Elissa?” He rushed to the tree where he’d kissed her. She didn’t lie beneath it, or further into the woods. Alasdair darted to the burn where she’d bathed. Murky water flickered in the moonlight, but his lass wasn’t there, either.
His heart slid to his stomach when realization settled over him.
They’d come for her. The protection spell must’ve failed, because somehow the men who’d killed the look-alike lasses and their families had found Elissa and…
Taken her.
Anger boiled up, washing the agony away. Alasdair clung to it. Needed it.
You left her, taunted, but he pushed it all away.
He was going to find them.
Get her back, and tear the bastards from limb to limb for taking what was his.
He stomped to the clearing. Needed to find his brothers and formulate a plan.
Lucan’s still form caught his attention and his stomach jolted.
Alasdair went to the lad, skidding in the dirt as he hit his knees beside him. Relief washed over him when he saw the rise and fall of the lad’s thin chest. His side and leg protested at the same time, but he focused on Lucan. He shook his shoulder. “Lad. Wake.”
Thundering footfalls sounded, but he didn’t look up from the mage who was like a younger brother to him, as much as the knights of the guard. Not to mention the most powerful magical being he’d ever encountered.
What the hell was powerful enough to take Lucan out?
“Blessed Spirit,” Leargan muttered, appearing beside them. “Is he alive?”
“Aye.” Alasdair met his captain’s dark eyes and saw the apple of his throat bob. No doubt Leargan was thinking the same thing.
“Mischief’s all right, coming around now.”
Alasdair glanced over his shoulder to see Bowen kneeling next to the wolfling, tentatively stroking his head and neck, whispering to him. “Careful, Bowen; he’s a wolf, after all.”
Bowen nodded his sandy head, but didn’t take his eyes—or hands—off Mischief.
“Lucan, lad, please wake up.” Leargan patted Lucan’s chest, then gave it a hard thump.
A long groan sounded, even more relief for Alasdair. Lucan came around, blinking and panting to catch his breath. Alasdair helped the lad sit up and couldn’t hold in a smirk when Lucan cradled his head first thing, much like he had.
“Lucan,” Leargan said.
Dallon and Kale rushed the clearing, swords drawn.
“All’s well, you can breathe,” Bowen called.
Their brothers sheathed their weapons, but neither appeared relaxed. “We’ve three dead, and three more injured. One badly. Are you all well?” Kale asked.
“Lucan’s coming around—”
“I’m well,” the lad croaked, interrupting the captain. “Lady Elissa?” His green eyes widened when no one answered right away.
Alasdair exchanged a look with Leargan. Evidently his brother had come to the correct conclusion that she was gone.
Bowen had Mischief to all fours, but the young wolf looked like he’d broken into the ale, wobbling on his legs. He shook his great head and made a beeline for Lucan, practically bowling the lad back over.
The knighted mage wrapped his arms around him—as if he had a choice. Mischief nuzzled Lucan’s chest over and over, his whining gaining an octave with each rub.
“What’s wrong with him?” Bowen asked.
“Other than the obvious? She’s missing,” Alasdair barked.
Bowen’s expression went sheepish, then angry.
The lad put his cheek on the wolf’s head, and they both closed their eyes.
Alasdair’s brothers all gathered around, watching intently. No one moved, they just stood or kneeled and stared as Lucan did something magical to Mischief. Both glowed briefly. Alasdair squinted, but didn’t bother shielding his eyes. He was the first person Lucan looked at, but then the lad rested his gaze on Leargan.
“My magic’s back.” The words dripped relief, and the lad released a long breath.
Alasdair didn’t have time to puzzle over that.
“News of our lady isn’t good. She’s out of thought-send range. I can’t sense her, even through her bond with Mischief.” Lucan’s expression was grave.
There were a few curses, but Alasdair had to tamp down the panic inching up from his gut. They knew next to nothing about her captors. They assumed she’d been stolen by the men who’d been after her, but where would they take her?
How could they find her without her bondmate’s assistance?
“What’d you mean, your magic’s back?” Kale asked, yanking Alasdair from his brewing torture.
“They had Dimithian. It took my magic; Lady Elissa’s, too.” Lucan’s young face was absent of color again.
Mischief whimpered when the lad’s grip on him tightened, but the wolf burrowed closer, instead of trying to pull away. As if the beast knew Lucan was the best chance to magically communicate with Elissa.
“Dimithian?” Bowen and Dallon asked at the same time.
“I thought it wasn’t real,” Leargan said.
Alasdair didn’t have time for a lesson on some supposed-mythical magic-sucking element from deep in the mountains of the elves’ territory. He needed to find Elissa now. But his brothers’ attention was raptly on the lad as he spoke of all he knew about Dimithian. He couldn’t stand still while the mage talked, so Alasdair paced, ignoring Leargan’s attempt to calm him.
Kale and Bowen helped the lad to his feet when the recital ended, brushing him off and making sure he was in one piece.
Mischief clung to his side, almost impeding Lucan’s footsteps he was so close.
Leargan was talking to the lad, but Alasdair tuned it all out. He continued pacing. His side hurt. He ignored it. Chaos enveloped his mind, visions of all the horrible things that could be happening to her marching around on an endless loop. He saw her bloodied, broken…raped?
Kale and Dallon went with Lucan, while Bowen stayed with him and Leargan in the clearing. The captain called his name, and Alasdair joined his brothers, but his thoughts were still with Elissa.
“We need to find her, now,” he bellowed.
“We will, Alas.” Leargan’s assurance was even.
It did nothing to comfort him.
“Lucan’ll look around, and see if he can sense a trail—magical or otherwise. He said he’s up to it, so that’s what I’ve sent him to do. Hopefully we can determine what direction they went. Kale is going to tend our men-at-arms and see who we can send home. I’ve sent Dallon back to Greenwald at top speed. We need help, and we have to inform Lord Jorrin and Lord Cam.”
Alasdair fought a wince at the mention of her betrothed. “I’m going ahead. I’ll find her.”
“Nay. We’ll find her, Alasdair. Being rash won’t solve anything. We have to know where we’re going. We have a plan. Let’s work together, like always.”
“Time is of the essence.”
Bowen said nothing, but watched them, amber eyes intent, his sandy hair swinging as he moved his head from Alasdair to their captain and back.
“I agree. Don’t fight me on this. Think it through. Let Lucan do what he can. He’s the best chance to a quick answer, and you know it. We’ll get her back.”
Rage boiled up, but Alasdair didn’t know who he was angrier at, Leargan for accusing him of being rash or himself.
You left her.
He pinned his white-knuckled fists to his sides.
“Alas…” His name was a warning, but concern darted across his captain’s face. Leargan reached for him. “You’re hurt.”
He shook Leargan’s hand off his arm. “I’m fine.”
Bowen leaned in to inspect his wound. “Alas, that looks bad. You’re bleeding. Your breeches are soaked to your knees.”
“You can both sod off. I need to find her.”
His broth
ers exchanged a look.
Leargan tightened his grip. “Alasdair—”
“Now.” He tore away from his captain’s fingers, growling as he broke their physical contact.
Leargan cursed.
Alasdair whirled in the direction Lucan and Kale had gone. His head spun. He ignored it, as well as the sharp jolt of agony his side gave.
Wind caressed his face and he swayed into it, thinking of her and how she’d warmed him with her magic that day at Castle Durroc. A tremor traveled his frame, and his vision danced.
“Alasdair?” Leargan sounded far away.
“Alas!” Bowen’s exclamation did, too.
His legs buckled, and pain shot into his knees as he hit the ground. It didn’t last, though, and soon he could see the moon high above.
Why is it blurry?
The sound of his brothers’ boots rushing toward him faded as everything went black.
* * * *
Everything was fuzzy. Elissa tried to sit up, but something was restraining her.
Deep voices went in and out. She blinked, but her vision didn’t clear.
Her back brushed harsh roughness.
A tree?
She attempted to pitch her body forward again, using the tree as leverage, but only resulted in sliding sideways, half-slumped. The bark bit into her elbow, scratching through the fabric of her dress’ sleeve. Her temples throbbed and her hands weren’t even free to rub them or grab her head. A groan broke from her lips.
Conversation ceased, and three sets of boots came into her shadowy line of sight.
“She’s awake,” a man said.
“Knock her out, so she won’t call her magic,” another demanded. His voice was deeper than the first one, gruff.
“Does it look like she can use her magic? She’s barely awake, at best.” This voice was baritone; she’d consider it pleasant, had it not belonged to a kidnapper. Instinct told her the half-elfin man with the very blue eyes had just spoken.
All three had distinctly northern accents, but the lilt wasn’t of Terraquist. It was from farther north, suggesting Aramour.
Like Lord Jorrin.
The men sounded like the Duke of Greenwald.