by JANRAE FRANK
The first impact on the door startled everyone, but Blackbird gave them a nod that said, "Stand easy, wait." They watched the door splinter and crack, giving on its hinges and the thick oaken bar Blackbird had nailed into place, as something huge beyond their imagining rammed it again and again.
Then it came through.
Blackbird intercepted it first. "Stone Troll!" she shouted, identifying what they had never seen before. She opened a long gash in its arm before it backhanded her across the room. Blackbird struck the corner farthest from the couch hard, her head impacting with a sickening thud and she slid down, settling into a sitting position, unmoving.
Zarim, after twenty years in Shaurone, remembered very little of his mother tongue, having been barely in his teens when he was captured and sold by slavers; yet seeing his beloved Blackbird fall, triggered deep memories: he gave a long ululating warcry of his tribe and charged in. He got in three blows with his spiked club, two to the troll's face and another opening a long gash in its arm before it hurled him to lie unmoving at Blackbird's feet.
Jysy and Arruth, in the rafters, dropped a long corded rope made of spell cord around its neck as they leaped down. Gravity and momentum in their favor, they yanked the beast off its feet. Quickly they secured the rope to a spike driven into the floor. The troll thrashed about, but its neck was too thickly muscled to be in any danger of strangulation from the cord. All that it seemed to do was enrage the creature. Jysy gave Arruth a nod and they charged in with their short blades out. But they only got in a couple of cuts before a lashing kick sent they tumbling into a knot, falling together, motionless into the east corner of the room.
Then Lizard came in, his sister's meager teachings serving him. He batted the troll's arms aside, driving his blade into its guts. But he was in too close, too fast and the beast caught him in the chest, flinging him back, across the long table. Darkness claimed him as he struck the table to lie across it as still as death.
Talons entered the fray last. The troll was too large, almost as broad as it was tall, for her to reach its eyes or throat in her usual fighting style. She had heard many tales of encounters with the stone trolls from the veterans of Jon Dawn's Legion, and it always came down to a single fact: a lone warrior never successfully took out a stone troll, except for a few isolated cases in which the outcome had been a mutual kill – both opponents dying.
She twisted under its arm, trying to dance as she had with the bear. Give it a wound kills faster than it heals, she thought grimly. The only way to do that was to simply go in and kill it in a suicide run. She ducked under its swing, closing with it swiftly. The assassin had mere seconds to strike before it killed her. Her left claw sank deep into its chest, reaching for its heart. The beast struck her hard in the chest. She heard her ribs break. Agony ripped through her. A piece of her left upper rib ripped through the flesh of her back, protruding from her clothing. Awareness grayed out, yet she would not let go. She drove her right claws into its chest, striking and pulling at its heart. It struck her in the stomach, rupturing her liver and kidneys, yet she hung on, dying. With a hard twist, she kicked free of the creature, falling to the floor beneath it with large chunks of its heart hanging from her claws. The stone troll convulsed and hung still – as still as the young assassin crumpled at its feet.
* * * *
Paunys emerged at Pieface's heels with the sapphire elixir bottle in her hands. The sight that greeted her sent a chill down her spine, knotted her stomach, and tightened her throat. No one moved or seemed to breathe in the room. The first thing she saw was the great stone troll hanging dead from the rafters. Blackbird was crumpled up, half sitting in a far corner opposite the worn old couch. Zarim lay at her feet. Lizard draped the table, face down and unmoving. Jysy and Arruth were a tumbled knot of stillness in the far east corner. Talons lay torn and bleeding beneath the troll, a piece of her shattered ribs jutting through her back.
"I'm glad you brought that," said a soft, male tenor.
Paunys glanced around to see Dynarien and Birdie standing a few feet behind her. "Birdie's defender..." she murmured.
"She told you?"
"Always does."
Dynarien nodded. "Come on ... before one of them dies." He strode past her, dropping to his knees beside Talons. He brushed the bloody hair from her face as he cautiously turned her on her side before raising her up. Her head rolled limply against his arm. "Talons," he said sharply. Getting no answer, he felt for and found her struggling pulse. Dynarien placed his hand over the silver question mark at the base of her neck. "By Her Mark! I command you, Talons, wake!"
Talons groaned, her eyes opening.
"Good." Dynarien extended his hand to Paunys who put the bottle into it. He poured a little into Talons mouth, but the assassin was too weak to swallow it, so he massaged her throat, triggering an involuntary swallowing. Color seeped back into Talons' face and her pulse steadied. "Those ribs will need to be set and she'll hurt like hell, but she's out of danger now. Blackbird next." He handed the bottle back to Paunys. "Send Mysten and Tamlys for the guard. Give them one of the prisoners in the north room, hide the others. I'm leaving with Talons, I'll return her when the guard has come and gone." He rose to his feet with the assassin in his arms, disappearing in a swirl of blue roses.
* * * *
The dead stone troll, the shifter's true form, proved too much for the frayed nerves of the citizens, the city guard, and the Baron. They doubled the guard, widened their patrols, and clamped down hard on everything, declaring marital law. The next day rumor spread widely despite the clamp down, tying Margren and her followers firmly to the violence; this in turn set off episodes of vigilantism, especially by the lower classes. Although Armaten burned, Margren was stopped in that city.
Dynarien sent Talons, still far from healed, Birdie, Lizard, Blackbird, Jysy and Arruth to Rowan City to start the fires burning there with the admonition to take it to the heart of the city, Castle Rowan, if need be.
* * * *
While his people were packing up to leave Dragonshead, Dane showed Isranon where he had buried Rose. Isranon settled beside the grave, which Dane had concealed with stones and debris, took out his flute and began to play his saddest songs.
"I am sorry, Isranon," Dane told him. "I tried and I failed you."
Isranon shook his head, continuing to play.
"Listen to me..." Dane pleaded. "Isranon, since you will not come away with me. Should you ever be forced to flee, there is an estate near Charas. Ask for Haig or Zulaika. They know where and how to find me. They will help you."
"I never should have fallen in love." Isranon lowered his flute. "Love is not for such as I."
"You're young, Isranon. Too young to be saying something like that. Will you accept my offer of sanctuary should you need it?"
"I don't know. I doubt it."
"Why not?"
"I accept that the sa'necari will eventually kill me, like they did my father and his father before him. That's always how it ends for us. I feel in my heart that I will never be given a chance to flee."
"Don't say that. Say only that should you flee, you will come to me."
"I will try." He turned away from Dane and resumed his playing, closing the vampire out. Isranon heard them ride away, the sound of their horses' hooves thudding on the soft earth until it faded from his hearing. The leaves rustled and he looked up to see Juldrid emerge. She settled by the grave, placing a sprig of mistletoe at its head.
"I'm sorry for your grief," she said, venturing her first freely given words to him in all those months. "I know you loved her."
Isranon lowered his flute. "More than anything. I swear I will never love again. I will never put anyone at risk because of what I am."
Juldrid nodded, sucking air through her nostrils while chewing on her lower lip.
Isranon could see that the first faint swelling of her belly had become noticeable.
Juldrid followed his eyes. "They are mine as well as theirs. Had I
a hope of escape I would take my children where Mephistis and Margren could never find them."
"And if they are born sa'necari? What then?"
"Then I will find someone to teach them to be like you."
"I cannot help you, Juldrid. I cannot betray my prince and run away with you. Besides, I know nothing of these lands. How would I protect you?" He felt his helplessness more keenly since the gauntlet brought it home to him. The walls of his inner castle had been breeched and he no longer felt as prepared to fight the monsters as he once had.
"Do you know how I met Margren?" Juldrid asked after a long silence.
Isranon shook his head.
"My ancestor is Carliff the Mad Lich who rules Norendel. The sa'necari calls him mad because his people defend, rather than feed upon, the living. He and his were punished with undeath because they broke oath with a branch clan of the Rowans. For five hundred years they have waited for release, waiting for the forgiveness of a paladin or priest of the Rowan lineage to release them."
"So you came here looking for Rowans and found Margren?"
Juldrid bowed her head, but not before Isranon saw she had tears coursing her cheeks. "Yes."
Although their grief was for different things, it was still grief and when Isranon extended his arms to her, Juldrid entered them. They held each other and mourned together.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE LAST MILES
Morning brought a day of unexpected warmth, almost like a last gasp of summer trying to retake the ground it had lost to autumn over the past weeks. The Valdren gathered to see them off led by Tehmistoclus and Queen Magdarien Havenrain: now that the time of the promise was formally ended, a bright chatter of cheery gossip and merry speculation filled every Valdren conversation, especially the tale of how the prince had set the interfering Tehmistoclus on his ear concerning her love-life.
As the units formed up to march, Valdren rangers acting as scouts fanned out ahead of them under the command of Borian Silverwing, Brendorn's cousin. Borian himself had received his orders to scout only a few hours earlier: he had known for several days that his company would ride guard on their young princess, but not that their duties included scouting until Tehmistoclus and Laurelyanne descended upon him in the wee hours of that morning. They had assured him that Aejys would be informed of this. However, owing to various distractions and interruptions, Aejys received the information only moments ahead of the deployment of Borian's forces.
Aejys knew Borian as a level-headed individual who would not unduly get in Hanadi's way, while Hanadi was smugly unflappable. With any luck, the two would go about their business without friction. Nonetheless, Aejys was already riding toward the front to speak with Hanadi herself, when a shriek of insults in Euzadi sent her into a gallop.
She found Hanadi in an aggressive stance, feet spread, left hand on her hip, glaring at Borian and shaking a finger in his face in an uncharacteristic fit of rage and indignation. Aejys knew it must have taken a lot to banish Hanadi's usual smug coolness, and she considered this as she viewed the tableau. Borian, his auburn hair with the two wing-like streaks of bright silver at the temples, stood, arms-crossed and head tilted, regarding Hanadi from the corners of his eyes alone.
"I do not care what company your scouts rode with," Borian said quietly, evenly. "My rangers were scouting dangerous ground while the oldest of your people were still in swaddling cloths."
Hanadi paused to draw breath before launching into another round. "I am Aejystrys Rowan's captain of scouts..."
"And you were being cut to ribbons when my rangers rescued your company."
"Hmmnp! Brundarad is worth a hundred of your rangers!"
Borian gave a grudging nod. "The shadow hound is impressive. But our princess rides in your company and our duty is to protect her regardless of what you or Aejys might wish."
"I have kept her safe."
"Then you should have kept her out of Aejystrys' bed."
That proved too much for the haughty nomad, three silver-runed throwing stars materialized in her hand like a fistful of razors. Aejys threw herself from Gwyndar's back just as Hanadi lashed out with her left fist. The ha'taren stepped between them, taking the blow herself, hard enough in the chest to stagger her. Aejys blinked, recovering her balance without loosing her composure. Borian looked just plain shocked. "Hanadi, gather your people into the line," Aejys ordered coolly.
"Brundarad..."
"Brundarad can scout," Borian allowed calmly. "But my rangers are far better than your myn."
Aejys looked from one to the other. The heat had gone from Hanadi's expression, schooled back into hauteur. "He's right, Hanadi. Few humans can match them."
Hanadi gave a curt bow and turned on her heel, signaling her scouts to follow her deeper into the line.
Aejys watched her go, and then turned to Borian, her expression serious, the tips of her mouth twisted into a sharp trace of distress. "What is this about keeping Tamlestari out of my bed?"
Borian winced. "I should not have said it..."
"But you did."
He glanced about them, taking in the small sidewise looks from soldiers and rangers studiously pretending not to be listening. "This is not something that should be aired in public."
"You've already done that. So spit the rest out." Aejys' voice was stern, leaving no openings for the sylvan to step into.
Borian gave a troubled nod. "You are a marked mon, Aejystrys. All you love are marked by the mere fact that you love them. Our princess carries your child. It is common knowledge. If she continues to sleep in your tent, stand by your side, sooner or later Margren will kill her also, and the line of Eldarion Havenrain will end."
Aejys could not argue with his words: Brendorn and Cassana were dead, Ladonys gravely wounded, Laeoli wounded and in hiding. Stones seemed to gather and press in her stomach, her chest tightened and a tiny fringe of dizziness formed at the edges of her thoughts. Borian had just spoken her own innermost fears, ones she tried hard not to speak or think, to keep shoved down hard in that shrinking lockbox in her heart. Her voice caught in her throat as she forced her words out, "Go, take your place in line."
Borian bowed deeply, caught the reins of his horse and mounted, turning back to take his place.
"Wait," Aejys called. He stopped and the ha'taren stepped close, lowering her voice so that only he could hear. "Make peace with Hanadi... You don't want her for an enemy and I do not need any conflict brewing in our midst, is that understood?"
"It is."
Tagalong stepped from under a nearby tree where she had been watching the whole scene. "Ya all right?" Tagalong asked, watching Borian disappear down the line.
"Yes," Aejys replied, remounting.
Tagalong shook her head at Aejys' departing back, muttering "Uh uh hmnn! I don't think so."
* * * *
Oil-fed torches in tall spear-like sconces surrounded each of the ten tiers of the altar of hecatomb in the innermost section of Dragonshead, their dancing flames casting weird shifting patterns of light and shadow along the walls and across the faces of the unholy assemblage gathered there. On the topmost tier, Mephistis stood beside Margren, his black and crimson cloak thrown back, one arm draped affectionately around his Sharani wife. He pointed with his staff at two small knobs at the north edge. "See that, my dearest," he said, his rich voice commanding and sensual as his hand stole up her back to stroke her neck. "The Ancient Most had an interesting technology." He pressed one with the butt of his staff. A grinding of gears filled the altar. With a loud groan, the stone bleeding-tables receded slowly into the floors until only the blood grooves and the chains on the four corners remained above.
Margren's eyes grew large, "Interesting. But to what purpose?"
Mephistis grinned ferally. "This one," he pressed the second knob. The shrine groaned louder still as T-shaped scaffolding rose at the head of each recessed bleeding table. "We will take blood and raise power – I thought you would like to give Aejys something more to think about
."
He waved expansively at his three sa'necari initiates standing a tier lower than they and the sixteen acolytes on the next tier down, finally indicating the host of servants and soldiers with a scattering of novices filling the lowest tier and wide floor between the altar and the walls. At his nod, an acolyte descended the tiers and opened a door. Soldiers dragged twenty young to middle aged females in, binding them to the scaffolding and stripping away their clothing.
"I harvested a small village to the north," Mephistis explained. "Our soldiers took a large number of children for the final rite at solstice, including two virgin males."
A shiver of delight ran through Margren. "Oh yesssss!"
She drew a blade from a fold in her ornate silk robe, hilt and blade black, etched in crimson runes. She opened her robes, exposing her firm young body. Margren rubbed herself over the nude villager, feeling the dark-kyndi rise. She stroked the woman with the blade, tasting her terror for a moment before slipping it into her victim's stomach and giving it a hard twist. The villager screamed. Margren bent, pressing her face into the wound, lapping at the blood. Around her other myn were screaming in torment and agony, sending Margren's pulse racing, sharpening the mystic phallus that materialized and grew hard between her thighs. Margren mounted the villager, shoving the dark-kyndi deep inside her. The villager's screams turned into low moans blended of anguish and ecstasy. Her body jerked each time Margren slipped the knife in, but she never again cried aloud.
Intense pleasure burned in Margren's face, her red robe covered both of them, concealing everything except the rhythmic thrusting of her body, driving the dark-kyndi deeper and deeper. With each thrust Margren slipped the knife in again until the villager's body became a mass of wounds growing less and less human in appearance. Margren felt the woman's heart faltering, struggling, and knew that her victim was now only moments from death. The dark-kyndi had become a roar within Margren, the power built until she felt ready to explode. Margren reared up, sinking her fangs into the villager's throat, sucking deeply, wanting to feel her death at both levels: blood and dark-kyndi. Margren brought the knife up and shoved it into the woman's heart, stealing her last moment of life. Power erupted through Margren, every cell in her body felt seared. Her head reared back, releasing her hold on the villager's throat. With a cry of pleasure, Margren sank to her knees, dropping her bloody knife.