“You will pay for this, sha’tar,” Wolfgar howled.
Hawk pulled Taliesin into his arms, dragging her to her feet as he hugged her. “I thought we’d lost you,” Hawk said. “We’ve got your horse. Everyone is here. Come on!”
Taliesin followed Hawk and Rook across the orb-shaped roof. The evening sky was oddly bright, and she held the over-six-feet-long sword over her shoulder as she ran beside the two young men toward Wren and Jaelle. Both girls were mounted on their winged horses, and Wren held the reins of Thalagar and the two other horses. The horses nervously pawed at the roof as the roars of the hydra grew louder. Zarnoc, in raven form, sat on Jaelle’s shoulder. The roof started to shake, and entire sections collapsed behind Taliesin and her friends as Wren and Jaelle screamed. A hole opened in front of Taliesin; Rook and Hawk separated and ran around it as two enormous snake heads burst through the roof and blocked her path.
“Hurry up,” Hawk shouted. He drew his sword as a shadowy form jumped from the cliff above and landed on the roof in front of him. As the giant wolf jumped toward him, a head spun around, snatched the beast in its jaws, and swallowed it whole. Hawk slashed at the snake’s neck, and shouted as a third head came through the roof. More wolves jumped onto the roof and attacked Rook and Taliesin, who were busy dodging snake heads that poked through the roof and gobbled Wolfmen as soon as they landed.
Wren lifted her crossbow as her horse flew into the air. Two arrows whistled by Taliesin’s head, silver glinting in the fading sunlight, and pierced a wolf behind her. Jaelle now held the reins of the three horses as the raven flew into the air. Hawk reached his horse and climbed into the saddle, but Taliesin and Rook were cut off, unable to get around the now-eight hydra heads; the Wolfmen must have decapitated two heads, and a new pair had sprouted from each neck. Wolves and Wolfen dropped off the cliff and continued a mad attack against the enormous hydra to get to Taliesin and Ringerike. Zarnoc flew higher, and Hawk and Jaelle joined him, taking Rook and Taliesin’s horses with them. They flew low over the heads of the wolves, carefully hovered out of reach of the hydra’s eight snapping heads, and Wren and Jaelle shot arrows. Rook held off one hydra head with his silver spear, too busy to worry about the wolves around him being picked off and gobbled. He reached Taliesin and grabbed her arm, but her feet were firmly planted on the roof, as if nailed.
“Come on, Taliesin,” Rook said. “We have to get out of here!”
“I can’t. Ringerike won’t let me. I must fight. I must do as the sword commands.”
Rook tried again to pull Taliesin along as the horses landed, then he turned, ran to his horse, climbed into the saddle, and stabbed a Wolfman that rushed toward his horse. Taliesin felt her body released by the sword’s magic, and she ran to Thalagar. She jumped into the saddle and her horse beat his wings and rose into the air. As her friends flew away, Taliesin turned and swooped into the fray. Holding Ringerike in a tight grip, she leaned far to the right, swung the sword, and severed one of the hydra’s necks. The head fell onto the roof and broke through, while the neck danced around and sprayed green blood. Apparently, the magic in Ringerike prevented the heads from regenerating, much as silver killed Wolfen. Taliesin turned Thalagar, made another flyby, and cut off a second head; she felt unable to leave until she cut off all eight. The sword was light in her hand and easily cut through the thick-scaled hides of each neck, until no heads were left. The snake-men and undead knights, now joined by undead wolves, climbed the hydra’s corpse and poured out of the gaping holes in the roof.
Taliesin flew over the ravine and glanced down as furry bodies raced along the riverbed, chased by the undead creatures. Under the rising pale moonlight stood a long line of two hundred horse-mounted Eagle legionnaires, one thousand Djaran light cavalry with spears and bows, and eight white-clad knights in silver chainmail carrying lances. Roland had to be among them, she thought, flying lower for a better view. There, at the front of the army, she found Roland, mounted on Kordive holding a silver-tipped lance. He looked up at her as he placed a silver kettle-shaped helm over his head and took his shield from Tamal. A white stag was painted on the front of his shield. The other knights rode beside Roland and formed a small line in front of the army as the surviving Wolf Pack came running out of the ravine, pursued by a larger pack of slathering undead wolves and hissing snake-men.
At Roland’s signal, the mounted knights and combined cavalry charged forward. The sight of the horses and camels and riders racing toward the army of the undead as the sunlight faded was spectacular to behold. Lances pierced bodies, horses reared, camels toppled under the weight of undead wolves, and the snake-men screeched as they were trampled under the charging cavalry. As swords flashed and lances cracked, she suddenly felt Ringerike’s presence, and became aware it was driving Thalagar away from the battle; away from Roland, and toward the west.
“Farewell, Roland,” she whispered, the wind drying her tears as she flew from the battle and the sounds of combat, away from her love. She refused to look back as Thalagar soared upwards into the dark clouds, a cool breeze moist on her face. With a roll of her shoulders, she straightened in the saddle, with Ringerike resting across her lap. A faint whisper made her glance at the sword as Thalagar headed toward the sea and Dunatar Castle, where her friends had gone. Why hadn’t they waited? They seemed thoughtless and cruel, and she looked for them in the sky, but saw only a flock of desert gulls heading in the same direction. It was cold; the air was thin where they soared among the clouds, the stars winking above, yet there was no chill in her bones.
Again, she heard a whispering female voice. ‘I am Ringerike. I make all things possible.’ That the sword could speak was enough to frighten her to death, and she involuntarily placed her right hand around the jeweled hilt. The sword had waited until she’d left the temple before speaking, and she considered the dark magic that had kept it locked away for centuries; now the sword was free, it finally had its voice.
Thalagar snorted and shook his head, sensing magic at play, and she knew he was worried. In her mind appeared an image of Prince Sertorius, seated beside her on a matching throne, his gaze for her alone, a smile of love on his face, and the sword of the ancient king, Korax Sanqualus of Raven Clan, on his lap. She removed her hand from the sword and the image faded. She would not give the sword to Sertorius. She would not be his queen.
The moon gleamed upon puffy clouds; beneath them she knew it was raining, but it was dry above the clouds. She concentrated on the horizon and was able to see the Pangian Ocean beyond the edge of the clouds. Her horse flew fast, crossed into clear sky, and dove. Within an hour, she spotted her friends flying beneath her, dropped down and joined them. Hawk waved at her, Rook and Wren glanced in her direction, and Jaelle smiled wide. The black raven dipped in front of Thalagar and headed lower. Below she spotted a green valley, a town, and hills. Finally, they reached the ocean and followed the rugged coastline south as the lights of the city of Dunatar twinkled in the distance like fallen stars.
‘The Sha’tar touched me and brought me to life. The Sha’tar fed me hydra blood, the blood of a god, and I am now awake,’ the soft and alluring female voice said. Taliesin tensed. The voice was only in her head; the sword had spoken to her, but it shouldn’t have been talking at all. She looked at the sword. It shouldn’t be talking to her. Magical swords didn’t talk or think. Something was terribly wrong. “I am the Raven Mistress. You belong to me,” she replied. The stallion snorted at hearing her voice.
‘I am yours to command, Mistress. As long as you want me, I serve only you, and I shall obey at all times. I serve only the rightful heir of King Korax. For you, Raven Mistress, are Lorian, and thus, you are his heir. You are fairy. You are the Sha’tar.’
‘Who are you?’ Taliesin asked, hoping she wouldn’t hear a reply.
‘I am Ysemay the Beguiling. For my sins, the Raven King bound my soul to this sword; for Korax was my lover, and I betrayed him, as Roland betrayed you.’
A cold finger slid alon
g her back and made her tremble. She leaned over the sword and pressed one hand against Thalagar’s neck. His skin was warm and solid; his heartbeat right under her palm. She placed her hand on Ringerike and felt the metal vibrate at her touch. For a second, she imagined herself throwing the sword in the air and letting it fall where it may. She knew she was in danger if it was possessed by a witch’s dark soul. Yet, she had to ask, had to know the truth of her lineage, and said aloud, “Am I of Korax’s bloodline?”
‘Yes, Sha’tar, you are. You are the daughter of John Mandrake: warlock, swordsmith, and descendent of King Korax of the Raven Clan. Murdered. Murdered. Because of his blood. Your blood. You are the heir. Ringerike belongs to you. I belong to you. But beware Zarnoc. He betrayed the Lorians, betrayed our people, and betrayed me...with his kiss.’
Taliesin tried to clear her thoughts; she didn’t want to listen to the witch, not until she’d spoken with Zarnoc. She saw the raven flying in front of her; Zarnoc must know the sword was possessed. Taliesin tried not to think about the past, but it was impossible not to. The witch wanted her to ask questions. Ysemay wanted her to know. If she’d been the king’s lover and betrayed Korax by sleeping with Zarnoc, why hadn’t the wizard saved Ysemay from such a fate? Why should she believe an imprisoned witch that she was of Lorian blood, dark-fairy blood, and the true heir of Korax Sanqualus? But it felt right. When she’d looked at the Deceiver’s Map to see the Raven heir, she saw only a dot representing herself. She’d assumed no heir existed, and yet now realized the map had shown the truth; the dot had been her, she was the heir, and Ringerike was hers. But not the witch. The witch kept Ringerike from being its own sword; she possessed the sword, and somehow Ysemay had to be freed.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Pangian Sea rolled in upon a long stretch of beach, white ripples stretching along the coast. Thalagar flew ahead of the other riders, keeping up with the raven, and dipped low, snorting as he touched the tops of the waves with his hooves. Taliesin laughed at Thalagar’s whinny, not worrying about witches and warlords, or princes and war, as they glided above the water. They passed fishermen’s boats in neat rows along the beach as the lights of Dunatar grew brighter. A large spray of water hit Taliesin; the cold water revived her and cleared her thoughts.
She spotted a harbor further along the coast, where thirty warships lay at anchor, overlooked by Dunatar Castle, which was built on a cliff. The imposing citadel had eight towers with blue domes, a large wall that circled the castle, and a second wall that protected the city. Torches on the battlements cast the castle in a yellow glow.
The odor from the city was intoxicating; a mixture of fish, smoke, fire, perfume, and other scents, captured in nostrils sharpened by the Wolfen curse. The city was beautiful, made rich from its sea trade. Compared to the royal city of Padama and its Tantalon Castle, the seaside city of Dunatar was something out of a dream. As they flew over the city, Taliesin gazed at magnificent marble estate with tall pillars, streets lined with shops, taverns, markets, and lush gardens where temples lay, and a midtown arena for jousting tournaments. There were bright colors everywhere she looked, from carpets sold at shops to the curtains in the windows of houses, built side-by-side and painted white. The streets were lined with white sea shells. Even Dunatar Castle was painted white.
Still asleep in their beds, the citizens of Dunatar took little notice of the six shadows flying over their city. Taliesin searched among the flags and banners flown at each castle tower for Prince Sertorius ‘standard, but saw only Duke du Boron’s flag, a blue sea serpent on a field of green. Ringerike stirred and adjusted itself across her thigh and the flank of the horse.
‘The castle is cloaked with magic. There is a sorcerer here.’
Taliesin had no time to think of a response. As the horses swooped lower, the guards on the battlements spotted them and set off an alarm. When no arrows were shot at her, she allowed Thalagar to land. The soldiers remained at a safe distance and eyed her warily as she slid off the side of her horse while the large animal pulled in his wings. A small contingent of well-dressed men came out of the main tower. She remembered what Ysemay had told her about a sorcerer, and searched the group of nobles and courtesans for anyone who even remotely looked like a magic user. She held Ringerike in her right hand, aware the red scabbard on her left side was missing a valuable silver sword she’d never see again. As she walked around Thalagar, his wings vanished, as did the wings on the other’s horses, and a murmur was heard from the nobles and the guards. Jaelle ran to her with a cloak, fastened it around Taliesin’s neck, and placed the side of the robe around Ringerike, making it less visible to the crowd. Rook took Thalagar’s reins, while Hawk and Wren held the reins of the other horses.
Taliesin stepped forward and thought of Master Osprey, how he’d always addressed nobles; he’s speak up and treat them with respect, but show no sign of inferiority. “I am the Raven Mistress,” she said, expecting the title to have meaning. “We were asked by Prince Sertorius to join him here, and I believe Duke de Boron is expecting us. Will one of you inform the Duke that the Raven Clan has arrived? We are weary and ask for his hospitality, as we would show him at Raven’s Nest.”
“Greeting, Raven Mistress!” a voice said in a lilting, western accent. A tall, impressive-looking man wearing a dark green long coat trimmed with gold stepped forward. His black hair, graying at the sides, fell to his shoulders like a velvet curtain, and his immaculately-groomed black beard was speckled with gray. Everything about him was polished; the only thing spoiling his noble appearance was a jagged scar that crossed the left side of his face, across his eye and cheek, leaving him blind in that eye. His good eye, a shade of sea green, conveyed a kindness she hadn’t expected to find in the Garridan lord. “I am Duke Richelieu de Boron,” he said, a hand held over his heart. Each finger bore a jeweled ring. “Welcome. Welcome! We have been waiting for your arrival. Prince Sertorius arrived only a few hours ago, bringing word of the troubles in the realm. You’ve come a long way to seek sanctuary, and it is yours, of course.”
“Thank you, Duke de Boron. My companions and I are grateful for your hospitality,” Taliesin said, wondering what Sertorius had actually told the duke upon his arrival. She was not a noblewoman, nor did she want to use her birth name, but the prince seemed to have his own opinion in that regard. The duke’s good eye lowered to the sword outlined in her cloak. To avoid questions, she held out her hand and was grateful for the distraction when he took and kissed it.
“The prince went to bed a short time ago,” Duke de Boron said, “but my lords and ladies couldn’t possibly think of closing our eyes after hearing about the Raven Mistress and her journey across the Salayen Desert.”
The sword wrapped in Jaelle’s cloak shuddered. Taliesin held it against her chest and was glad the witch possessing Ringerike remained silent, though she had a feeling Ysemay knew Richelieu. A flutter of wings brought Zarnoc, his beady eyes focused on the protuberance in her cloak, alighting upon her shoulder.
Grooms came forward to take their horses, but found Rook and Hawk unwilling to hand over the reins. Likewise, servants coming to assist Jaelle and Wren as they unpacked their equipment were also waved off. The girls, moving quickly, removed the gear from each horse and tossed it on the ground in a pile, leaving only the saddles in place. Two male servants came over, picked up the gear, and remained close to both women, who eyed them suspiciously.
“This is Shan Octavio’s eldest daughter, Jaelle, and Wren, of the Raven Clan,” Taliesin said, turning toward the two young women. She nodded at Rook and Hawk. “Our mounts have carried us here from Raven’s Nest, and now it is in ruins, the horses have naturally become part of our family. If your servant would show Rook and Hawk to your stables, they will tend to our horses’ needs and will join us when they have finished.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Richelieu, motioning for a servant to show the two Ravens to the stables. As the horses were led off, he held his hand o
ut and led the way to the main keep with Taliesin, Jaelle, and Wren; his entourage followed behind at a respectful distance. “I have never seen such a fine-looking Andorran stallion,” he said. “I own many Andorrans, but yours is exceptional. The wings...a wizard travels with you?”
Taliesin nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Without Zarnoc’s assistance, we’d never have reached Dunatar Castle, my lord. I hope you do not mind a wizard being here.”
“Not at all,” the duke said. “So much is happening, so many difficulties.” His slowed his pace and glanced at Jaelle and Wren. “Ladies, please. You are guests in my home. Follow me,” he said. “Whatever you require will be provided. A servant has already been sent to Prince Sertorius’ chamber to inform him you have arrived safely. I knew Master Osprey by reputation only; I never had the pleasure of meeting him. A man revered by his clan and respected by those who called him friend. “
Dawn filled the sky with brilliant pinks and purples on the east horizon as they approached a large blue door alongside a garden filled with blooming flowers to the side of the keep. Taliesin was able to smell each flower separately: roses, lilacs, periwinkles, and yellow daisies. She could also smell fear from Duke de Boron, the scent like spoiled milk. Her shoulder throbbed where Wolfgar had bitten her—the other, smaller bites were not nearly as troublesome—and heard Ysemay say in her head, ‘The change is upon you; it is slower than most, but you will turn, eventually, and eat the duke and prince and all of your friends. Unless you free me. Only I can help you.’ At once, Zarnoc, riding on her shoulder, gave a loud squawk, arched his neck, and snapped at the sword, though it was still covered with Jaelle’s cloak. She sensed hatred between the two magic users, a rivalry that hadn’t lessened with the passage of time, and the nature of which would soon become known.
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