Hex Breaker (The Fenearen Chronicles Book 1)

by Taryn Noelle Kloeden

  They reached the edge of the main camp. To their left, a band of Corsairs sharpened scimitars around a fire. The mercenaries from the Bay of Ketos did not come cheap, but they had a reputation for ruthlessness and a penchant for killing and enslaving Fenearens that Rhael was eager to see. He walked with the others through what until recently had been undisturbed forest. Tree stumps littered the ground, and fires burned day and night. Once they were a quarter-league from the other men, they arrived at the Da’ Gammorn camp.

  All the usual trappings of a military encampment–fires, barrels of supplies, laughter, and tents–were missing. Instead the Da’ Gammorn stood unmoving shoulder-to-shoulder. There were no shudders of breath or blinking of eyes. Even their undead horses stood like decaying statues, casting long, twisted shadows in the day’s dying light. Rhael thought how much cleaner, more elegant, his life would be if he had an entire army of such creatures instead of a mere thousand. He had been experimenting with Negiol’s help, trying to replicate the original spell his ancestor Kalmor had used to create them, and thought he was coming close. For now, these were all he had.

  Negiol strode to stand in front of its legion. The dead crossed arms over caved-in chests, calling “hup!” once in unison.

  Rhael nearly asked Negiol why it had brought them out here when he heard Nero curse behind him.

  “Razorn’s blood! What is that?” Nero’s growling voice dissolved into coughs.

  Rhael sniffed the air. The putrescent stench of the Da' Gammorn was strong, even to him. “Pull yourself together, Commander Geddeont.”

  Nero doubled over, eyes streaming. He made no reply.

  “We do not believe it is our scent that so disturbs him, Lord Rhael.” Negiol lumbered to Rhael’s side, gesturing toward some refuse on their right.

  Rhael squinted in the direction Negiol had indicated. Flies buzzed in a thick swarm over top of what at first had seemed a pile of furs. But, to his mingled revulsion and excitement, he realized it was rather a pile of bodies. He walked closer, and the stench thickened. But the scent of death had never bothered Rhael Demetrian. Hundreds of bodies–foxes, bears, cave lions, badgers, deer, elk, hawks, even a handful of vipers—made up the pile. The sun lit their dead flesh, and maggots crawled from their eye sockets. Some looked freshly killed, others were bloated and split. All manner of dead beasts lay waiting for the Da’ Gammorn’s purposes.

  “Do you approve, Lord Rhael?” Negiol had slunk to his side without any sound.

  Rhael glanced back at Nero, who was now dry-heaving. “Yes, Negiol. I think I do.”

  Rhael and Nero returned to the camp. The latter set a brisk pace, never looking back at the Da’ Gammorn and their cache of corpses.

  “Will you refrain from vomiting long enough to face your former countrymen on the battlefield, Commander?” Rhael asked, not bothering to conceal his smile.

  “I’ll be fine. Just need to get used to it, though it will be even worse when I’m in wolf form. At least the other Fenearens will be just as revolted.”

  Rhael nodded but gave no reply. The stench would bother the Fenearens, but not all of them would be as weak as Nero.

  “Overlord, while we’re alone, might I ask you a personal question?”

  This piqued Rhael’s interest, though the fact that Nero thought them close enough to share personal conversations vexed him. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

  “It’s Morna, my lord.”

  Rhael covered his sharp inhalation with a cough. “Your courtesan?” he asked with what he meant to be a dismissive wave. “Does she not suit you?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. She seems troubled, my lord.”

  Of course she was troubled. She slept with a barbaric traitor. But Rhael wondered if Nero might sense more than her disgust. It had been some weeks since he had forced Morna away. Surely she knew by now what Rhael had learned the last time he had touched her? Had she shared word of her condition with Nero already?

  “Troubled how?”

  Nero shook his head as if gnats were circling it. “She smiles, but I know it’s not real. She eats little and complains of headaches. And she talks in her sleep.”

  Rhael ignored the first statement. Did Nero not understand that Morna was ordered to him? That she did not stay with him by choice? Of course her smiles were fake. Her physical ailments were no mystery to Rhael, either. The last complaint interested him most. “Talks in her sleep? What does she say?”

  “It's hard to understand, mostly mumbling. I heard her say Rayna once.” Nero’s lip curled as he said the name.

  “Rayna?” Rhael had heard from Terayan that one of his captains had captured her. But that was the last time Terayan had mentioned to Rhael the seer who had been his obsession. That was curious. What was Terayan not telling him?

  Nero spat on the frosty ground. “She isn’t sleeping well is all. I’ve never had a woman like her. I want her to be happy.”

  “What advice do you think I could offer? All the women I bed end up cast away or cloistered in the Cult of Demetrian if they happen to bear a child. I have no concern for their happiness. I would think you above such foolishness as well.” How easily Morna had wrapped this lonely man around her finger. But Rhael could not fault him for it. Nero had never had a woman like her before. There were no other women like her.

  “You’re right. I'm sorry to have bothered you, my lord.”

  Rhael made no reply. He sorted through his thoughts. Morna could be having normal dreams; after all, she had not had prophetic dreams in months. But Rhael had a theory. Morna was a born seer, and based on what Terayan had told him about Rayna, that meant her powers were based in divine magic. The possibility that proximity to him, both physical and emotional, might be interfering with her gift had occurred to Rhael. After all, he was one of the most powerful users of demonic magic in all of Osterna. Now that he had sent her into the arms of another, perhaps his influence was fading. If that were the case, she might provide useful, if unpredictable, information once again.

  He cleared his throat. “Not at all, Commander Geddeont. Miss Helena’s dreams, unlike her happiness, are of interest to me. Let me know if these continue, especially if her eyes flash silver.”

  “Flash silver, my lord?”

  “That is what I said.” With that, Rhael broke away from Nero as they re-entered the camp.

  Morna rolled over, wiping her hand across her forehead. A cold sweat coated her body, and she felt uneasy. Her dreams were coming back. They were just whispers now, images she could not understand. But that would not last. Soon she would be cursed with visions of a past, present, and future over which she had no control. Only Rhael had given her relief, and he had forsaken her.

  Beside her, Nero slept, a light snore rustling through his chapped lips. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hands on her abdomen. The dreams were not all that bothered her. She had taken the usual precautions to prevent this, but it had happened anyway. Tears stung her eyes as she pulled her hands away. The pain was becoming too much to bear. Not from the physical sickness, of course–she'd had much worse–but rather from the knowledge of what she now carried. Either the child of the man she loved or the half-breed offspring of a Fenearen traitor.

  Something deep within taught her to hope for the first option, even though it would make no difference. If the child was Rhael’s, she was no longer his courtesan, and the heir would be illegitimate. She wondered if that could be a good thing. After all, because of the royal family's tradition of pitting heirs against one another, all but one of Rhael's legitimate sons would die long before their time. But Nero’s dumb face creasing in joy when he learned of her condition would still hurt just as much. She did not want to make him happy.

  A cold wind seeped beneath the tent flap, and she shivered. Morna stood, wrapping her robe around her before slipping into the winter night. She easily sneaked past the guards. Her dainty feet did not even rustle as they glided across the frozen, stump-littered ground. Morna was not sure
where she was going until she heard the rushing water and snapping ice. She came to the creek, swollen twice its size with the recent snows, and knelt beside it.

  She loved Rhael. That had not changed. She was no more capable of changing that than a mountain was of moving. But she had lost him. She should be strong. She should tell herself that Rhael was not worth it, that he was just a man. Instead, she dipped her foot in the river. A bitter spasm shot through her toes, clasping her heel and sending spikes of pain up her calf. Soon the pain was gone, and all that was left was blessed numbness.

  It was many months before she would feel the child kick, but she could imagine its tiny heart beating within her. It was funny. As a girl, she had only ever wanted to be a mother, but she had never understood the concept until now. She had been taught that motherhood was the best course for her life during her years in her tiny village trying to please her father in everything.

  After her mother had died, her father had no idea what to do with his daughter. His guilt over his wife’s death was still fresh, but Morna had felt that guilt, too. More than that, she was angry. Morna had soothed her mother when she woke, screaming in the night. Her father did nothing. When her visions had become too much, Morna had found her mother hanging from the cottage rafters and had inherited her mother's curse. When Rhael took her, his power, his love, had spared her the brunt of that pain. He had been the cure, but now he was gone. Now she was coming to the same end as her mother, but at least she would take the child with her. The terrible curse would die with them. She knelt beside the creek and ran her fingers through the clinging water.

  When she had met Rhael, she thought he would save her. For five years he did. At fifteen, Morna disobeyed her father, leaving the man she was set to marry, and accepting the Overlord’s offer. She had loved him, obediently, hopelessly, and entirely.

  But he no longer felt the same way. Even if the child growing within her was his, he would never call her beautiful again.

  She stepped in to her knees. Her purple silk robe billowed around her, darkening to black in the water. As she dipped her head beneath the surface, she stroked her stomach and whispered, “Forgive me, little one,” before diving down. She touched the bottom, preparing to inhale, and then it would all be over.

  The blood rushed to Morna's head. She sputtered, bewildered. Was death so much like life? She opened her eyes and saw a wondrous sight. This was not death. Someone who had lived a life like hers could not expect paradise.

  Rhael's gaze held hers with so much power that she felt she would never blink again. He lifted her into his strong arms and walked away from the creek, sitting on a boulder and placing Morna beside him.

  “Why?”

  “My lord…” she chattered. The paradise was short-lived. The frigidness of the air was matched by the coldness of Rhael’s voice.

  “Just answer me, how could you do that? Show such weakness?”

  “I-I cannot live.”

  “Do not be idiotic; you can breathe, can you not? Your heart is still beating?” His voice rose, and he stared down at her without pity.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then you can live, and I order you to never do anything like that again.”

  “W-why do you c-care?” She shivered. Her skin had turned to ice that would shatter any moment. Rhael removed his cloak and pulled it around her. She looked up. The air escaping their lips intertwined in a silvery dance.

  “I don’t want you to die, Morna.” He ran his hands over her arms, warming her.

  “Don’t you?” She leaned into his chest, and to her shock, he allowed it.

  “If I wanted you dead,” he whispered through her sodden hair, “then dead you would be.”

  “You said my love for you was weakness. Aren’t I better off drowned, buried, and forgotten?”

  “No.” His answer was quick, too quick to be a lie. “You’re more useful to me alive.”

  “That’s all it is?” She lifted her head so she could look him in the eyes. Those terrible, beautiful eyes.

  This time he answered more slowly. “Yes.”

  “You’re lying.”

  For a moment, he too seemed caught in her gaze before darkness flashed over his face. He looked away. “You forget your place, Miss Helena.”

  “I know my place. It’s by your side.” Rhael did not reply to that. Morna struggled onto her shaking legs and followed his gaze to the night sky. “My visions are coming back, but you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “What have you seen?” Still, he did not look at her.

  “Nothing really. Just flashes, impressions. I saw Rayna, though. She was on a mountain.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Why are the visions coming back, Rhael?”

  To her surprise, he answered her. “Your visions are a form of divine magic. I believe our intimacy interfered with your gift because my own dark magic counteracted yours.”

  “You shielded me.” She reached for his hand, but he moved away from her.

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Is that why, then? You gave me to another because I would be more useful as a seer than as a lover?” It took Morna a moment to realize that anger pulsed through her numb fingers.

  “Would it make it easier for you to move on if there were such a reason?”

  “No.”

  “Then it does not matter.” Rhael brought his gaze back to her. “For leaving camp without permission, you will receive five lashes.”

  “Of course my lord. I am sorry.”

  “Go straight to your tent, change into dry clothes, and warm yourself by the fire. You will receive the lashes in the morning if you’re well enough.”

  Morna curtseyed, holding her position for a long time, too shaken to move. When she raised her gaze again, Rhael was gone. She sighed, touching her stomach once more and walking toward the camp.

  When Morna woke, the light filtering through the tent told her that morning had come. Just as she thought it, hands yanked her onto the frigid ground. The guard pulled her up and pushed her toward the gallows. He tied her arms to a beam far above her head and tightened the rope without mercy. Morna squinted, looking around as a figure clothed in dark robes appeared.

  Nero looked pale and weak in Maenoren garb, but he was always so proud to wear it. “This seems a harsh punishment for getting water without permission,” Nero said, placing his hand on her chin.

  Morna looked down. “I am pleased to hear of your sympathies, my lord.” As she spoke, Rhael came into view a few paces behind Nero.

  Nero shook his head. “I wish I could do something.”

  “It is the Overlord’s will, Commander,” Morna stared over Nero’s shoulder at Rhael, “and I will obey him.”

  Nero backed off as a guard appeared with a long black whip. The man looked at the Overlord, who shook his head.

  “The switch will do. We wouldn't want to scar her permanently.”

  The guard bowed and handed the whip to an attendant, who brought him a thin wooden switch instead. The Overlord gave him a curt nod, and the guard walked behind Morna, ripping her robe so her back was exposed.

  “One!” The guard barked as the switch flashed forward and bit Morna’s back. She winced, feeling her skin swell and bruise.

  “Two!”

  Nero growled. It would have been comforting had not the sight of the Fenearen disgusted her so.

  “Three!”

  Her flesh tore, and blood dripped down her spine, pooling at the small of her back. The guard’s voice seemed far away. Morna felt the pain, but she could not force herself to care. Pain, pleasure, it was all to the same end.

  “Four!” The guard prepared to strike again.

  “Enough. She has learned her lesson,” Rhael said, and the guard lowered his switch.

  “Thank you, my lord!” Nero untied Morna.

  “See her to the healer's tent, and next time, be sure your courtesan follows camp rules, Commander Geddeont.''

  Nero held Morna
as her head spun. She searched for Rhael, but he was already gone. Nero was talking, trying to be empathetic, but she knew he was just as incapable of that as she was.

  “Soon we will defeat Bayne, and I will have my own province to rule with you by my side. This is the last time you’ll be treated as anything less than my Alphena.”

  Morna could not force a smile, so instead she pretended to drift off to sleep in his arms as he carried her to the medical tent.

  Chapter Thirty

  Six days after her return from the Eye of Heaven, Rayna began to dream again. For the past five nights, her exhausted body had fallen into deep sleep as soon as they had made camp. On the sixth day, she woke with the sun, feeling more herself and more whole than she had since before her harrowing journey across realms. Her wounds were healing better than she had hoped.

  Channon, too, had gone from a near skeletal, bloodied shadow of his former self to someone she almost recognized. Though he spent most of the day resting with Rayna on a pallet pulled by Laera, color had returned to his sunken cheeks, and they had both avoided the rot.

  She had Kellan to thank for most of the improvements in their health. Lonian and Mina had helped to change their bandages, but Kellan had stitched their larger wounds and treated them with antiseptic and pain-relieving herbs. With a little questioning, he had admitted a one-time ambition to become a healer. He had studied for a few weeks, but had decided on pursuing weapons training instead. Two winters previously, Channon had made a similar decision, though he had abandoned his apprenticeship with Thera in favor of hunting with Rayna.

  Under Kellan’s ministrations, Rayna regained enough strength to walk alongside the pallet while Channon dozed. Lonian explained his plan to take them southeast toward the coast where they could find passage on a late-running trading ship.

  “Such a vessel,” he said, “will take you as far as Areytown if you’re lucky. From there you’ll have to return to the Peninsula the same way you left it–through the Pass of Kiriathin.” When Rayna asked him whether they could board a ship that would take them directly to Fenear or Alvorn, his bushy ginger eyebrows furrowed in confusion.