As the three men scrambled to their feet with a rattle and clank, Llyr growled, “Organize a search party and find it. I don’t want to tell my subjects I lost the goddess’s own sword.”
Diana’s eyebrows flew skyward. “You’ve got a sword that belongs to a goddess?”
Llyr watched the guards hurry from the room. “Apparently I had a sword that belongs to a goddess. And I’m damned well going to get it back.”
Either the dream man was even tougher than he looked, or something new was after her.
Something evil.
A sense of menace filled the air, so thick she could barely breathe. The warrior she’d fought half an hour ago hadn’t felt anything like this.
Nineva peered through the Honda’s windshield, searching for the nearest exit. Once again, she strengthened the magical barrier around her car. The spell had fooled Ansgar before when he’d gotten a lock on her, but this time it wasn’t working.
She had the uncomfortable feeling she’d used too much power on the Sidhe warrior. Her magic wasn’t responding as it usually did.
Spotting an exit, she took it at close to fifty miles an hour, fighting to pour still more magic into the spell as she went. As the overpass sloped up and curved around, she slowed to avoid losing control. But when she turned the steering wheel to follow the curve, the Honda kept going.
Straight for the retaining wall.
Oh, God, she’d gone into a skid! She must have hit a patch of black ice…
She fought to steer into the skid and pump the brakes as she’d been taught, but the little car kept going. The wall loomed in front of the bumper. Nineva threw up a shield spell to protect herself against the boom of impact…
Which never came.
The Honda went airborne, sailing up and over the retaining wall as if launched off a ramp. But that was impossible; the grade wasn’t that…
Something had her .
Ansgar’s assassins, she realized. They’re just going to smash me and the car into the ground.
THREE
Nineva unlocked her seat belt and lunged for the door, trying to remember the flight spell her father had taught her so many years before. She hauled up on the handle and prepared to launch herself into space…
The door didn’t even budge.
Frantically, Nineva threw a look out the windshield. The car had slowed, floating toward the grass below as gently as a leaf. Sweet Goddess, the assassins were powerful.
I am so screwed.
Gritting her teeth, Nineva gathered what magic she could and sent a wall of force at the door, trying to blow it open. The spell rebounded into her face like a slap from a giant’s hand. Stunned, she tried to shake off the blow, lifting her fingers to her stinging nose. She touched something wet. She was bleeding.
So much for that idea.
Silently cursing, she sank back into her seat to watch the ground approach. With a grim gesture, she transformed her jeans and shirt into armor, then conjured a sword. The length of steel felt familiar and comforting in her hand. It should; her father had started teaching her swordplay when she was barely taller than the blade she used. Despite her youth, he’d drilled her without mercy. After all, he’d told her, she would eventually be expected to fight the Dark Ones. She’d better damn well know what she was doing.
Nineva had kept up with her training after his death. Borderline broke though she always was, she’d sprung for gym memberships and martial arts classes to make sure she didn’t forget how to fight.
Now it seemed all that preparation was going to pay off. The minute they let her out of the car—if they let her out of the car—she’d have to be ready to defend herself. She was damned if she’d just surrender to the bastards who’d destroyed her family.
The car touched down on an expanse of frost-pale grass beside the highway, rocking on its tires as its weight settled. For a moment, everything went utterly still under the white sliver of the moon. Heart pounding, she looked around, searching for the enemy.
It didn’t take long to spot them. Something moved in the utter darkness under the overpass. She caught her breath, eyes straining.
Thirty men on horseback emerged from under the bridge, their armor gleaming dully in the glow of their magic. The horses’ eyes shone green and ghostly, like cats’. The icy ground crunched under their massive hooves, and their tack jingled and creaked.
Nineva’s jaw dropped. Sidhe warriors. Out here in front of God and the South Carolina Highway Patrol.
Or not. She could sense the bubble of magic that surrounded them all. Probably an invisibility spell.
All four of the Honda’s doors flew open with a quadruple thunk. A man’s voice rumbled in command. “Princess Nineva, come out.”
It had been a long time since she’d heard the language of the Morven Sidhe, but she hadn’t forgotten it. Nineva stared out across the hood and considered telling him to go to hell. Reluctantly, she decided against it.
“Do not make me send a man to drag you, Princess.” It was the tallest of the men who spoke, a big bruiser on an even bigger horse.
Nineva curled her lip at him, battling impotent rage as hatred threatened to choke her. Shaking with it, she got out of the car.
Squaring her shoulders, she raised her weapon, fell into a fighting stance, and concentrated on looking like royalty. Her enemies might kill her, but she wasn’t going to shame her parents. “All right, now what?”
Warily, she studied the warriors as they rode closer, spears, axes, and swords glittering. They and their mounts wore barbaric armor, matte black and jutting with menacing spikes and horns. With a rising masculine murmur, they jostled into a half circle around her. She promptly threw up a magical shield with her free hand, tightened her grip on her sword, and prepared to fight.
Not that she had a chance in hell. The odds well and truly sucked. Nineva curled a lip at her enemies anyway. “I guess I should be flattered, if Ansgar thinks it takes this many warriors to kill me.”
“We have no interest in killing you, Princess.” The big warrior swung down from his horse and strode toward her. With a creak of leather and the ring and rattle of armor and tack, the others hastily did the same. Yeah, the big guy was the leader, all right. “We mean you no harm at all.”
Warily, Nineva studied her foe. She supposed he was handsome, in an Evil Empire kind of way—tall and Terminator-massive in that ornate black armor, a shimmer of peacock iridescence sliding over the scales whenever he moved in the glow of his magic. The visor of his stylized helm suggested a wolf’s snarling muzzle. Leather cords bound animal teeth to twin locks of his long black hair. The teeth clicked and rattled whenever he turned his head. She considered telling him he looked like one of the bad guys from Lord of the Rings.
Nah, better not. Instead she asked, “So what do you want?”
He spread his empty hands. “Only to talk.”
Nineva conjured a fireball to float above her palm. “Then you’re out of luck, because I don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Your Highness. I have a proposal you’ll find very interesting indeed.” The warrior reached up and drew off his helm, then tucked it under one brawny arm.
Nineva blinked in involuntary surprise. He was far more than Sidhe handsome—he was the most intensely beautiful man she’d ever seen, with a long, elegantly boned face and thick black hair that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. His dark eyes seemed to glow with seductive promise as they met hers, and his wide mouth curled up in a smile that suggested tangled sheets and hot skin.
She shook off her involuntary reaction and glowered at him. “I said I’m not interested.” Take that, Darth Legolas.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Without looking away from her, he gestured with a mailed hand.
One of his warriors hurried forward and clanked to his armored knees. The Sidhe bowed his head and extended both hands toward his leader, offering the sword that lay across his palms.
Even before Nineva’s gaze dropped to it, the Goddess Mark began to burn and pulse, urgent and demanding. She caught her breath and stared.
The weapon shimmered as moonlight danced along its jeweled scabbard. Its hilt was shaped like a woman, sinuous and nude, her feet balanced on the crosspiece. Her long hair swirled around her body, veiling her nipples and sex in a way that suggested wild power more than modesty. Her delicate triangular face was uplifted, eyes fierce with a kind of warlike joy. Nineva instantly recognized it from a hundred dreams.
The Sword of Semira.
The leader’s hand closed around the hilt. Nineva gasped; it seemed she could feel his touch on her own body. Slowly, as if performing a far more erotic act, he drew the sword from its scabbard. Its blade glowed as it emerged from the gem-encrusted sheath, so bright her eyes stung. Around her, the warriors gasped in awe.
“It responds to you,” he said, his voice deep. “It knows you. As you know it.”
Nineva’s heart began to pound beneath the escalating burn of the Goddess Mark. Oh, she thought, staring helplessly at the sword, I am in such deep shit.
Diana Galatyn rested her hands on the shelf of her belly and watched her royal husband brood. Even Dearg Andrew was unusually still, although that might be because he was running out of room to move. God knew it felt like he’d shoved all her internal organs as far out of the way as possible.
It was a good thing she had more than human strength, or she’d never be able to get off this chaise without Llyr’s help.
Used to discomfort after eight months, Diana ignored it, much more interested in the expression on her husband’s face. He sat sprawled in a chair, muscular legs flung wide, his jewel-encrusted doublet accentuating the considerable width of his shoulders. Black lace cuffs frothed around his big hands, and a huge ruby glinted on his right hand. Any other man would have looked effeminate, especially considering the long, silken fall of blond hair he’d pushed behind one pointed ear. Instead, there was a sense of masculine power and iron will about him. For the past sixteen hundred years, he’d been a king, and it showed.
Diana loved him so much it hurt.
She’d also tolerated about as much of this as she intended to. “You know, you’re the only man I’ve ever known who can pace without moving. You going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”
Opalescent eyes met hers with a flicker of guilt. “Everything is fine.”
She contemplated him coolly. “I think that may be the only time you’ve ever looked me straight in the eye and lied.”
He winced. “The sword…”
“There’s more to this than some missing cutlery, Llyr. If you’ll tell me what the hell is going on, I may be able to help. I can turn into a seven-foot Dire Wolf, remember?”
Llyr’s sensual mouth tightened. “Not at the moment.”
He was right, of course. If she tried to transform now, she’d lose the baby. The anatomical change was too radical. She was trapped in human form until Dearg was born.
But that didn’t mean she had to back down. “Okay, so maybe I can’t get fuzzy right now. I’m still not stupid.”
“I have never thought you stupid.”
“Prove it.”
Llyr gave her a restless, brooding look. “There’s a rebellion brewing among the Morven Sidhe.”
A sensation of cold spread over her. A rebellion…Her hand crept to rest on her belly. History had all kinds of nasty examples of what happened to royal offspring when somebody else wanted the throne. “I thought the Morvens had accepted us after we got rid of Ansgar.”
“I thought they had, too.” Llyr made a sharp gesture. “Unfortunately, certain parties also saw his death as the opportunity they’ve been looking for. Apparently he’d been fighting a low-level war with something called the Army of Semira—a kind of rebel underground, half-religious, half-political. Now that he’s dead and I’ve assumed the Morven throne, the Semirans think they finally have the chance they’ve waited for.”
Diana lifted her head as she put two and two together. “They’re the ones who stole the sword.”
“One of my Morven guards was a Semiran mole. He’s disappeared, taking the sword with him. Which is a very serious problem.” Llyr’s expression grew even darker. “That sword has been carried in battle by the kings and queens of the Morven Sidhe for ten thousand years, even before we became immortals. It’s the Sidhe’s answer to Excalibur, and it’s said to grant its bearer fantastic powers. Many Morvens believe only the rightful ruler can wield it.”
“You’re not exactly chopped liver yourself,” Diana pointed out. “You’re Cachamwri’s Champion.” He’d been born with the Dragon God’s image on his right arm, signifying his status as the Heir to Heroes. When Dearg was conceived, Cachamwri had predicted their son would be the next Heir.
Llyr shook his head. “The Morven Sidhe do not consider Cachamwri their god. To them, that’s Semira, whom they believe is a goddess trapped in the sword.”
Nineva winced. “So it’s not just a magic blade, it’s a religious object.”
“Exactly. And I’ve lost it.”
“Your people are going to be pissed.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Nineva dragged her eyes away from the Sword of Semira to her captor’s inhumanly handsome face. Her heart was pounding, her head buzzing from the sword’s proximity, and the metallic taste of panic filled her mouth. There was only one conclusion she could draw. “You’re Ansgar.”
For an instant, a terrifying rage flared in the warrior’s eyes, so hot she took an involuntary step back. Then it disappeared as his lips pulled into an easy smile that was somehow even more chilling. “Oh, no, Princess. Ansgar the Tyrant is dead.” He bowed with a flourish. “I am General Arralt, commander of the Army of Semira.”
Ansgar really was dead? A little bloom of hope rose, but she found it difficult to believe. “When? Who killed him?” Had the dream man been telling the truth?
There was that flash of fury again, at boiling odds with Arralt’s pleasant expression. “His brother, Llyr, who took his throne these eight months past. Luckily, Llyr is a weak fool.” He caught her hand in his big armored one, his expression eager. “Princess, this is our chance. Take up the Goddess Sword and free your people from the usurper.” He dropped to one knee before her, his expression taking on a fanatic’s passion as he gazed up at her. Around them, armor rattled as his men simultaneously knelt. Moonlight silvered raised faces and shone in gleaming eyes. “I pledge my army to help you regain your rightful throne.”
Her own conjured blade hanging lax in her hand, she stared down at him with a sense of unreality. Here it was: her father’s dream, offered to her all tied up in a pretty bow. Her parents’ deaths would no longer be in vain.
Luckily, Eirnin Morroc had taught her more than legends, magic, and swordplay. He’d also instilled a healthy dollop of cynicism that told her Arralt wanted something. She had a pretty good idea what. “And you mean to be my king.”
“I will serve you and the goddess in any way you see fit.” He lifted her hand and pressed warm lips to her knuckles.
Yeah, right. And yet…Her gaze flicked to the Goddess Sword. The Mark pulsed hungrily on her breast. The idea of being queen was ridiculous; she was a part-time bartender and children’s magician. Then there was the ugly problem of dethroning Llyr Galatyn, who, according to her father, had never been the kind of bastard his brother had been.
But that sword…She wanted that sword. Despite her nightmares, despite her fears, she had to free the goddess from her prison. It was literally what she’d been born to do.
When other little girls had been playing with Barbies, she’d been waving plastic light sabers and imagining their battery-operated glow was Semira herself. She’d even owned a stuffed pterodactyl her mother had bought her, a stand-in for the dragon warrior the legend predicted. Nineva could still remember cuddling in her father’s lap, listening to his deep voice speaking the ancient Morven words
of the prophecy. Dreaming of dragons and glory.
Yes, she’d come to fear the prediction. But Eirnin had also taught her that prophecies could be derailed. What if she came up with a way to free the goddess that didn’t involve the dragon and his annihilating breath? If she allied herself with this Arralt, maybe she could free Semira and save herself at the same time.
Surely that wasn’t so wrong?
“Take it,” Arralt said softly.
Nineva looked up and found him watching her, his black gaze knowing, as if he recognized the hunger and fear in her soul.
Yet still she hesitated. Once her hand closed over that hilt, her life would never be the same. She’d belong to Semira, committed to the freedom of the goddess and the leadership of her people. It was the purpose she’d been raised for, yet a cold metallic tang filled her mouth. I’m not ready for this. What will it do to me? What if I bring the prophecy about by trying to avoid it? What if Arralt can’t be trusted?
In the depths of her mind, a voice that sounded like her father’s sneered. Coward. She winced at the sting of it.
Taking a deep breath, she banished her own weapon, then closed her hand around the Sword of Semira’s hilt. It felt cold at first, but as her fingers tightened, it instantly began to heat. Nineva heard a gasp and looked up, meeting the gaze of the warrior who still held it across his palms. The Sidhe’s eyes were very wide, as though he, too, had felt Semira awaken at her touch. She lifted the sword from his hands.
“You must feed her,” Arralt said softly. “Let her taste your blood.”
Licking suddenly dry lips, Nineva turned the sword point upward. The Mark blazed on her breast, so bright the sword glowed in its light, iridescence sliding up the blade, hypnotic and bright. She tried to remember everything her father had told her about the sword. “There’s a spell,” she said hoarsely. “Someone has to chant it while I meld with the sword.” It would form the conduit she would use in tapping Semira’s energy.
Master of Dragons Page 5