The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  “Please,” I said, my tone bitter. “No one’s missed me for two years. Why am I so popular now?”

  “Princess Iyumi has been kidnapped.”

  “Good riddance.”

  Malik sighed, his dark face darkening further in annoyance. However, his military bearing, calm façade and unflappable nature kept his tone and expression even. “She’s the High Priestess and our future Queen.”

  I snorted, crossing my arms over my bare, mottled chest. “You don’t like her any more than I do. She’s insufferable.”

  “Whether I like her or not doesn’t make a difference. I’m putting together a team to fetch her back, and I want you on it.”

  I stared at him, stunned and uncomprehending. “Are you daft? No!”

  Malik had the gall to smile comfortingly – comfortingly – down at me. “Here’s your opportunity to find redemption.”

  “What makes you think I’m searching for – that – what did you call it? Redemption?”

  His eyes wandered the street, the piss and shit-laden cobblestones toward the less-than busy activity of the folk who lived in this section of town. A few low-class merchants worked here, yes, men who sought to cheat more than they hoped to sell. Out of work mercenaries wandered in search of any master, the honest as well as the desperate. Thieves watched the unsuspecting from shadowed doorways. Those few women about at this hour were the whores whose johns left their one-room hovels last night.

  His deep brown eyes roved over the sign behind me, the emblem of the white rear-end of a laughing horse. The Horse’s Ass. A tavern so seedy even the whores and cutthroats found little to attract them there.

  “You like living in the gutter?” Malik asked conversationally.

  “It’s home, be it ever so humble.”

  “His Majesty has commanded you restored to your former rank and all its privileges. Reluctantly, however. He doesn’t like you much.”

  “Tell him I respectfully ask him to kiss my arse.”

  “Dammit, Van, I need you.”

  “No, you don’t.” I crossed my thin arms over my scrawny, filthy chest. “Order Cian to this detail.”

  Malik lifted his broad shoulders and glared down his hooked nose. “I did. He and ten others of your Clan and ready and waiting for you to lead them. My team consists of a wing of Griffins, a troop of Minotaurs, three units of cavalry and an untold number of creeping spies.”

  I shook my head, grinning faintly. “You really don’t need me.”

  “I do, indeed.”

  Malik’s fist clenched as he half-raised it, his expression tight. “You’re the best of them, Van. No other Shifter has your precise detail. None have your nerve, your wit, nor your cunning. You take on what others fear to. No one can fly, run, wriggle, creep, crawl or jump as you do. Unless you’re part of it, my mission will fail utterly.”

  “Nice speech.” I hooked my thumbs in my belt again. “Pity you bet on the wrong Shifter.”

  Malik’s fist dropped to his side and opened. He relaxed. Not a welcome sign, in my book. His expression shut down, frozen into that my-way-or-the-highway-Malik face. “You’ll make me force you?”

  “You don’t have to force anything on anyone.” I shrugged. “It’s your choice, brother. Make it and go. And leave me be.”

  A thinning of his lips created something akin to a smile at the same time his eyes hardened. Malik’s hard-bitten Atani face wasn’t designed for emotions like humor. A shiver of dread wriggled like a grave-worm down my spine. I’d seen that look before. I saw that exact expression at the precise moment his powerful hooves knocked a man’s head clean from his shoulders. My hand tried to creep to my neck, but I quashed its cowardice with firm resolve.

  “No can do,” Malik replied, feigned sorrow shadowing his tone. “I’m under orders to take you back.”

  I loved the guy, yet I always hated that aspect of his personality. Malik adored mockery, and sarcasm was an art he practiced often. He never failed to poke sardonic humor at those beneath his royal nose. The egotistical, self-centered bastard that he was.

  “You’ll come with me either of your own free will or in chains,” Malik promised, his hands resting on his horse shoulders, akimbo. “Either way, you come with me. Your choice, of course, my dear Van.”

  “Spare me.”

  Laughing, I reverted to my favorite form, the falcon. Leaping into the morning sunlight, I soared upward, its welcoming rays lingering on my feathers. Rising on the light breeze, I caught a thermal and rose yet higher within an instant. Far below, Malik stood amid his soldiers, gaping upward like a landed fish. “Catch me now, meathead,” I called.

  Below me, Malik and his cronies fell away quickly. I pushed my wings into working hard, seeking the sun. Climbing high and fast, I left the stench of the street, the Ass, and the piss I fell into far behind. I always loved flying. When I flew, I imagined the world far away, where I was no one and nothing. I had no past and no future. There was no present, no cares, no sensations save the whisper of the wind beneath my wings, the cool breeze tickling my beak. Up here, all just was.

  In my falcon body, I rose high, swift, my wings taking me away from the grief, from Malik, his patrol, and his crisis. I saw them with my keen raptor vision, far below, shading their eyes to see me better. Ah, Malik, my brother, you forgot who I am. You called me the best. And so I am. Go away and leave me alone.

  I reckon I forgot who he was.

  His magic struck like a knife in the dark. Twin manacles of dark pewter fastened upon my wing joints. Like malicious tentacles, they bit deep and no amount of fighting on my part would or could shake them loose. Damn you, Malik. You can kill me with these bloody things.

  Only one magic in the known, and unknown, world prevented a Shifter from changing forms: those dark pewter manacles. The power of the Old Ones, the magic the Centaurs, the Minotaurs, the Griffins, the Faeries all called their own, rested within them. No one knew exactly how they worked, not even the scholars. Save for those gifted few.

  The dark manacles’ secrets, the inhibitors of any and all magic, only a small handful knew. A dire, dark spell woven into the fabric of magic stilled it completely. A Shifter’s magic permitted the change from one’s own form into any shape within the known universe. The pewter’s power rendered a Shifter incapable of utilizing his gods-given powers.

  The Minotaur’s magics were stilled completely when chained with those strange objects. The Griffins learned to fear it, and the Centaurs hated the very sight of that dark gleam. Only the Faeries laughed at its ancient magic, but they laughed at everything. Even humans with the awesome powers at their disposal were rendered as helpless as infants when the manacles were employed.

  Obviously, Malik learned, or was taught, the secrets of the dark metal. And he never told me, the cad.

  Frozen, my wings refused to work properly. My helpless flapping prevented a death drop to the very hard ground below me, but the remaining airborne option departed swiftly. I beat hard, desperate, my body spiraling rapidly out of control. My raptor’s sharp vision caught glimpses of the town beneath spinning like a top, and forced one simple conclusion from me.

  I’m in trouble.

  Dizzy, last night’s mead threatening to reverse itself with a vengeance, the world spun around and around and around. I’m gonna die, I thought. My Lady Goddess, as you love me, let me hurl on Malik’s impeccable shoulder before you take me to your bosom.

  My swift wings failed to save my life, therefore I must rely on others if I wished to breathe a while longer. However, that prospect sucked rocks. Down, down, I spiraled, my small body rotating as it dropped. The ground below rose faster than I liked, and I’d hit terra extremely firma within moments. Without help, I’d smash into little bits of feather and falcon on the dirty brown cobbles. Though I wished myself dead many times over the last couple years, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to meet my Maker just yet.

  Malik, if you want me alive, you’d better do something.

  I always suspected
a sadistic streak ran down his spine, the kind that enjoyed watching a worm wriggle in the mud at his feet. An even-tempered beast under normal circumstances, I supposed I pushed his good nature to its limits. He wanted me to think I’d die, just so he could save me, and preen under my gratitude. While I wanted to spit on his polished hooves, I wished he’d rush in to save me, post-haste.

  Uh, Malik? Hello? Anytime now.

  Malicious, Malik waited until the very last instant to catch me within the folds of his power. Like a cold blanket, his magic seized me in its grip. I felt my body slow its rapid descent, seconds too late. I’d hit ground, but not fatally.

  I fell with a wretched, ignominious thud to the cobblestones at his feet, losing precious feathers and waking a headache that rivaled my best hangover. Dazed, I gasped for breath, my beak wide, my form locked into that of my falcon. I breathed in piss and coughed out mead. Choking, gasping, I floundered, unable to get my talons under me so I might yet stand.

  The sun vanished again as Malik bent down. He picked me up.

  Not by my small body, the falcon that could fit nicely into his sword-calloused palm. Hell, no. Malik had a vicious side to his calm and affable nature. He plucked me up by my feet and held me before his eyes as though evaluating his next meal.

  Upside down.

  Viewing the world, dangling toes up and beak down from the hand of a Centaur gave me much needed perspective, I’ll admit. The Horse’s Ass wasn’t the home I thought it was. I liked The Signal Seller, an inn across town kept by a woman who loved books and often quoted chapter and verse. She also adored cats. If I turned myself into a long-haired, striped tabby, she’d allow me into her lap and would read to me. Maybe I’ll saunter on down to the Signal and be her cat for the next year or ten.

  A scroll appeared in Malik’s left hand. “Vanyar ap Llewellyn ap Hydarr,” he announced in a deep rolling tone. I swear the vagrants in the streets halted long enough to listen to his captivating voice. “I’ve a list of charges against you.”

  I sighed and the world steadied a bit. At least my stomach calmed. “Tut,” I commented. “Your desperation is showing. Terribly unsuitable for one of your calling, you know.”

  The manacles on my wings didn’t allow for furling them across my back. Forced, however hateful this action was, I spread them wide. Much easier on the wings, less so on my raptor’s immediate dignity.

  “His Royal Majesty has charged this miscreant with public drunkenness and intoxication,” Malik intoned, pretending to read from his scroll.

  “Um,” I answered, slow, careful. “It’s legal, and expected, on this side of town.”

  “– lewd and lascivious behavior –”

  “She said she was eighteen.”

  “ – indecent exposure –”

  “Uh, from where I sit you’d be accused of the same. Your whatsis hangs as large as –”

  “Part of my culture.” Malik cut me off primly. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Someone stole my shirt.”

  “Are you sticking to that pathetic story?”

  “I don’t have a chance, do I?”

  “A snowball’s in hell. Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

  “Gods forbid –”

  Malik’s voice rose. “Conduct unbecoming an officer and an Atan.”

  “I left the Atan years ago. That doesn’t qualify.”

  “– disrespect to His Royal Majesty –”

  “I’ve disrespected him for years, too, however that’s mostly private. How’d you know about it, anyway?”

  “I know everything.”

  My eyes chanced upon his glassy, shined and polished, hind hooves. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Malik?”

  My question halted his feigned gaze on his magic-inspired scroll. He frowned, half-turning toward me, his brows lowered. I interrupted his train of thought, yet he’d forgive me. This time. “Yes, Van.”

  “Friends can ask one another personal questions, isn’t that true?”

  “Of course, my dear chap.”

  “Inquiring minds must know.”

  He sighed, his hand raising me up to eye level. “Is there a question in your future?”

  I jerked my beak toward his rear. “How do you polish your back ones? I know you hate servants and such noble pleasantries.”

  “Can we stay on topic, please?”

  “I ask,” I went on slowly, “because I suspect it’d be very difficult for one of your, er, stature, to polish your own hooves. Do you, like, bend under?”

  “His Majesty also charges –”

  “If you’re that bendable, dear boy, please suck your own –”

  He shook me vigorously. The ale and mead I drank last threatened an immediate and chronic upheaval. “Don’t,” I choked. “I’m gonna hurl.”

  Malik extended his arm, and me, well away from his military and pristine self. “Knock yourself out.”

  I managed not to barf, but my belly roiled alarmingly. “Quick shaking me, will you?”

  He did so again, just out of sheer cussedness. My belly heaved, but I managed to lock my throat in the nick of time. “This is a side of you I’ve never encountered before,” I gasped, viewing the Horse’s Ass and its customers from an odd vantage point. Tamil’s poxy face looked just like the painted Ass, from its’ rear-view appearance. How extraordinary.

  “His Majesty also charges you with high treason and murder.”

  “Fine,” I replied, willing my revolted belly into submission. The world spun for a few more awkward moments, then quieted. I met his dark eyes and grim expression with jovial mockery. Shrugging my feathers, I quite effectively blew off both him and his juvenile threats.

  “Take me to jail. I need a vacation, anyway. I can sleep, eat three squares a day, no worries.”

  Malik lifted me higher, his deep eyes on level with mine. His aristocratic lips smiled in a way that sent a shiver down my falcon spine.

  “Oh, no, Van,” he replied softly, waving me gently back and forth. “No cushy cell for you. A high treason sentence, for an ex-Atan, means you go straight to Braigh’Mhar.”

  A sudden, icy chill ruffled my every feather. Gods, no.

  The royal courts sent the worst of the worse to Braigh’Mhar upon their conviction. Raithin Mawrn terrorists, murderers, rapists, robbers, killers, soldiers convicted of treason – all save the petty crimes of theft or burglary, prostitution or debt – eventually found their way to the frozen north. The locals, and cursing inmates, named it the hell beneath hell.

  Bound on all sides by glaciers and bald mountains, any who escaped Braigh’Mhar died from exposure within moments of leaving its high, protected walls. None might survive but within the comparative safety of the prison’s protections. Native, six-limbed trolls guarded the twenty-five rod high icebound prison walls. Trolls were all but mindless; they ate anything that moved, or didn’t move. That menu included road kill, the occasional rat and freedom-seeking prisoners. To date, no fool bypassed their alert senses, nor their voracious appetites, to escape into the sweet freedom the mountains offered.

  Long accustomed to this brutal landscape, the trolls inherited inches thick layers of fat beneath their tough, reptilian hides. Their warm skins and their diet of high fat and protein, fed raw and bloody by the prison officials, prevented the deepest cold from killing their species in infancy. Their natural protection and constant hunger kept them alert, cautious, and prowling for inmate-meat. Their efficient night vision and breath of flame caught many unsuspecting escapees before the brutal cold could. Only by remaining inside might one escape certain death from either the blasting cold or the trolls. Braigh’Mhar effectively shut the world out, and its enemies in.

  The mountains also hungered for blood.

  Had a fortunate inmate succeed where others failed, ducking the alert guards and starving trolls, and survived the perilous trek into the sharp-toothed mountains, he’d face a worst death than what he’d fled from. Ice, starvation and a lengthy, agonized death awaited him with open legs. R
unning to her for comfort, he’d perish under her lethal, icy kiss. Blinded by white, his blood turning to ice in his veins, his body slowly froze as he believed he lay warm and safe under layers of warm quilts. The bald, ice-enslaved rocky peaks held more traps than a willing whore. Men tried. Men died.

  Those prisoners who opted to remain within the prison walls found savage means of survival. Savvy jailbirds created gangs for protection, and killed the off the weakest prisoners. The strong led, the less than strong followed. Wars between gangs flared often, and kept the prison’s funeral services (the trolls) busy. Prison guards left the inmates to their own devices, unless they rioted. If that occurred, the wardens simply turned the hungry trolls loose to run amongst the rebelling prisoners and shut the heavy steel doors behind them. Any riots ended rather quickly.

  Criminals not immediately executed were sentenced to Braigh’Mhar either for a later death sentence or for a life inside its heinous walls. No parole was offered or expected. Stories spread of the convict gangs that ruled inside its tall towers. With the massive trolls outside, human and Minotaur guards inside, one didn’t stand a chance of either escaping or living beyond a year. If the gangs didn’t gut you, insanity surely would.

  “I can’t go there.” My tongue felt numb.

  “The manacles you wear now will accompany you,” Malik went on, implacable. “Your hands will be bound behind you, twenty-four seven. There’s no chance you’ll change your form into that of a mouse and wriggle free, or escape. There you will remain till the end of your, er, single, tortured week.”

  My tongue all but refused to work. “You wouldn’t.”

  Malik half-smiled with a shrug, indolent. “I don’t pass sentence. His Majesty will.”

  “I gave His Majesty many years of loyal and dedicated service,” I said, my voice wild.

  Malik frowned at his scroll. “Oh, there it is. I almost overlooked it. Absent without leave. Almost two years to the day. Wow. What a coincidence.”

  “I had to run, dammit.”

  “Oh, yes.” Malik smiled thinly. “From your Atani brothers.”

  My soul cringed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I whispered. “I –”