Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  Whatever had transpired after his capture on the rooftop, he had no clear memory of it, just a vague remembrance of the sack opening, of trying to fly free and being caught by strong hands, and of shifting into elf form to fight back against three powerfully muscled humans armed with clubs while a wizard stood by, leaning on a staff, and …

  Leifander winced, and raised a hand to rub his temple. A chain rattled in the darkness, jerking his arm to a halt. Unable to reach his head, he gave up. He already knew what his questing fingers would find: a tender spot, and dried blood.

  Cold bands on his other wrist and both ankles must be manacles. By the way the clanking of their chains filled the space, he knew he was in a small cell.

  With that realization, claustrophobia overwhelmed him. Mind reeling, all he could do was sit and tremble. So used to the open skies above had he become that even the tents of his people seemed too close, too small. Now he was closed in, sealed into a cell, forgotten and left to rot—in a space no larger than a tomb. He was going to die there.

  With an effort, he pulled his thoughts back from the brink of the tunnel they were about to spiral down into. Concentrate, he told himself, steady your breathing—but it was difficult. He was woozy and thirsty and shivering from the cold that seeped into his very bones from the stone below. He still had his magic, though, and the manacles wouldn’t hold him for long. He tucked his feet under him and eased his body into a squatting position.

  Drawing a deep breath, he focused his will, initiating a shift. He imagined his outstretched, fluttering fingers as feathers, his nose and mouth as a beak, his body shrinking …

  Nothing happened.

  Concentration broken, Leifander squatted in the darkness, heart hammering inside his chest. Impossible! He jerked against the chains in frustration, lost his balance, and toppled to the floor.

  Cold iron still clamped his wrists and ankles. Perhaps that was what was wrong—perhaps the manacles had been enchanted to prevent him from skinwalking. But as he rose to a squat once more, he realized the real reason. He could no longer feel bangs brushing against his forehead or the tickle of the feathers braided into them.

  With a trembling hand, he reached up, at the same time bending his body and lowering his head. By straining, he could just reach his forehead. What he felt there nearly stopped his heart. All that remained of his bangs were several rough tufts of hair, hacked short just above the scalp. Shifting his hand to his ear, he felt an empty hole where the gilded bone should have been. His longer braid still hung down his back, but his captors had removed the crow feathers and bone earring that allowed him to work his magic.

  For several long moments he forgot to breathe. Dizzy, he at last drew a shuddering breath, then he prayed.

  “Winged Mother, Lady of the Air and Wind, hear my prayer,” he cried out, his voice sounding thin and strained in the tiny space. “Do not forsake me. Peer down into this dark and terrible place, wherever it may be, and lend me your wings. Lift my spirit, mend my body, and soothe my soul.”

  From somewhere outside the cell came the sound of metal clinking against metal. Footsteps approached, and with them, a light that gradually limned a rectangular doorway. For a moment, a thin shaft of warm yellow light shone in through a keyhole, then it blinked out as a key was thrust into the lock. Metal grated as tumblers turned, and the door opened and light flooded into the room.

  Blinded by the sudden rush of light, Leifander could make out little of the man who had opened the door. By squinting, he caught a glimpse of harsh features, blond hair and beard, and a mail shirt and helm. Behind the man was a narrow corridor, its far wall having at least two doors set with stout locks. The man nodded and called back over his shoulder to someone farther down the corridor.

  “Looks like bird boy is awake,” he growled. “Go tell Drakkar.”

  They dragged Leifander down a maze of hallways to a small room with windowless walls of damp stone, a low ceiling, and a floor stained with dark brown splotches. A human skull and some bones lay jumbled carelessly in a corner, gnawed clean save for a few jagged scraps of red and a patch of faded hair. The air smelled of sewage and decaying flesh, and the only illumination came from two oil lamps with wicks that needed trimming, set above each of the room’s two exits. They filled the air with soot that roiled against the ceiling before disappearing out through a blackened ceramic pipe. From inside this ventilation pipe came a skittering noise like the scurrying of rodent feet.

  While two men stood by with swords at his throat, a third—the blond guard—attached each of Leifander’s manacles in turn to a metal bolt on the floor, forcing him into a spread-eagle position on his back.

  When he was done, Leifander could barely move. Shivering with cold, all he could do was glare as the men taunted him, drawing the points of their swords slowly down his bare chest and stomach, then tarrying at his groin, threatening to emasculate him. He spat on the boots of the blond guard, defying him, and received a kick that made his ears ring and caused bright points of light to dance just in front of his eyes.

  Leifander tensed, expecting further kicks, but instead the guards departed the way they had come; the closing door muffled their footsteps. Left to himself, Leifander struggled against the manacles in the futile hope that one of the bolts on the floor might prove loose. One was, but though he writhed like a snake, chafing wrists and ankles raw, he could neither tug it out nor slip his bonds.

  Cursing, he regretted not having attacked the guards as they marched him at sword point down the short hallway. At least that would have been a quick death. Now he would reap the bitter rewards of cowardice.

  A moment later, the room’s second door opened. Through it stepped a monstrosity so disfigured that Leifander at first had trouble recognizing it as a man. It walked erect on two legs and wore purple hose and a black velvet doublet heavily embroidered with gold thread and studded with gems, but its head was horribly misshapen. The right side of the face looked human, aside from a single fang that curved over the mustached upper lip, but the left side was covered with a mass of black, serpentine scales, its eye bulging and pupil slitted. The hands were even worse. Emerging from the end of one sleeve was a birdlike talon, but with what looked like wriggling pink worms where the fingers should be. The other hand was human in shape but covered with a patchwork of fur, scale, and feathers. A heavy gold ring decorated one finger. The legs were strangely jointed, and while one foot was booted, the other was bare, ending in a cloven hoof. The man lurched into the room with a jerky, shuffling gait, his hoof clomping and booted foot twisting and dragging.

  Behind him came a tall, dark-skinned man—fully human—wearing smoke-gray clothes. A thin line of beard framed his jaw, and his eyes glittered. He carried a knotted wooden staff into which thorns had been pressed, and upright thorns crowned its tip. He closed the door behind himself, then leaned on his staff, regarding Leifander with eyes utterly devoid of mercy.

  “Is this the shapeshifter?” the deformed man asked.

  “It is, Lord Mayor.”

  The first man cocked his half-serpent head and stared at Leifander through a slitted eye. “Fascinating.” A human tongue flickered in and out through his lips, then he added, “Have him change, Drakkar.”

  The man with the staff—Drakkar—twitched his lips into the briefest of condescending smiles. “Lord Mayor, we have taken away his magic. With it, he would have escaped by now.”

  “What did he use, then? A wand? Or was it a ring, or a cloak?”

  “None of those things, Lord Mayor.” Drakkar gestured with his staff, indicating Leifander’s forehead. “He used feathers woven into his hair and a bone.”

  Leifander jerked his head to the side, hiding his shame.

  “Magical feathers?” the deformed man panted, his eyes glittering with desire.

  “It would appear not, Lord Mayor. My spells could detect no glamor upon them, nor on the bone. The fellow must be a cleric of some heathen elf god. The feathers and bone were specific to h
is religion—useless to anyone else.”

  The human side of the mayor’s face twisted into a pout, hiding his fang. “Talos take him, then!” he cursed. “He’s of no use to me. Dispose of him.”

  Leifander flinched, waiting for the dark-skinned man to strike him with his staff, but Drakkar merely leaned upon it. “He is of use to me,” he said softly. “This man was caught spying on our new war wagons. I would find out how much he has learned—and if there are other spies here in Selgaunt that we need to worry about. You will recall those wild elves that crept into the Hunting Garden last winter.”

  The mayor made a derisive noise—half snort, half hiss. “Do what you want, but be sure to kill him afterward,” he ordered. He met and held Drakkar’s eye a moment, then held up a malformed hand. “There are deeper secrets than your war wagons that need burying.”

  The Hulorn turned, fumbled the door open with awkward hands, and shambled from the room.

  Leifander gave Drakkar a bold stare, making plain his defiance. He would not reveal a thing. If the torture became too much to bear, he would dash his head against the stone again and again until death claimed him. Indeed, there was little reason not to begin before the agony started. He whispered a prayer to the Winged Lady, imploring her to enfold his soul as it flew toward her, and lifted his head. But before he could begin, Drakkar kneeled swiftly by his side and grabbed his braid, yanking his head upward.

  “None of that,” he warned. “I want you alive and awake for a little while yet.”

  Still holding Leifander by the hair, he laid his staff on the floor, considered a moment, then plucked a thorn from it. Forcing Leifander’s head to the side, he held it against the cold stone with one knee. From a pocket he pulled a wooden stick and used it to lever Leifander’s mouth open, then he jammed the thorn into Leifander’s tongue.

  Drakkar released Leifander, stood, and began to chant.

  Gagging, Leifander tried to force the thorn from his tongue but could not. He twisted his tongue this way and that, trying to scrape the thorn out with his teeth. He could feel its sting, could feel his tongue swelling from the injury done to it, but could no longer feel the thorn itself. It seemed to have vanished, deep inside his flesh.

  Drakkar finished chanting and stared down at Leifander.

  “Where are you from, and when did you arrive in Selgaunt?” he asked.

  Leifander’s mouth spoke of its own accord. “The Tangled Trees. Last night.”

  His eyes widened in alarm, as he realized that he was the victim of a spell that was compelling him not only to speak—but to speak the truth.

  Drakkar nodded. “Why did you come to Selgaunt?”

  “To deliver a message.”

  “From whom, and to whom?”

  “From the druids of the Circle of Emerald Leaves. To Thamalon Uskevren.”

  “Why to him?”

  “He is my father.”

  Drakkar’s eyebrows raised. He glanced at Leifander’s ears, at his tattooed face and asked, “What was the message?”

  Leifander tried to clench his teeth shut or bite his traitorous tongue until his jaw ached, but it was no use. He answered every question the evil wizard asked, even giving the full strength of the wood elves’ forces and naming the leaders of each patrol. Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his temples, dripping onto the floor, and still his betrayal continued. Leifander was unable to consolidate his will enough to strike his head against the floor, unable to do anything but answer.

  Drakkar paused, and for a moment Leifander thought the questions were over, then he spoke again, as if musing aloud. “Your forces are weak, then. The High Council must know that this is a war your people cannot win. I wonder—would the elves accept an offer of support, if one were forthcoming?”

  It had been phrased as a question, and so Leifander was compelled to answer. “It would depend on who the offer was from.”

  Drakkar’s lips twitched in the faintest sketch of a smile. “What if it came from Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar?”

  This time, Leifander answered willingly, in a harsh voice. “Maalthiir!” he spat. “We’d rather accept the aid of a demon.”

  “And why is that?” Drakkar asked, unperturbed.

  “He’s banned all but humans from his city. Elves found within its walls are used as fodder for the gladiatorial games. The Red Plumes are known throughout the forest for the atrocities they commit. The council would never trust him. Never.”

  “What if such an alliance was the only way to save the forest?” Drakkar asked. “Pride can’t harvest nuts from a blighted tree or shelter you from your enemies.”

  Leifander desperately wanted to say no, that the elves would fight to the last man, woman, and child, but he was haunted by the destruction the magical blight had already caused. He imagined elves standing homeless amid the skeletal trees of a destroyed wood.

  “They … might,” he conceded, “but I think … not.”

  “I see.”

  Drakkar sounded pleased. He’d obviously been fearing an elf alliance with the cities of the Moonsea. Leifander’s rejection of any such notion had clearly set his mind at ease.

  “This past winter, three wild elves appeared in Selgaunt in the Hulorn’s hunting garden,” he told Leifander. “Who were they, and why were they here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The answer had been a truthful one, but Drakkar’s eyes narrowed. He tried again. “You must,” he growled. “They were protecting a girl—a human. A servant of the Uskevren house. Who is she?”

  Once again, Leifander’s tongue spoke the truth. “I don’t know.”

  “Gods curse you!” Drakkar kicked Leifander in the ribs, making him wince, then a cunning look crept into his eye. “Let’s see if you’re lying,” he spat. “Tell me, shapeshifter … what is your true name?”

  “I … don’t know,” Leifander gasped. The kick must have cracked a rib. It hurt to breathe. “My mother died giving birth to me. If she gave me a true name, I don’t know it.”

  Drakkar thought a moment, then tried again. “Do you know the true names of any of the elves of the High Council?”

  Leifander fought the compulsion to speak as long as he could, but at last his answer burst forth. “Yes.”

  “Whose?”

  “Lord Kierin of Deepingdale.”

  Drakkar’s eyes gleamed. “What is his true name?”

  “His true name … is …”

  With a supreme effort of will, Leifander wrenched his head to the side, mashing his cheek into the cold stone as he spoke, slurring his words. He must not betray his adoptive father’s sworn friend. He would not.

  Drakkar bent over him, wrenching his head back. “Again. What is Lord Kierin’s true name?”

  This time, Leifander spoke clearly: “Sallal Lolthrailin.”

  “What does it mean?” Drakkar asked. “Tell me in the common tongue.”

  Weeping again, Leifander answered. “Keeper of the Wood.”

  “Well done,” Drakkar said. “That should prove very useful.”

  He stroked a fingertip across Leifander’s lips. A scent clung to the finger that was equal parts sweet cinnamon and something loathsome and rotting. It lingered on Leifander’s lips, even after Drakkar drew his hand away.

  Suddenly finding himself free from magical compulsion, Leifander wrenched his head to the side and spat away the taste. He turned the full force of his pent-up anger on Drakkar.

  “May the Black Archer take you, and send swift arrows of vengeance to pierce you,” he yelled. “May the Lady of Air and Wind buffet you with gales, and break your bones!”

  Instead of trembling at the promised wrath of the gods, Drakkar gave a low chuckle and stared down at Leifander with flat, expressionless eyes.

  “You’d better save your breath for a more useful invocation,” he said. “One that protects you from rats.”

  Then, fingers caressing his staff as if they were reading a message in the pattern of the thorns, he cha
nted a brief spell. In the blink of an eye, he was gone—vanished from the room as if he had never been there.

  A scuttling noise echoed out of the ventilation pipe overhead. Leifander glanced up—the opening of the pipe was directly over his naked chest. He saw two tiny human hands gripping the edge of the pipe. An instant later, two eyes that glistened with hunger stared down at him. Behind the rat-thing with human arms, other shapes jostled forward, eyes gleaming.

  The first rat-thing leaped from the pipe. As it landed on Leifander’s bare thigh and sank its fangs into his flesh, Leifander clenched his teeth against the pain, not permitting himself to make a noise, but as more of the vile creatures poured down from the pipe, landing on his naked body, he at last gave vent to his terror and screamed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Larajin awoke with a start to find a hand over her mouth. As her eyes flew open, she saw Rylith looking down at her. The druid raised a finger to her lips for silence. Larajin nodded, and the hand covering her mouth was withdrawn.

  She sat up and glanced around the tent. The rain must have ended; hot sunlight filtered through the wet leather, which was steaming. Near the tent flap, the owl was asleep on its perch, ears twitching slightly with each rustle of Rylith’s leaf cloak. Just outside the entrance, Larajin could hear two wood elves talking. Rylith cocked her head, listening, then pointed at Larajin and at herself, and jerked a thumb, indicating she’d come to take Larajin away.

  Larajin stared at the druid, wondering how she’d managed to sneak past the guards and the owl. More to the point, what was she doing there? She was clearly at odds with the elves who were holding Larajin hostage—the need for silence told Larajin that much—but could Larajin trust her?

  A section of Rylith’s cloak rustled, seemingly of its own accord. Looking down, Larajin saw the cause. Golden eyes peered up at her as the tressym pushed its way past Rylith to nudge Larajin with its cheek. Goldheart turned and licked Rylith’s hand and allowed the druid to stroke her head. Larajin could just hear her soft purring.