Issa caught her breath.
Domenon continued. ‘There are no excuses. All casters of Webs are stripped of their powers and cast out for the protection of the seers and all of Myrn.’
‘They are already cast out, Domenon,’ Issa said quietly without looking at him. She traced a finger through the condensation on the window. ‘I do not keep things from you deliberately. Some things are just not mine to tell.’
‘Is that so? Hmm. You are also keeping things from me about Freydel.’ Domenon’s eyes were piercing and she found herself sweating. ‘Why does he look pale and wasted these days? He’s a learned wizard who has overcome all the difficulties of a novice new to magic and so should not be suffering like one. I’m sure he’s lost weight as well. He struggles to control his emotions too. Why?’
‘Everything to do with Freydel is surely the concern of the Wizards’ Circle and not mine,’ said Issa. ‘I am merely his friend and his pupil, not his confidante. But I know what you mean. I’m concerned for him too.’
‘Indeed,’ said Domenon. ‘Perhaps I’ll discuss this with the other wizards at the next meeting.’
Thankfully he questioned her no more and went back to reading through and sorting his bag of papers.
As the sky darkened further, the only indication that the sun had set, the lights of Rebben appeared through the dark drizzle. They were taking the road around the outside of the city so, much to her disappointment, she didn’t get to see a lot of the capital of Davono.
The castle looming on the hill was an imposing mass of square towers, battlements and impenetrable walls; or at least that’s how it looked outside the city wall. They paused at a gate and the guards let them through. The carriage wheels clattered and slipped over the wet cobbles.
Servants dressed in shiny black shoes, white stockings, skirts and doublets came running from the castle entrance holding out umbrellas and covers for them. These protections against the weather didn’t help though. The brief step out of the carriage to under an umbrella left her almost soaked through and wishing she’d worn her water-resistant leather armour.
She quickly checked on Duskar. The horse was as keen to get into a dry stable as she was the castle so she left Velonorian holding his and Ironclad’s reins. The elf didn’t seem nearly as uncomfortable in the downpour as everyone else was. The way he blinked up at the sky and smiled told her he was actually enjoying it. Maybe it never rained like this in the Land of Mists. This far south, it certainly wasn’t cold rain, thankfully.
She rushed up the steps and halted in the reception room with the others. They were all dripping water onto the grey flagstones and beginning to shiver as the wind gusted. The reception area was just a draughty, plain room where they waited for the next set of heavy doors to open.
Someone entered the Flow and a brief wave of magic tickled her skin. With a shock, she looked down to find she was no longer soaking and neither was anyone else, even her hair was dry.
‘My pleasure.’ Domenon bowed slightly, grinning at their astonished faces.
A very useful trick, Issa noted.
The huge doors swung open and a welcome gush of warmth and light engulfed her. More servants spilled out to help the arrivals and Domenon briefly spoke to a senior looking woman with grey hair scraped into a bun and a straight back. He turned back to them and said, ‘The servants will take your things to your rooms so we can go straight to dinner.’
Domenon caught her hand as she started to follow the servants. ‘I have been informed that the Queen will see you as soon as you have finished your meal. And don’t drink any wine until after. She cannot stand lapses in sobriety during business meetings.’
Issa nodded, intrigued but nervous.
The dining hall they entered was similar in design and layout to the one in Teramides, only much larger. Even the impressive, dark mahogany table was twice as long. Their large party only took up a third of it as they were seated for their meal.
Issa dutifully avoided the wine and made small talk with Velonorian beside her, all the while thinking about what she was going to say to the mysterious queen. It wasn’t easy declaring impending war to the ruler of a land she had never met or been to before. The success of the meeting would all depend, she decided, on what manner of a woman the queen was.
21
Bear Rider
‘FION’DAR, Fion’dar!’
Voices screamed in Elven, crying to Woetala, the Life of the Forest, to save them.
A terrible roar shuddered through the earth and sky, and raging fire drowned out the screams of the dying. Maphraxies lumbered through the flames, dragged along by blood-hungry death hounds, drool and gore dripping from their fang-filled maws. Gut-wrenching fear rattled through his bones, turning his muscles to jelly. There was nowhere to flee. Walls of flame blocked every turn and black dragons above shattered the will to survive. Screams echoed all around him. No one could escape. They burned alive or were eaten.
Marakon jolted awake, his heart pounding. The screams faded with the dream. He took a long deep breath, trying to relax his muscles and his mind. Dawn light filtered through the gap in the tent flaps along with a chill gust of autumn wind. He shivered despite the sheen of sweat on his face. Pulling the blankets higher, he slid an arm lightly over Jarlain who lay beside him. She made a soft murmur and then was still again.
The same dream had been haunting him for over a week; the entire journey back from Carvon to the front line. Every night he watched elves flee for their lives in a world filled with raging fire. He was not alone, all the elves and any with elven blood in the camp had had the same dream. They’d all come to the same horrible conclusion as to what it meant: the Land of Mists had been attacked and they had witnessed the massacre of their kin.
King Navarr’s couriers had reached them yesterday, carrying news from the king’s wizards that confirmed the terrible news. Elven refugees now flooded the Isles of Tirry. Some of those in the army left immediately to make the long journey to Myrn to help them, but the Feylint Halanoi could ill-afford to lose many now they were on the offensive.
It was Daranarta’s fault, Marakon clenched his fist. Half of him wanted to go and help too but the other half knew he could fight the enemy directly here and thus get his revenge. All those with elven blood had since fought with a ferocious rage. Their advance had been swift as they pushed the enemy back, pinning them to the very edge of the west coast in a few decimated towns, including Wenderon.
Marakon touched his aching, empty eye socket under his new, soft, tan patch. Sometimes the wound was agony, driving ice pick headaches deep into his skull. But he didn’t want that eye back, even though his far-sightedness was forever lost.
He clenched his jaw thinking of Issa, the cause of his pain, then forced himself to relax. He knew why she’d commanded her raven to peck it out. After all, he deserved it and deserved to die for all the death and betrayal he’d unwittingly caused. But forgiving her was taking time. How many battles had Baelthrom seen him in, seen through him? Every time he’d lifted his patch, he’d betrayed his soldiers. The knowledge and guilt weighed him down. All his crew had died and only he’d been spared so he could spy upon, betray and kill others. The thought made him sick. How many other ways was Baelthrom spying on them all? Who was a spy and who wasn’t? It didn’t bear thinking about.
His good eye focused on the spear propped up in the corner of the tent. Unblemished by thousands of years, its surface gleamed as white as the day he’d first held it. It’s a shame it’s only good at killing demons, he thought. It seemed to have no great affect upon Maphraxies other than being slightly better than a normal spear at damaging their armour.
One day soon, when he received a message from Issa, he would use the spear to find and open the demon tunnels. He found the thought disturbing. He’d spent a lifetime destroying demons and closing their damned tunnels. Now, in this lifetime, he would have to do the opposite.
Ahh, the wondrous days of old. Charging with hundreds of
his knights mounted upon their white steeds across green plains under a bright sun, their swords glinting in the light… The brief moments he’d so recently had with his precious eleven knights, reliving the glory days of old, he would treasure forever.
They were gone now, leaving him behind to live out his life. And before Jarlain had found him, he’d fought against the depression of meaninglessness and emptiness, finding the fighting only barely gave him a cause to exist, only just drowned out the loneliness. He’d thrown himself into battle with abandon, willing the enemy to kill him, stunned when they never could. But he had quickly grown sick of war, of waking up injured in jam-packed tents, of the cold and damp, of the boring food and the endless marching.
Jarlain stirred but her eyes remained closed. He rested on one elbow and looked at her, appreciating the smooth brown skin of her shoulder, soft chin and delicate nose. Her dark hair now reached her ears and he found her short, unruly curls quite becoming. She’d been so thin when he saw her, he’d barely recognised her. Thankfully she’d already gained some of her weight back and lost the gaunt look to her cheeks.
He gave a deep, reassuring sigh. How he’d missed her since he had left the Uncharted Lands—more than he would allow himself to feel. He tried not to think of Rasia, his wife so brutally taken from him. The pain was still too raw and deep. But now Jarlain was with him, just her presence was enough to heal the pain and the loneliness in his heart. He remembered when they had first made love and the healing she had brought to him then. She would keep him sane and happy, he was sure of it.
A deep snuffle came from outside and something big rolled over, alarmingly bulging in the side of the tent by their bed. Jarlain, too, rolled over and Marakon grinned. He could barely believe there was a massive bear sleeping the other side of the thin fabric of his tent.
‘Is Fenn bothering you again?’ Jarlain murmured.
‘Not yet,’ said Marakon, gently brushing the hair from her face. She blinked up at him and he smiled, feeling whole when he looked into her deep brown eyes. ‘He doesn’t like me taking you away from him. If he had his way, he’d be in the tent with us.’
Jarlain giggled and lifted a hand to his cheek. He took it and kissed it.
‘So much has happened. I have such strange dreams…I’ve changed, grown strong and wise like an Elder,’ she said. ‘For so long in the wilderness I searched for you, blind and in nothing but rags. You know I would have died had Fenn not come to me?’
‘Yes. And for that, I am indebted to him. Without you, my life would not be worth living.’ He meant it and she smiled.
‘I would hope you lived for more than just me,’ she said.
‘I’ve lived enough for everyone. Now I long for sleep and love and a long break from war,’ he said, bending to kiss her long on the lips.
Interweaving her fingers in his hair, she drew him closer and sighed when he trailed a hand over her bare stomach.
Jarlain peered into the forest, gripping the hilt of her weapon and saw the gory remains of a deer, deep red splashed against the contrast of green grass. The smell wasn’t coming from it but the undead that had been feeding on the carcass. Jarlain gagged.
Fenn growled, spotting a dark shape bounding through the trees ahead. He lunged after it. Jarlain held tightly onto him knowing the foltoy was unlikely to flee. She watched it circle through the trees, coming around to attack them. She scanned the forest looking for more but spotted none.
Fenn pelted forwards, gaining speed through a straight bit between the trees, amazing her with his swiftness. Jarlain gripped the fur at the base of his neck so tightly she wondered why it didn’t hurt him. His muscles rippled beneath her legs that had now adapted to allow her to sit easily atop him. At first, riding him had left her legs so sore she could barely walk. Now it felt strange and awkward to sit atop a horse.
She ducked lower against him as he leapt over a boulder and lunged to the right. The foltoy was very fast and trying to get behind them to attack. Fenn wasn’t letting it do that. She tilted with the bear, her body responding easily to his, perfectly balancing each other. Anger and adrenaline pounded in her veins as it did in his. His fury was her fury; his excitement was her excitement. They were one.
She lifted her spear but the moment to throw it was lost when the foltoy switched course through ferns. It leapt upon a rock, snarling bloodied fangs, green eyes blazing. Hunching, it launched into the air over Fenn’s head towards her. Inch-long razor claws gleamed, a rasping howl scoured her ears. She plunged her spear forwards, bracing against the weight of the foltoy. The spear sunk into its shoulder, a claw swiped to the left slicing her cheek as she fell back.
She felt Fenn rise on his hind legs, saw a huge brown muzzle open impossibly wide and engulf the foltoy’s neck. She clung harder to him and the spear embedded in the foltoy. Then Fenn was dropping back down, his neck and back straining to hold the writhing creature. Jarlain regained her balance and screamed as she shoved her spear harder. There came a sickening, snapping, crunching sound and her spear was wrenched from her grasp as the foltoy fell beneath the bear, its neck broken.
Fenn pulled away. Jarlain sensed and felt his disgust as her own. He shook his head back and forth flinging undead blood from his mouth. Jarlain took a deep breath and slipped from his back to look at the shuddering foltoy. It twitched and then was still. Gripping her spear, she twisted and wrenched it free.
She touched her cheek. There was a little blood. Thankfully, it was only a scratch. Silently, they walked towards the river to wash their weapons; he, his teeth, and she, her spear. They didn’t need to speak about what had happened, each had felt the others’ feelings and thoughts. Squatting beside the river, she washed the blood from her cheek feeling it sting a little.
She glanced at the magnificent bear as he gulped down water. It struck her then what a powerful fighting unit they made, what a whole army of them could make. Human and beast working as one, feeling as one. This was their second foltoy kill today. The two had been in close proximity to each other. Grimacing, she washed the black blood off her spear. She sensed there were more and hoped to hunt them all down.
The afternoon sunlight fell through the birch leaves and sparkled on the river. They were alone scouting the forest but never strayed too far from camp. Fenn made the other soldiers nervous so they worked on their own. Jarlain feared nothing with him by her side. This was her and Fenn’s task within the Feylint Halanoi now. Marakon wanted her fighting alongside him but he had to lead his unit west. He wanted to build his Knights of the Raven order, but the Feylint Halanoi needed him more right now.
A cold wind blew her short hair across her eyes, irritating her. She brushed it back only to have it blown straight back again. With a sigh, she shoved her helmet on, seriously considering shaving her head again. It was either going to be short or long, nothing in between was workable.
‘What do bears remember of our alliance, if anything?’ Jarlain asked Fenn.
He sat on his haunches beside the river. ‘Only us brown bears paired with a chosen human, though most care little for it now given the way humans are to all creatures.’
His thoughts came clearly in her mind. Their connection was strong since Doon had returned to her the gift of the Navadin and awakened within her the Daluni animal speak. Though she could only speak to bears, her talks with the elves had made it obvious that the translation was much clearer than any Daluni was able to forge.
The majestic elves told her animals used pictures to communicate, but she heard Fenn’s thoughts as direct words and pictures. The elven soldiers did not remember a time of the Navadin. Jarlain wondered if that was because it was so long ago or because the two races had never come into contact with one another. Perhaps it was both.
She adjusted her plate mail cuirass, given to her by the Feylint Halanoi, and laid down her short spear wishing she had her Gurlanka knife. Marakon had tried to teach her the sword but she just couldn’t get the hang of it and had done better with a spear, mu
ch to her surprise.
‘Deep within my blood I remember they had spears,’ said Fenn.
Jarlain nodded. ‘Perhaps, then, that is why it comes more naturally to me than any other weapon.’
Fenn sat quietly, the sun dappling off his thick brown fur. He rarely spoke and when he did it was with few words.
From its sleeve on her back, she slipped out Hai’s staff. Not Hai’s staff but the Gurlanka’s—the holder of the memory of her people. She sat down on the rock beside the spear and staff, her eyes lingering on the wood, remembering all that Hai had told her in his visitation. Just as the people here were being persecuted by the Maphraxies, were her people also being persecuted? Would there be any Navadin left to ride the bears as once they had?
‘Ood says they will return,’ Fenn said. Jarlain hadn’t realised she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. Or perhaps she hadn’t and their connection was so strong he could read her thoughts. ‘And when they do, the creatures of the forest will be free. Ood will be free.’
‘The Forest Guardian is not free? How can that be?’ She looked at the bear, the pink scar on his jaw lifting his lip, his big brown eyes blinking.
‘Ever since the darkness came, none of us have been free,’ the bear said simply. ‘Ood and his mate. All of us, sick. The dark moon heals us.’
Jarlain looked down at the staff. How would her people return and become Navadin? She stroked the warm wood and a vision flashed in her mind.
Hai and Sharnu clinging to a palm tree, a sea of fire beneath them spread by black dragons. Her people burning alive. She shuddered. How many of her people still lived? How would she reach them? The boatman. The thought made her rise to her feet.
Dragons of the Dawn Bringer: The Goddess Prophecies Fantasy Series Book 5 Page 26