Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2)

by M. E. Vaughan

  Published 2017 by Mag Mell Publishing

  Winchester, Hampshire

  Great Britain

  www.magmellpublishing.com

  Copyright © M.E. Vaughan, 2017

  Cover art by Stef Tastan

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  To find out more about The Harmatia Cycle world, visit:

  www.harmatiacycle.com

  And for more information, exclusive extras, and updates, why not sign up to the Newsletter.

  To Jonathan,

  I’m sorry I killed you in the last book.

  No hard feelings?

  x

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map - Mag Mell

  The Gods of Mag Mell

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Name & Places

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  It was a lifeless night. The clouds suffocated the stars in a hushed embrace, thin trickles of moonlight seeping out from small tears in the blanket of the sky.

  Fretting hands, calmed by what was now a familiar craft, traced a knife across the shaft of what would be an arrow. Although he moved in precise, sweeping motions, the Magi’s clear blue eyes weren’t set on their task, but roamed the muffled dome above.

  “Stray a thought on moonless night, Fomorii dance in cruel delight,” his song broke out, barely a whisper, almost toneless it was so soft. “For silent wish in faeries’ grasp, are like a weapon they can clasp."

  He rested back against the tree, his hands moving deftly, eyes still trained on the small shard of sky that could be seen through a rip in the clouds.

  “They’ll steal your shield with a pretty switch, grant you favour and make you rich.”

  The knife was stowed away, and in its place agile fingers ran along the wood in inspection.

  “But when the time comes to pay the price, your hands are bound within a vice.”

  A sharp snap cut through the stillness of the night and the Magi’s eyes hardened. His gaze dropped from the sky to the little village that sat, nestled below him, cradled by the hills.

  Figures shifted through the darkness around him, creeping like shadows as he slowly hunched his shoulders, leaning further back into the tree.

  “So run, run, thou fool of a man,” he continued breathily, his fingers tightening around the arrow as he heard a figure move around the tree behind him. “For death shall follow, sword in hand.”

  With a sharp twist, he spun around the trunk and embedded the arrow deep into the approaching alchemist’s collar.

  With a gurgled scream the Kathrak stumbled back, choking as two hands found their way to his stomach and with the force of a pressurised gale, propelled him back into the undergrowth.

  The Magi dropped his hands and slipped back into the darkness, away from the surprised cries of his attackers.

  Leaping down a dry bank, he slid through the foliage from one clearing into the next, ducking behind trees as voices tore after him. He half-expected to hear the barks of hunting hounds, but it seemed his pursuers had learnt their lesson after the last time.

  Running through the trees, he met another alchemist who immediately raised his hands, preparing to attack.

  Too slow, the Magi thought to himself, and threw out his own attack before the alchemist had time to concentrate his magic. The earth beneath the Kathrak reared up into spines, piercing him from all angles through the stomach and chest. The alchemist spluttered in death, flecks of blood hitting the Magi’s cheek as he sprinted past. He couldn’t afford to mourn his enemy.

  All around voices were rising up as the alchemists tried to coordinate their attack. They’d thought to take the Magi by surprise but the forest had long become his element.

  Skidding down into a ditch, he hid, fingers curled over the edge of the dirt wall as he glanced over the gnarled roots. If it had been day, he might have been able to make those roots rise up around him and camouflage him completely from sight, but it was too late to draw on the power of Notameer or Haylix—the two water stars—and so he hunched in silence and waited wearily for an opportunity to flee.

  “Rufus Merle, I know you’re there.” A familiar voice drawled out between the trees. Rufus sank lower to the ground, his heart racing. “We both know how this ends. Surrender, and I’ll return you to Harmatia, on my honour.”

  “Honour…” Rufus muttered into the dirt.

  “I’ll count to five. Come out peacefully, and we can end this without any fuss. No need for anyone to get hurt.”

  Rufus thought about the two men he’d already killed. He wiped the blood from his cheek with a grimace.

  “One,” the Kathrak began, and Rufus shifted further back, still and quiet. The count was a ploy, a given time-frame set to make him panic and rush an escape. The alchemists had formed a net around him—one hasty move, and they would capture him in minutes. Rufus trampled his nervous instincts and forced himself to stay still and calm.

  “Two, three—be reasonable, Rufus. These games are really starting to bore me.”

  “You may forfeit at any time,” Rufus said, almost too loudly. His fear escalated into a pulsing terror, his neck, face and hands palpitating as he held his breath, worried he’d betrayed
himself. The count, thankfully, continued.

  “Four…” The Kathrak left a tantalising pause, and then with a tangible glee finished. “Five. Find him.”

  “Papa,” a lilting voice said from beside him. Rufus jolted in surprise and twisted around, exhaling in relief. A set of blue eyes, glowing faintly, stared up at him, and Rufus opened his arms and drew his little brother in carefully. “Kathraks?”

  “Yes. I told you not to come up here, Joshua,” Rufus berated, but despite his worry, he felt strangely relieved to have the boy close. It made his racing mind calm.

  “I saw flashes,” Joshua said, and Rufus pressed his mouth to his brother’s curly hair, listening . He could hear them moving through the forest, sweeping it for signs of him.

  “You need to return to the village,” Rufus told the boy, when he was sure that the Kathraks had passed. “Can you find your way?”

  “I think so.” Joshua didn’t sound confident.

  “I’ll take you to the path—then you run. I’ll draw the Kathraks away. Go straight to the Hirondelle’s house. Tell them our friends caught up to us sooner than I anticipated.”

  The boy nodded and Rufus gripped his hand, listening intently before, with a deep breath, they climbed out of the ditch and darted out through the trees, their footsteps silent from years of practise.

  Moving through the forest, the emptiness that met them was eerie. Rufus didn’t trust it, wary of the silence. His fear was justified. With a sudden crash a figure dropped from the branches above and landed behind them, giving a cry of victory. The sound was short-lived, as Rufus, who had a nervous disposition at the best of times, yelped and released an instinctive burst of flames from his hands. The fire burnt bright and hot, and left little of its victim. Rufus swallowed thickly and ran. He’d just set off a beacon for his enemies.

  Sprinting through the darkness, the Harmatians dove for cover as silhouettes stalked behind them. Below, the light of the village became visible again and Rufus turned to Joshua. “Go,” he said. “Go!”

  The boy gave him a lingering look, face pinched with worry, then ducked into the darkness and tore away, as light-footed as a Sidhe. Rufus watched anxiously after Joshua, his throat tight, then threw himself back into the encroaching attackers.

  Skidding through the maze of trees, the grappling roots snatched at his feet, almost tripping him. A few years ago, he would have fallen ten-times over, but Rufus was used to negotiating the perilous forest floor now. The enemy swamped closer around him.

  Reaching a small dip ahead, Rufus scrabbled down the dirt path and began to sprint, his mind racing as he tried to orientate himself. He could see his enemies from the corner of his eyes, and his heart clenched as he realised how many of them there were. They’d doubled their hunt since the last time he’d seen them. He’d been too lax, allowing them to catch up to him like this. If they caught him—

  No, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  With a hard lurch he threw his weight back, skidding in panic as he emerged into an unexpected clearing. Not two strides from the last tree, he saw the ground cut off into a cliff-edge that jutted outward into the night. The harsh darkness made it impossible to see how deep the ravine below was, but Rufus could hear the muted roar of running water far away.

  Glancing back, Rufus swallowed as they emerged from the trees all around him. They’d herded him here on purpose. He took a few tentative steps back toward the edge, heart racing.

  There were at least sixty of them, forming a human fence around him, blocking him off from the forest. Rufus took another step back, his gut clenching as he drew nearer and nearer to the edge. They’d all raised their mental shields at once, pooling the power together. If Rufus attacked now, with their combined strength protecting them, he would stand little chance. His mouth grew dry as he stepped back again. His heels met the air behind him, and he stood, balanced on the edge by toe-point.

  “Quite the fox, aren’t you?” a voice rose from the gaggle, the same that had called out to him earlier, and Rufus’s stomach burned with fear and anger.

  His enemy stepped out brazenly and strode forward.

  “A good chase—not the best, mind, but…” the Kathrak smiled. “This one, I think, will be the last.”

  “Don’t be so sure, DuGilles,” Rufus spat, and the dark-haired Kathrak tipped his head, his bold features twisting in the muffled moonlight.

  “Of course—you have a choice. Me, or death. If it’s death you prefer, I won’t stop you—I’ll even help. But Rufus,” he said the name like an old friend, and it made Rufus shudder, “is this really how you want it to end? Alone, in the dirt? You don’t belong here. Come home. Come with me. Let me make it all better.”

  The sick feeling in Rufus’s gut rose, a serpent writhing within him. Had it come to this? Death or DuGilles? Were those really his only choices?

  Looking around him, Rufus knew he couldn’t fight his way out—not as he was. He could feel Athea’s power burning through him, waiting to be releasing, but he forced it down.

  “You’re right,” Rufus murmured.

  DuGilles was stunned. He blinked several times, looking around to his comrades, as if to make sure they’d heard the same thing as him. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Has the stubborn Rufus Merle finally come to his senses?”

  Rufus nodded.

  “Well praise the day!”

  Rufus didn’t reply. His mind was on his little brother, waiting for him back in the village. Trusting him to return safely.

  “An honourable surrender then?” DuGilles motioned for his men to move forward.

  Rufus drew in a long deep breath. “Yes,” he said serenely, and stepped back over the edge of the cliff. The darkness swallowed him.

  Rumours were dangerous. Always the first tool in swaying public opinion, some rumours, if left unchecked, had a bad habit of growing wild lives of their own. This, in itself, wasn’t entirely detrimental to a civilised society, just so long as there remained those with enough common-sense to identify the falsehoods. But when even learned men started to embrace lies, unrest and corruption were sure to grow. And with them, hysteria. Yes, rumours were dangerous and Arlen Zachary knew this.

  It pained him sometimes that he now stood among the few in Harmatia who recognised truth from propaganda. Once again a new generation of Magi were about to be apprenticed, having suckled on a decade of lies, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Zachary exhaled, lengthening his stride irritably. At his side, Emeric raised an eyebrow as he and Marcel matched Zachary’s pace. The three of them had been summoned to help Belphegore address a class of ‘freshlings’, students from the academy who were applying to take the Warriors’ Assessment in the hope of being apprenticed.

  Of course, Zachary had his own suspicions about his summons to this address. For the last year, Belphegore had been pushing him to take an apprentice of his own. Zachary had seen several students eyeing him keenly with that in mind. Likewise, Emeric was of an age to do the same, and Marcel—who’d apprenticed Emeric almost sixteen years ago—was another popular choice for potential new master. Zachary, who had no inclination of taking charge of any of the brats, doubted that Marcel would either. Emeric, in contrast, seemed more enthusiastic about the prospect, though he was yet to be taken by any one applicant.

  Zachary sniffed. It was a cold, bright morning, much too early for productive thought. He would rather have been abed, tangled naked in his sheets then attending the address.

  “Are you unwell?” Emeric asked as Zachary sighed again. Marcel’s apprentice had grown bolder in his years, but his soft brown eyes and dimpled smile still radiated thegentle kindness that came so naturally to him. Zachary wasn’t fooled by it. For all Emeric’s sweet-tempered looks, his timidity could be as easily banished as it was given.

  “He is thinking about Merle,” Marcel, uncharacteristically, spoke. Zachary growled and quickened his pace. It didn’t deter either of his friends, who kept easy stride with him, thou
gh he was the tallest of the three.

  “I heard the King funded a new hunt.” Emeric’s face was unreadable.

  Zachary had heard the same, but that wasn’t why his thoughts were on Rufus. Like Zachary, Belphegore had been pressed by higher powers to take a new apprentice, and like Zachary, Belphegore hadn’t been tempted by the proposition. There would be no easy replacement for Rufus, and despite suggestion, Belphegore had no intention of raising another warrior either. Apparently, Zachary had been exhausting enough.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Zachary grunted as they stepped into the assembly room. If they finished quick enough, he could return to bed for another hour before his next duty began.

  As they came into the room, a few of the students caught sight of them and offered the respect due, standing and bowing deeply. Most of the others continued their chatter and Zachary stood, appalled, at the front of the class. Ten years ago, every single one of them would have stood in respect, but the times had changed. These weren’t warriors born in an age of terror, the age of the curfew and the Night Patrol. No, these were rich boys with good training, whose hearts were filled with noble ambition, and their heads with hot air. Zachary studied them and decided that, for the few who would inevitably be apprenticed, he saw none with the potential to be among his own ranks. He was almost disappointed.

  “He isn’t.”

  “I swear, he is! He is a faerie!”

  “No, he’s not!”

  Two students at the front of the class were arguing and Zachary slumped. The topic of conversation was increasingly familiar to him, and he’d heard enough of it.

  “He has to be! Who else in their right mind would abandon their title and station to go and live in a faerie wood! He has to be a changeling or a half-faerie at least!”

  “He hid in a faerie wood, and that was after they caught his trail in Corhlam! Do you really think that Lord Odin would have apprenticed a faerie? He’s just a traitor—a Betheanian! And he can die like any other man!”

  Zachary followed Marcel’s lead and slunk to the back of the room, hiding in the shadows, arms folded. Marcel lit his pipe, and Emeric and Zachary echoed his example, taking out and filling their own. The three stood together smoking, huddled beneath the billowing fumes like dejected old men.