Dark Lady's Chosen
Copyright © 2013 Gail Z. Martin
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN-10: 1-55404-717-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-717-8
First Edition February 22, 2013
Dedication
For Frances Zehner and Betty Martin, my mother and my "second mother." Their belief in me helped to sustain my vision for the books on the long road to publication.
Acknowledgements
Once again, bringing a book to life requires a brotherhood of dedicated people who are bound together for the love of the story. Thanks always to my husband, Larry, who is my first, best editor, and to my kids, Kyrie, Chandler and Cody who have to live with a writer. Thanks also to Christian Dunn, Mark Newton and Vincent Rospond for bringing my dream to life. And of course, thanks to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, for his support and encouragement. I also want to thank my friends at the Carolina and Arizona Renaissance Festivals, who have allowed me a glimpse into the life of a bard. And of course, thanks to all my readers and to the author and convention friends who make life on a book tour livable.
CHRONICLES OF THE NECROMANCER
THE FIRST YEAR of the reign of King Martris of Margolan, son of Bricen, did not usher in the hoped-for peace. Though Jared the Usurper wore the crown for less than a full year, the damage that he caused brought Margolan to the brink of famine and fractured the centuries-old Truce between mortals and vayash moru. Loyalists to the Usurper King went into hiding, none so defiant as Lord Curane of Lochlanimar, whose granddaughter was forced to bear Jared's bastard son.
Just after the Feast of the Departed, King Martris Drayke wed Princess Kiara, daughter of King Donelan and successor to the throne of Isencroft. Their wedding, a rare love match, also sealed a covenant made long ago between their two kingdoms. The marriage joins the crowns of Isencroft and Margolan until heirs can be born to place the kingdoms under separate rule once more. Within a month of the wedding, the king and queen announced Kiara's pregnancy. Succession assured, Tris had no choice but to lead his army south to Lochlanimar to lay siege to Curane's stronghold.
On the battlefield, the great energy river called the Flow is violently unstable, making it increasingly dangerous for Tris and his mages to counter Curane's blood magic. The Margolan army is a tattered shadow of its former greatness, hurriedly reformed after Tris took back the throne. Rebels who followed Ban Soterius in the uprising, relatives of the thousands of people who were murdered or disappeared under the Usurper's reign, and willing ghost fighters make up the bulk of the forces, along with a few dozen vayash moru and those mages who have defied the Sisterhood to go to war.
The siege is going badly. Nearly three months into the war, casualties are high, winter storms are fierce, and food is scarce. Plague has broken out among the soldiers, sent by Curane's blood mages. Magic and the Flow pose as great a threat as any of Curane's weapons, and Tris Drayke may lose his life, his kingdom and perhaps his soul if the tide cannot be turned.
Within Shekerishet, a traitor threatens Kiara's life. Several attempts on the new queen's life have barely been averted, and suspicion falls on old friends and trusted supporters. Alone in a foreign land, Kiara must rely on herself for protection. The crowns of two kingdoms depend on her ability to discover the traitor's identity and outmaneuver the dangers before it is too late.
In Isencroft, violent opposition to a joint throne raises the threat of civil war. Cam of Cairnrach, King Donelan's Champion, has been taken as a hostage to force the king's hand. Cam has discovered the identity of a traitor whose actions betray both King Donelan and Tris Drayke, but he may well die before he ever gets the chance send a warning.
Lord Jonmarc Vahanian faces treachery of a different sort in Dark Haven. Rogue vayash moru, led by Malesh of Tremont, have slaughtered mortal villages in an attempt to draw out Jonmarc. Malesh tried to bring Lady Carina across as a strike against Jonmarc, but the Dark Gift warred with her healing magic, leaving her neither mortal nor undead.
In desperation, Jonmarc swore Istra's Bargain, a soldier's vow to trade his soul to the Dark Lady in exchange for the death of his enemy. It is a suicide pact. He and Lord Gabriel of the Blood Council, along with vayash moru loyal to the Truce, have left to battle Malesh, aided by the shapeshifting vyrkin. Destroying Malesh before a cure can be found for Carina may assure her death, because of the strong bond between maker and fledgling. Malesh's threat to destroy a village every night left Jonmarc no choice, although the price of peace may be Carina's life.
Tris and Jonmarc thought that taking back the crown of Margolan would return the Winter Kingdoms to peace and prosperity. They were wrong.
DAY 1
Chapter One
Hoof beats thundered in the winter night. The wind was bitter cold. Jonmarc Vahanian pulled his collar up to shield his face. Thirty vayash morurode with him, outfitted for battle. Vyrkinloped alongside them, shape-shifters in the form of large wolves. The vayash moruwere the Dark Haven guard-almost all of its undead members, save the dozen who had remained to guard the manor house. The rest came at the summons of Riqua and Gabriel from their broods. Jonmarc was the only mortal among them. Tonight, anger and grief overrode fear.
They rode to end a war before it could begin. He rode to avenge Carina.
The skin on his chest burned over his heart where he had drawn the sign of the Lady. Jonmarc had made an oath-Istra's Bargain, as soldiers called it. In return for the death of his enemy, Malesh, Jonmarc had bargained with the Dark Lady at the cost of his soul. He didn't expect to return to Dark Haven.
The bond between maker and fledgling is so close that the fledgling dies the maker's death.Gabriel had warned him that destroying Malesh would also kill Carina, giving her less time to recover from Malesh's botched attack. Malesh's challenge to destroy a village every night unless Jonmarc faced him in battle left no other choice. And so they rode. Jonmarc let the battle coldness deaden feeling. He had one mission: to destroy Malesh quickly and painlessly. The truce between vayash moru and mortals would be preserved-at the cost of any chance to save Carina. After that-well, he didn't expect there to be an 'after that' for him. That was the bargain.
"Remember what I told you." Laisren, his vayash moruweapons master, rode up alongside him. "Fledglings die easy-wood or metal through the heart. Direct sunlight. Decapitation. But if Malesh has older vayash moruon his side, it gets tougher. Stabbing through the heart immobilizes, but it won't kill the oldest ones. Sunlight cripples but won't destroy-not if they're more than a few hundred years old. The only sure way to destroy one of the Old Ones is to cut off the head."
Jonmarc glared at him. "How do I know which ones are the Old Ones?"
Laisren's smile was chilling. "When nothing else destroys them."
Months of training with Laisren had honed Jonmarc's legendary sword skills sharp enough to hold his own against a v
ayash moruopponent. Pitched battle against dozens of undead fighters would be something else entirely. Jonmarc had hedged his bet. Underneath his right sleeve was a single crossbow quarrel in a powerful spring-loaded launcher. It was his last resort, useful only when he was close enough for point-blank range. Malesh was young enough in the Dark Gift that a quarrel through the heart might destroy him. If not, it would immobilize him long enough for Jonmarc to strike the fatal blow. Under his left sleeve was a knife sheathed for quick release. A baldric across his chest held more knives, and a crossbow was slung over his shoulder. In his right boot, he had a blade that he could slip forward. It wasn't much, but he hoped it was enough.
A forbidding stand of massive trees stretched between the village and Dark Haven. Local legend held the forest to be haunted, and few hunters would venture into these woods even in dire times. As they rode, Jonmarc sensed the presence of spirits around them as wisps of green light flickered in the distance between the trees. A year on the road with Tris Drayke, Margolan's Summoner king, had made the appearance of ghosts unremarkable to Jonmarc. The revenants seemed to be waiting, watching their group in anticipation. Ghosts were the least of Jonmarc's worries tonight.
Gabriel, riding beside Jonmarc at the head of the group, reined in his horse and raised his hand to signal the others to slow. They dismounted, and tethered their horses. The road below them sloped downward toward the small village of Crombey, a clearing surrounded on three sides by dense forest. A few dozen homes lay quiet in the moonlight, smoke rising from the chimneys. Just before second bells, the village was still. At the edge of the forest was the Caliggan Crossroads. The main road ran parallel to the woods, and at the crossroads, the road branched, offering a dirt path into the darkness of the forest, or down the hill into the village. The trampled snow made it plain that Jonmarc and his party were the only ones foolhardy enough to take the forest road. Dark stories told of a sharp-toothed crone who would set upon travelers at the crossroads and feast on their hearts. Tonight, the crossroads was empty.
In the distance, bells tolled twice.
As the last tones of the bells faded, dark shapes streaked from the forest, moving fast, gliding above the snow.
"It begins," Gabriel murmured, stepping forward to meet a dark-clad opponent.
Jonmarc drew his sword and stood ready, gripping the hilt two-handed. He struggled against his own mortal fear and the pounding of his heart for the awareness that would let him track the movements of his opponents. He had the fleeting image of a slim, blond man barely out of his teens as the first vayash morustruck at him. Jonmarc wheeled, landing a solid Eastmark kick that threw his enemy backward. The black-clad man lunged again, and Jonmarc swung with his sword, connecting hard with the attacker's shoulder and opening a gash that would have felled a mortal. Jonmarc could hear laughter as the man swung his own sword, a pounding blow that made Jonmarc stagger backward as he parried.
Jonmarc could not spare his attention for the fighting around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a force at least as large as his own was engaged against them. He could hear the clang of steel and the snarls of the vyrkin. A second vayash morujoined the blond man, circling Jonmarc like a predator.
"Where's Malesh?" Jonmarc shouted. "This was his challenge. I came. Didn't he have the balls to finish what he started?"
"Malesh will come in his own time," the blond man said with a cold smile. There was a blur of motion. Jonmarc let his intuition guide him and reacted more by feel than by sight. He swung hard; his blade connected again. At the edge of his sight, he saw the second vayash morumove.
Jonmarc lashed out with his sword and wheeled into a high Eastmark kick. His blade sank deep into the blond man's chest, spilling dark ichor across the snow. The vayash morustepped back, sliding along the blade, and began to tremble. Jonmarc lunged, twisting the sword, and the vayash moruarched and screamed. The second man attacked faster than Jonmarc could turn, and he felt the vayash moru's sword slice painfully into his forearm. Before Jonmarc could swing again, there was a rush of air and a large, gray form sprang from the shadows. A huge wolf tackled the vayash moru, teeth bared, knocking him backward. Behind them in the snow, the body of the first vayash moru, stabbed through the heart, crumbled into dust.
The vayash moruslammed the pommel of its sword against the vyrkin's skull as the wolf lunged for its throat. Jonmarc heard the snick of sharp teeth as the vayash morugrabbed at the scruff of the wolf's neck. There was madness in the vyrkin'sviolet eyes as the animal snarled and twisted, pawing at the air for the chance to sink its teeth into its opponent. The vayash moruripped the animal free, throwing it hard against the trunk of a tree and tearing a deep gash through the vyrkin'sshoulder.
Jonmarc swung hard, striking for the neck, but the vayash morumoved faster, with a kick that knocked Jonmarc's feet out from under him. The vayash morupinned him, bending Jonmarc's sword arm back painfully and pressing against his rib cage with the heel of his free hand until there was the snap of a rib breaking and Jonmarc twisted in pain. "Malesh said we couldn't kill you," the vayash morusaid, and Jonmarc could see amusement in his opponent's icy blue eyes. "But he didn't say we couldn't have some fun." The vayash morubrought his knee down, hard, on Jonmarc's thigh.
Jonmarc stifled a cry and let the knife in his left arm sheath fall into his hand. He slammed the blade into his attacker's back, sliding it through his ribs and deep into the heart. The vayash morujerked upward, his blue eyes widening, as ichor oozed from the edge of his mouth. In one fluid move, Jonmarc flipped him backward, ignoring his own pain to straddle the vayash moruand bring his sword down and through its neck. The head rolled clear in the snow, spurting dark liquid that smelled like old blood. Jonmarc scrambled clear as the body began to disintegrate.
"Behind you!" Gabriel's voice cut through the darkness and Jonmarc staggered to his feet just in time to parry a broadsword's stroke that nearly tore his sword from his grip. His attacker was a woman whose dark hair was caught back in a tight braid. Her eyes glinted with hatred. In the shadows, the wounded vyrkinwhimpered, but did not rise.
Jonmarc crouched, knife in one hand, sword ready in the other. He did not wait for her attack. With a cry, he charged toward her, bringing his sword down with all his strength as he let his dagger fly. The dagger caught her in the chest as the sword cleaved her from shoulder to hip. Jonmarc snatched his blade free and swung again, slicing clean through her neck. He stopped only long enough to retrieve his knife, rising in a defensive stance.
He felt air move behind him too late to turn. Strong hands seized him from behind by the upper arms, immobilizing him. The strain on his broken ribs made Jonmarc gasp in pain. A dark-haired vayash moruwith the coloring of a Trevath native advanced on him with a cold smile. The man landed a hard punch below Jonmarc's ribcage that made Jonmarc double over, and then struck him hard enough across the face that Jonmarc's vision swam and he almost blacked out.
"Hail, Lord of Dark Haven," the Trev mocked. Blood flecked Jonmarc's split lip.
"Malesh send you to do his dirty work?" Jonmarc growled, lifting his head defiantly. The Trev swung again with a blow that made Jonmarc's ears ring.
"The rest we kill. You-he wants alive. For now." The Trev stood back, readying for another punch.
Jonmarc bucked backward, counting on his captor behind him to remain solid. He lashed out with his feet, sliding the blade in his boot out and kicking for the Trev's chest. His foot connected hard and the Trev registered a look of shock as a black stain began to spread across his chest from the blade sunk deep in his heart.
There was a howl and a snarl, and Jonmarc felt an impact as the man pinning his arms behind him staggered, loosening his grip enough for Jonmarc to twist out of his hold. The vyrkintook the vayash moruto the ground, sinking its teeth into his neck and closing its powerful jaws. Beneath the vyrkin, the vayash morutwisted and bucked, trying to wrest free. There was a crunch as the vyrkin's teeth snapped bone and crushed sinew.
"Get back!"
Jonmarc cried, readying his sword. The vyrkinsprang free and Jonmarc's sword whistled through the air, severing the vayash moru's head. An acrid smell filled the air as the body crumbled.
Jonmarc looked around him, sword raised and ready. The snow was littered with dark patches of dust. In the moonlight, it was difficult to tell his vayash moruallies from their attackers, but Jonmarc thought the majority of his fighters were still moving. A shrill keen split the night air, and as one, the attacking vayash morutook flight. Gabriel and the others gave chase, but only as far as the forest's edge.
A whimper close at hand focused Jonmarc's attention. A large male wolf was seated next to a crumpled form near a tree. Jonmarc scanned the horizon once more for danger, and, sword still ready, walked over to where the wolf sat. A second wolf lay in a pool of blood in the snow beneath the tree. The wounded wolf twitched and moaned, then gasped and fell silent, its breath shallow and fast. From the angle of its body, Jonmarc guessed its spine was broken from the force of hitting the tree.
The male wolf nuzzled the fallen one and raised his head to howl. The wolf on the ground relaxed and shuddered one more time. As Jonmarc watched, the body began to shimmer as if the air around it were bending and folding in on itself. The blood-covered body of a woman lay still in the snow. Jonmarc knelt next to Eiria and covered her with his cloak.
One by one, he heard the rest of the vyrkinpad up near them until a circle of twelve wolves ringed him. The large male wolf, which Jonmarc knew was Yestin, howled again, and the pack responded. Chilling as a wolf's howl was, never had Jonmarc heard the depth of pain that filled this cry. Jonmarc heard a light crunch in the snow behind him and turned to see Gabriel and Laisren.
"I'm sorry," Jonmarc murmured to the wolf-Yestin. He looked up at Gabriel. "How bad?"
Gabriel's expression was somber. "Five of ours. Ten of theirs. But either Uri lied about the number of vayash moruMalesh made, or-and I think this is more likely-he's been joined by others. Malesh is less than a hundred years old. The vayash moruhe made himself should be much weaker than all of those who fought for Dark Haven. It should have been a rout. It wasn't. I'm afraid the war has already begun." He frowned as he looked at Jonmarc, and ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt as a makeshift bandage. "You're hurt."
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