Dark Lady's Chosen

by Gail Z. Martin

  "Yes."

  At that, the group's leader's arrogance was tempered, and he gave a curt hand signal for the others to lower their weapons. He touched his forelock in acknowledgement.

  "Beggin' your pardon, m'lord. We've been looking to join up with you. The word's out that you've been to war against the biters that have been tearing up the villagers. We've come to join your army."

  Jonmarc's teeth were clenched tightly enough that he could feel a muscle twitch in his jaw. "The truce has been broken by a few rogue vayash moru. The vyrkin are on our side, trying to protect the humans. So are most of the vayash moru."

  "On our side?" the wolf-cloaked man repeated incredulously. "My cousins were ripped apart along with their sheep by vayash moru. You told us to say nothing. You said you'd take care of it. Well you didn't save Westormere, and you didn't save Crombey. Now you don't want us to fight? Just whose side areyou on, Lord Vahanian?"

  "Malesh of Tremont is trying to start a war. It's a war neither side can win."

  The wolf-cloaked man laughed. "Oh, we can win all right. Biters burn and the man-dogs bleed. There are more of us than there are of them. What I want to know is, why do you defend them? They said you were some great hero. I don't see a hero. All I see is a traitor."

  "See what you want. Go home now, and you won't get hurt."

  The man in the wolf cloak gave an incredulous snort. "Won't get hurt? My cousins are dead-and they'll stay dead, unlike the biter scum. My mother had kin in Westormere, and they're all dead-every single one of them. I don't give a damn about getting hurt, your lordship," he spat. "I want revenge."

  "And I want you to get the hell out of my way and go home before you regret it."

  "Go screw the Goddess." With that, the wolf-cloaked leader raised his sword and launched himself at Jonmarc. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc saw one of the bowmen level his bow. Jonmarc parried the leader's wild swing and a dagger flicked from his left hand, pegging the lead bowman in the forearm so that he dropped his bow.

  Another quarrel zinged past, narrowly missing Jonmarc's shoulder. He pulled a short sword into his left hand, pressing the leader back as his two swords scythed dangerously. He pivoted, holding off the leader's press as he swung into an Eastmark kick, slamming one of the other bowmen to the ground before he had a chance to notch his bow. The leader's attention was broken momentarily, giving Jonmarc the opportunity he needed. He ran the man through, barely turning fast enough to parry the crazed attack of two more of the rogue hunters as they came at him with a sickle and an axe. Jonmarc dove and rolled, coming up quickly enough to slice into the side of the axeman, who fell with a scream, blood bubbling from his lips.

  A quarrel ripped into Jonmarc's left shoulder and he staggered, barely dodging a lethal swing from the scythe. It missed his belly, but opened up a gash along his chest. The pain numbed his arm and he dropped his short sword. The man with the scythe laughed, brandishing his weapon. Jonmarc heard the archer reload. He charged at the scythe wielder, dodging aside at the last moment as he heard the quarrel launch. The arrow skimmed above his back, catching the scythe man full in the chest. The man fell with an astonished look on his face as blood stained the wolf pelts around his cloak red and he sagged face forward into the snow.

  Jonmarc rolled to his feet and came up behind the bowman. In one movement he brought the heel of his left hand against the bowman's back, launching his hidden arrow. It cut through the man's cloak and buried itself quills-deep into his back.

  A biting pain struck Jonmarc in the neck. He reached up to feel a dart just below his ear. The sixth man was laughing as he pulled a long axe from a sheath on his back, advancing slowly toward Jonmarc, swinging his blade.

  Jonmarc could feel the same drug that had tranquilized the vyrkinbegin to flow through his veins. The image of his attacker blurred, and Jonmarc stumbled, grasping his sword two-handed. Jonmarc struggled for breath as he shook his head to clear his vision. The axeman was in no hurry, content to let the drug do its work. "We brought the axe to finish off biters," the man leered. "But it works just as well on traitors."

  The axe swung, painfully slicing into Jonmarc's wounded left shoulder, but he dodged the worst of it. The swinging axe put its wielder momentarily off balance, and Jonmarc seized his advantage, scoring a slice that opened a bloody gash from shoulder to hip, though not deep enough to kill. The axe man screamed in rage and set about with his weapon, swinging with his full might. Jonmarc dove to the ground and kicked, sending a shower of blinding snow into the axeman's face. Jonmarc rolled, neatly slicing the axe wielder's hamstrings. The man crumpled to the ground, blood turning the snow into a red slush. Jonmarc staggered to his feet, reclaiming his short sword from the ground with the numbed fingers of his left hand.

  "I should leave you for the wolves and the bear to find," he said, hoping he could fight off the drug long enough to reach Wolvenskorn. "When I get where I'm going, I'll send someone back for you-if you're not dead by then."

  The whirl of a blade was his only warning as a small dagger flew toward him, catching him in the thigh. The axeman was dragging himself toward the fallen crossbow that lay an arm's length away in the snow. Jonmarc lunged forward, catching his attacker through the chest with his sword just as the man rolled with the loaded crossbow leveled at Jonmarc's heart. The bow fell from the man's hands as his body spasmed and he retched up blood. Jonmarc pulled his sword free and the movement nearly sent him sprawling. He staggered toward his horse, and leaned against it long enough to jerk the dagger from his thigh. He could feel warm blood seeping underneath his clothing from his battle wounds, and knew that it would be a race to reach Wolvenskorn before predators picked up his scent.

  Jonmarc dragged himself up into his saddle, leaning forward to clutch the horse's mane, fighting to stay astride as the drug made his head reel. He gave a sharp kick to the horse's side with his heel, gritting his teeth against the pain as the horse began to move, urging him faster in the places where the wind had blown the snow from the frozen dirt of the road. Behind him, the injured vyrkinwhimpered with the jarring beat of the horse's movement.

  "Hang on," Jonmarc murmured, as much to himself as to Yestin. More than once he'd ridden back from battle more dead than alive, but this time, it was the drug's assault on his senses that endangered him even more than pain or blood loss. He clung to the horse's mane white-knuckled as the horse navigated the treacherous roads. Once, he glanced to his side and saw that blood stains trailed them in the snow.

  Every hit of the horse's hooves sent a wave of pain through him, enough to keep his battered body fighting off the tranquilizing drug. He turned the horse down the shadowed lane toward Wolvenskorn. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement among the trees. They'd better be vyrkin instead of real wolves or I'm screwed.

  Jonmarc tensed, waiting for predators to spring from cover, expecting the snap of fangs against his thigh. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, jarred back by the pain. In the distance, he could make out the shadowed form of Wolvenskorn. He remembered hearing the wolves howl before the darkness closed in around him and he fell.

  Nothing existed but a vortex of pain and shadow. Dreams and memories swirled around Jonmarc. Nightmare images loomed before him, perfect in sight, sound and scent. Fifteen once more, he could smell the fires as his village burned, waking to find himself beneath the dead body of his neighbor. Blood covered him-his own and that of others. Sharp pain lanced through his side where the raider's sword had sliced into him. Jonmarc pushed the body off of him and felt the sticky, warm wetness of his own blood. He staggered to his feet, bracing for the swing of a sword that would finish him off. Silence was the only sound. The village was a ruin of burned cottages and corpses. He stumbled home. The roof of the forge was gone, and the thatched roof of their home had burned.

  Jonmarc climbed over the rubble, calling for his mother and brothers. He remembered too well seeing his father fall at the village gates. Silence answered him. Near th
e forge, he found two of his brothers nearly cleaved in two by the strike of the raiders' axes. He shouted for his mother and his youngest brother, but the shouts echoed without reply. Near the hearth, he spotted his mother's body, face down. Struggling against grief to breathe, Jonmarc turned her over. The same sword strike that had run her through had also pierced the small child she had tried to shelter with her body. Both lay cold and staring. Gone.

  Memories shifted, but the smell of burning wood remained. Gray-skinned beasts stalked the night. Jonmarc set about himself with his blade, just a few years older than when his family had been slaughtered but already a promising swordsman. He could hear the shouts and screams of the other men in this village as they attacked the magicked monsters with hoes and axes. Across the green, Jonmarc glimpsed the village butcher, cleavers in both hands, charging at the beasts.

  Jonmarc turned at the sound of a snarl, barely in time to fend off one of the lantern-jawed beasts before its fangs snapped on his shoulder. His blade cut it through the chest, almost severing its head. As it flailed, one of its razor-sharp claws raked across the left side of his head, opening a gash from ear to shoulder and bathing him in his own blood. Wounded and near exhaustion, Jonmarc realized that the square around him had grown still. He had no idea how much time had passed since the monsters appeared from nowhere, but he was certain the red-robed mage was involved, the mage who sent him into the tombs for the amulet that hung on a strap around his neck.

  Jonmarc stumbled back toward the cottage behind the forge. He'd told Shanna to bar the door behind him, but the door was ripped from its hinges. Shouting her name, Jonmarc threw aside the splintered wood. The inside of the one-room cottage was completely destroyed. Claw marks left long stripes down the walls. Shanna lay in a pool of blood near the bed. Her hands were clutched to her belly, where one of the beasts had slashed her deeply enough that the child she carried spilled out onto the floor beside her. They were as cold as the winter's night. He heard himself screaming...

  "Jonmarc."

  The voice didn't belong here, not in the time and place of these memories, although something about it was familiar.

  "Jonmarc."

  The voice was a lifeline out of this nightmare place, and Jonmarc clung to the sound of it. The voice grew stronger, and as the fog of memories cleared, Jonmarc could see the image of the vyrkinshaman in his mind.

  "Hang on to my voice. It's going to get worse before it gets better. The drug they used is powerful. Before it wears off, you'll wish they'd killed you. I'm sorry."

  The memories receded, but pain returned as Jonmarc became aware of his body once more. His vision was still too blurred to see, and his head hurt too much to open his eyes for long, but a stolen glimpse by firelight told him that he was probably inside Wolvenskorn, in a windowless bedroom. He was drenched in sweat, then racked with chills. Without warning, a sharp pain in his belly doubled him up. Sure he had been run through, he felt for blood but found only the spasming tightness of his own abdomen. Strong hands pushed him back into the bed as convulsions made his body buck and jerk violently enough that he felt muscles strain. Someone pressed a towel between his teeth.

  The pain lessened, only to come back with a vengeance moments later. Alternately freezing and roasting, wet with sweat and parched with thirst, Jonmarc lost all track of time. His shoulder throbbed where the quarrel had pierced him.

  "When will it end?" The voice was Gabriel's.

  "I don't know. He's strong. I've only seen this once before. One of the vyrkinmanaged to shift before the drug took him. He didn't regain consciousness for two days."

  "Can't you help him?"

  "I've done all I can. The flesh wounds are healed. He broke his collar bone when he fell from the horse. It's mended, but only barely, and if he keeps thrashing like this, it may break again. The drug isn't meant for humans. It's to bring down dangerous animals. They aren't meant to survive it, so the aftermath isn't usually an issue."

  "Will he live?"

  "Oh, yes. But he'll be sore."

  Jonmarc stopped counting the cycles of painful muscle contractions. Finally, when the fire on the hearth had burned low, his vision cleared. His head throbbed, and every muscle in his body ached as if he'd been beaten. He waited for the agonizing spasms to continue, but as the moments passed without pain, he gave himself over to utter fatigue.

  Sleep. I will guard your dreams.

  Too tired to fight, Jonmarc gave himself up to the darkness.

  "How long?" Jonmarc's voice was a painful rasp as he forced his dry throat to speak. The vyrkinshaman helped him sit forward and sip water from a cup.

  "Twelve candlemarks."

  "Malesh-"

  "You're in no shape to worry about Malesh. Gabriel doesn't think he'll make his move on the Lady's temple until tomorrow night-Candles Night. Rest now." The shaman let Jonmarc lay back, and wiped his forehead with a cool, wet cloth. "You've had a bad day."

  "Yestin?"

  The shaman's expression darkened. "He'll live. I gather that the ones who attacked him did this to you?"

  "Locals gone hunting for vyrkinand vayash moru."

  "Thank you for what you did. I know protecting us sets you against many of your own people."

  Jonmarc managed a harsh, sharp laugh. "My own people have been trying to kill me for years. Nothing new about that."

  Jonmarc heard a door swing open, and sensed, more than heard, someone else enter the room. He guessed it was a vayash morueven before Gabriel spoke. "He's awake?"

  "Only just," the shaman replied.

  Gabriel moved to stand at the side of Jonmarc's bed. He looked more worried than Jonmarc had ever seen him. "Good to see that you're still with us. How do you feel?"

  "Ass-kicked."

  "I sent scouts back along the road you traveled. They found the bodies. Six to one. No one can say you've lost your edge."

  Jonmarc managed a tight-lipped smile. "After Laisren, mortals move slowly."

  "True." Gabriel paused. "I thought you'd want to know that Kolin was here the night before last. Carina's awake."

  Jonmarc attempted to sit up. The shaman gently pressed him back down. "She's alive? How is she?"

  "Weakening. She's subsisting on a mixture of blood and milk that can't sustain her for long. Kolin said that Carina and Taru have tried to tap into the Flow to heal her, but it hasn't worked."

  "She's running out of time."

  "Kolin says that Royster thinks there may be a solution. Carina believes the Flow is calling to her. It wants her to heal it. Once healed, it may be able to restore her."

  "She tried to heal the Flow once. You were there. She nearly died."

  "This time, she's counting on Tris Drayke to anchor her soul."

  Jonmarc looked at Gabriel as if the other had lost his mind. "Tris is at war near Trevath."

  "They've sent a letter with vayash morucouriers to Tris. Kolin said they know Tris can't leave the war, but they're betting that with the way the Flow is tearing itself apart, it's making it difficult for him to fight. The letter asks him to unite his magic with the Flow at the seventh bells tomorrow evening, Candles Night, to anchor Carina's soul while she enters the Flow."

  Jonmarc struggled to quell his fear. "She'll die."

  Gabriel's expression showed that he shared Jonmarc's pain. "She's dying now. Kolin says that if she can't be healed, she wants to die for a purpose." He paused. "She knows you made the Bargain."

  Jonmarc met Gabriel's eyes. "The Magistrate doesn't believe in the Bargain. He said to ask you about the Lady and Her chosen champions."

  A moment's hesitation flickered in Gabriel's eyes. "Just before Haunts a year ago, the Lady came to me in a dream. She warned of a great darkness to come." A self-deprecating smile touched the corners of his mouth. "In life, I was something of a scholar. After death, my thirst to understand those mysteries became even stronger. I pledged myself to the service of the Lady lifetimes ago." He looked at the fire for a few moments, as if remembering someth
ing from long ago.

  "The Lady sent me to make sure that you encountered Tris Drayke. That happened without my help, so I waited until you needed a hand before I introduced myself."

  Jonmarc remembered. He'd gone into town to find out how close Jared's men were on their heels, only to be ambushed in an alley by someone with an old score to settle. Without Gabriel's help, Jonmarc was quite sure he would have died that night. "So it was a set-up-the whole thing about my agreeing to guide Tris?"

  Gabriel shook his head. "No. The choice was always yours, to stay or to go. I was never to force your hand. I was merely back-up."

  Back-up with an uncanny knowledge of exactly when to appear. No, Gabriel had never forced any of them to do anything, he'd just made the way they chose easier to navigate. "Is that why you offered to come with me to Dark Haven?"

  Gabriel looked at him for a moment before answering. His gaze strayed to the mark of the Lady inked on Jonmarc's chest above his heart. "In part. Putting Tris Drayke on Margolan's throne didn't solve everything."

  "I've noticed."

  "I believe there's a greater darkness yet to come-whether it lies in this war or some threat we have yet to see. I've sought the counsel of the Lady, and the answer is always the same. 'Protect my champion.'"

  "Do I get a say in any of this?"

  "It's entirely up to you."

  "What if I decide I'm through getting my ass kicked?"

  "Events will take their course."

  "How do you know I won't just walk out of here?"

  Gabriel's eyes met his. "You won't."

  It was the same answer Tris had given Jonmarc in Westmarch, and in his heart, Jonmarc knew it was true. Fool that he was, he could no more walk away from what was going on and refuse to fight than he could fly. Not even when it cost him everything he loved.

  "For the record, I hate this 'champion' business."

  A flicker of understanding glimmered in Gabriel's eyes. "That's why I didn't tell you. Would it have made a difference, even if I had?"

  "No. Not really." What Gabriel called "choice" Jonmarc had seen as a series of practical steps, each following from the one before it. Tris's quest to retake the throne not only offered Jonmarc long overdue vengeance, but more importantly, the chance to end the suffering that Jared's reign caused to Jonmarc's homeland. In spite of everything he'd been through and the bounties on his head, he couldn't turn his back on Margolan. Staden's gift of Dark Haven had been the chance to turn his life around Jonmarc hadn't realized he'd craved until it was placed in front of him. It had been his opportunity to pursue Carina as an equal instead of an outlaw, the chance to take back his life from fate. He'd dared to dream of a future-until Malesh's strike on Westormere pitched the world he knew into chaos.