by Shae Ford
Harbinger
By Shae Ford
Text copyright © 2012 Shae Ford
All Rights Reserved
For my mother, Brandy; my father, Terry; and my little sister, Emily
You always knew this day would come,
even when I couldn’t see it.
Thank you for believing in me
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Dragongirl
Chapter 1: The Last Arrow
Chapter 2: An Unfortunate Twist of Fate
Chapter 3: The Traveler
Chapter 4: The Sovereign Five
Chapter 5: Bow-Breaker
Chapter 6: The Singing Sword
Chapter 7: Wolves with Iron Teeth
Chapter 8: A Long Climb
Chapter 9: The Jackrabbit
Chapter 10: Garron the Shrewd
Chapter 11: A Mistake
Chapter 12: Luck and Skill
Chapter 13: Women’s Undergarments
Chapter 14: Crow’s Cross
Chapter 15: A Hasty Escape
Chapter 16: Bartholomew’s Pass
Chapter 17: Iden and Quicklegs
Chapter 18: Pirates?
Chapter 19: Anchorgloam
Chapter 20: A Bargain
Chapter 21: The Wright Arises
Chapter 22: Galley-Scrubbing
Chapter 23: Dangerous Pets
Chapter 24: A Fancy
Chapter 25: The Tempest
Chapter 26: Secrets
Chapter 27: Battlemage Jake
Chapter 28: The Witch of Wendelgrimm
Chapter 29: Witchslayer
Chapter 30: Gravy Bay
Chapter 31: Dark Things
Chapter 32: The Unraveling Plan
Chapter 33: Madness
Chapter 34: Foolishness
Chapter 35: Liquid Courage
Chapter 36: A Warrior’s Boon
Chapter 37: Fire
Chapter 38: New Sails
Chapter 39: Until the Last Sun Rises
Prologue
The Dragongirl
Earl Hubert pressed a delicate silver goblet against his fat lips. He sucked down three mouthfuls of wine without even taking a breath. The sound of his slurping reverberated obnoxiously off the dining room ceiling, but the servants, ringed around the walls, kept their eyes trained carefully on the floor.
A hunk of venison sat on the plate between Hubert’s fleshy arms, still warm in its own juices. Steam rose from the pink grain against the chilly mountain air. He inhaled the seasoned tendrils and smacked his lips. Then he reached for his knife.
The first steaming bite was almost to his mouth when the door slammed open.
"Your Earlship!"
Hubert twisted around as far as his sizable belly would let him. He glared at the sweaty, panting guard who stumbled through the doorway. "What is it? You'd better have a good reason to interrupt my din —"
"Your Earlship, we've found her," the guard said quickly. His eyes were wild, he dashed the wet lengths of hair from across his forehead and took ragged breaths. "She’s wounded — we've got her in chains. Come quickly!"
He was speaking nonsense: gasping, heaving nonsense. And in the meantime, Hubert’s dinner was getting cold. “Her who?” he said.
The guard looked at him incredulously. His eyes grew wider; blood throbbed at the vein in his neck. His chest heaved in time with the throbbing. None of the blood seemed to be reaching his face. Not a word left his open mouth.
But he didn’t have to speak. Hubert read his terror as clearly as the panicked, hurried words of a castle scribe. All the feeling left his body and dropped straight into his gut. The knife slipped out from between his fingers and clattered to the floor. "Her?"
The guard nodded.
Hubert jumped to his feet. His backside toppled his chair and his belly sent the plate of venison flying. “Where?”
“The courtyard,” the guard said, jumping out of the way as Hubert barreled past him.
Tapestries and flickering torches blurred out the side of his eyes as Hubert rushed down the hallway. Two sturdy wood doors loomed ahead of him, and he shoved them open with a thrust of his pudgy hands.
Evening was settling, taking the warmth of the sun down with it. Hubert pulled his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders and his labored breath came out in puffs. Summer in the mountains was just as miserable as the winter — the only real difference was the lack of snow.
As he waddled to the far corner of the courtyard, he saw that the entire guard stood clumped together. Every sword was drawn and gripped firmly in trembling hands. Along the walls above them, archers stood at the ready. Their bows were arched back and their arrows tucked under their chins. Each of their unblinking eyes was locked on the beating heart of a single target.
The guards were so busy watching their captive that they didn’t hear Hubert approach. “Move!” he said, shoving through the first line. “Get out of my way!”
They scrambled to obey him — and the ones who didn’t move quickly enough were bounced aside by Hubert’s girth. When the guards finally parted and he could see, Hubert stopped. His legs stiffened as all the warmth left his face.
Three strides away, a young woman knelt in the dirt. Though she looked no older than seventeen, her body was propped up against the castle walls — held there by several lengths of chain that wrapped around her every limb. Locks hung from the chains in a mad tangle, holding her bonds tight.
She kept her head bent and the dark waves of her hair hid her eyes. A steady stream of blood dripped off the end of her nose and pooled in the dirt beneath her. Every drop that struck the ground sizzled and popped — like water striking fire.
Hubert let out an astonished gasp of air. He realized that he never really expected to find her. For years, he’d seen nothing — not a charred rock or a toppled tree. Not even so much as a clear trail. All the patrols he sent to track her down never returned. He didn’t know if it was the perils of the mountains that claimed them … or her.
“What should we do, Your Earlship?”
The question brought Hubert back to the moment. The guard who spoke watched him through a swollen eye. His lip was split and blood stained the collar of his gray tunic. The gold wolf’s head on his torso was covered in dirt. Several of the others had cuts and bruises. One man had his bloodied arm wrapped against his chest.
Apparently, their prisoner had put up a fight.
“We’ll send word to the King,” Hubert finally said. “He’ll want to punish the traitor in person. But we have to be sure it’s really her.” He nodded to the guard with the wounded arm. “You there — pull her hair back.”
The guard’s face crumpled. “Your Earlship, please —”
“Do it, you whimpering lout! Or I’ll have you run through.” A one-armed soldier wasn’t any good to him. At least if the girl managed to escape her bonds, Hubert wouldn’t lose an able-bodied man.
The guard bit his lip and inched forward. He kept his body as far away from the girl as possible, and stretched his good arm towards her. His fingers barely touched her hair when her head suddenly jerked up.
The guard yelped and fell on his rump. He scrambled hand over knees to get away from her and dove into the safety of his companions, who lowered their swords and took a collective step backwards. Above them, wood creaked as the archers tightened their grips.
When he saw her eyes, Hubert’s gut twisted in a knot. Now there was no mistaking who she was.
Bright green and blazing, they went straight through him. They locked onto his and burned their way into his soul. He knew she could sense his every feeling — his every fear. She must have heard how his heart raced, beca
use she lurched towards him. Hot blood poured from her wound as she quelled the instinct to attack. She could crush him in a second — Hubert knew this well. And even though he knew the danger … he couldn’t help but admire her.
It was human weakness that brought him a step closer. Beneath the dried blood that caked her face she was achingly beautiful. With the shadow of her hair and the blaze of her eyes, with the bend of her full lips set against her pale skin … she had a face that men would die for.
“Is it her, Your Earlship?” one of the guards asked.
Hubert collected himself quickly, shaking his head in an attempt to free himself from her spell: “Yes. It’s the Dragongirl.”
At the sound of his words, her eyes flickered. They slipped out of focus. “I cannot stay," she said. "I'm searching for something. It's very important."
The flatness in her voice caught him off-guard. There was something wrong with her. "What, no insults? No oaths of a gruesome — albeit creative — death to all who stand in your way? You're not the bloodthirsty criminal His Majesty makes you out to be.”
She didn't seem to hear him. "Release me. I must leave this instant, it's very important," she said again.
The blow to her head must have knocked something loose. Yes, that was it. And with so much blood gone she couldn’t possibly have any strength left to fight. Hubert might have skipped with excitement, if he thought he could actually get himself off the ground. For once, he had the upper hand.
"I'm afraid release is simply out of the question," he said, his confidence growing with every second she remained bound. "You'll stay in the dungeon for the night, and in the morning we'll turn you over to the King. I’m sure he’ll want to string your traitorous carcass up with the others."
She was quiet for a breath. Then her request came again — this time as a growl. "Release me."
Hubert smirked. "No. Guards! Take her to the dungeon.”
Two men hauled her up roughly by her arms and began dragging her away. Hubert smirked at her for a final time before he made his way back towards the castle. He was thinking about how he would spend the bounty gold when he heard a noise that made his heart shudder to a stop: it was the shriek of breaking iron, of chains splitting in two and locks falling away. He spun around and watched in horror as the fire in the Dragongirl's eyes swelled to a blaze.
Hubert’s legs had never moved faster. He hauled himself across the courtyard, screaming for the guards to open the gate. He fell through the doors just as a monstrous roar shook the ground.
“Close them, you fools!” he said, kicking the nearest men with his boot heels as he tried to roll off his back.
One guard looked shocked. “But Your Earlship, what about the others? They’ll be killed —!”
“We’ll all be killed if you don’t bolt that door!” Hubert bellowed over the top of him.
Fear won out over bravery. The guards slammed the doors and slid the gigantic iron bolt in place. Outside, Hubert could hear the panicked charge of men trying to make it into the castle. He covered his ears to keep from hearing their screams.
“She’s going to kill us all,” a man close to Hubert moaned. “We have to write to the King —”
"And tell him what? That we had the Kingdom’s most wanted outlaw in our grasp — and we let her escape? No!” Hubert shouted. "The King can never hear about this."
They cringed as something heavy slammed into the door with a sickening crunch. Moments later, dark liquid slid underneath it, trickling along the path of the mortar. Hubert tucked his legs tighter beneath him to keep it from touching his boots.
“She wanted freedom. She’ll leave when the courtyard is clear," he said, mostly to reassure himself. "But wounded as she is, she won't get far. The Unforgivable Mountains will finish her … and the King never has to know."
Chapter 1
The Last Arrow
Kael took a deep breath. He let it out slowly.
“Today is the day,” he said, for about the hundredth time that morning. He hoped that if he said it often enough, he might actually start to believe it.
A gust of wind made the tall pines creak above him. He glanced up at their towering branches and strained to see where their tops met the sky. The trees in the Unforgivable Mountains were the tallest in the Kingdom — they were even taller than the trees in the Grandforest, or so he’d read.
He was convinced he would never know for sure.
The rough surface of the branch he perched on dug mercilessly into his rump. A meager layer of skin was all that separated his bones from bark, and every few minutes he had to change positions to keep from going numb. But if his plan worked, it’d all be worth it.
He tightened his grip on the curved redwood bow clutched in his hand. The weapon was a lot like its owner: plain and thin. Every male in Tinnark had the exact same bow. He’d carry it with him always, and when he grew old and the winter frost set in his joints, he’d retire it proudly above his mantle.
For most, the bow was a symbol of freedom. But for Kael it was a burden — a constant reminder of what his grandfather, Amos, referred to as his cursed pig-headedness. And if things went wrong …
No, he wouldn’t allow himself to think about it. Not now. Not today. Instead, he would do his best to keep his mind focused on something else.
He kept a small book balanced in the crook of his lap. Its worn cover lay open across his knees, the battered pages flipped to the first. Along the spine there used to be gold letters that read Atlas of the Adventurer, but after years of being shoved into Kael’s pocket they’d faded to nothing.
The Atlas began with a brief history of the Kingdom’s six regions. He’d read it so many times that he probably could have recited it without looking. But in the solitude of the woods he couldn’t help but read it aloud, listening to the patterns of the words as they left his tongue:
"Sit at my table,” Fate said to the land,
“Come roll the die and take what you can.”
The Forest stepped up, so brazen was she,
And claimed for herself the land of trees.
“I’ll call you Grand, the Grandforest you’ll be,
Your children will eat of the fruit of the trees.”
With a roll of the die the Desert did claim,
A harsh, barren land that could never be tamed.
“Fear not my child, even Whitebone when maimed,
Releases sweet juice of marrow from strain.”
When the Seas took his turn, Fate said with a cry:
“You, sweet child, are far from the sky!
May your children glean bounty however they try,
And for this my child, I’ll call you the High.”
Then the Plains made her throw and took as her boon,
A land whose lover is the white-shining moon.
“Crops and strong children will come from your womb.
Your name will be Endless, your braids never hewn.”
Then Midlan marched in, his heart all alight,
And took for himself what he thought was right.
“Your children will be of power and might,
May Kings grace your halls and war fill your sight."
But the Mountains came late; all the good land was had.
"Spurned of my brood, most Unforgivable and mad,
Your children forever in red shall be clad.
And yet unto them great strength will I add."
Though she promised them strength, as far as Kael knew Fate had only given the children of the mountains one thing. He ran a hand through the wild curls of his hair and the deep red tones winked back against the faint sunlight. The elders called it Fate’s crown, but Kael thought it was more like rotten bad luck.
The other five regions all had a trade, and all were prosperous — except for the mountains. They had stone, yes, and lumber and game and perhaps if a man dug long enough, he might strike ore. But the perils were too great for any reasonable merchant to see profit in setting up shop. So w
hile the rest of the Kingdom grew, villages like Tinnark were forgotten.
Forgotten, but not lost. For while it was common knowledge that nothing good ever came out of the Unforgivable Mountains, it was less-commonly known that plenty came into them.
Thieves, murderers, traitors and whole bands of outlaws flocked to hide themselves among the cliffs. All the worst sorts of criminals knew that not even the army of Midlan would risk chasing them through the mountains, so there they fled. The small, battered villages scattered along the rocks were the last refuge of desperate men. They may have come as thief lords or banished knights, but if they stayed, the weather warped them and the dangers changed them. Their hands grew rough from work; their skin withered in the cold.
And in exchange for sanctuary, the land erased their heritage. It didn’t matter if his father had the midnight of the Grandforest or the stark white of the plains: any child born in the mountains would have flaming red hair.
The elders thought this was part of Kael’s problem. They thought his hair might be the reason he tripped over things so often and why he couldn’t pull his bow back all the way. For while his father and grandfather were true sons of the mountains, Kael was not.
He’d been carried into Tinnark by his father — who died shortly thereafter— and grew up knowing absolutely nothing about his past because Amos refused to speak of it. From what he could gather, some feud split them apart long ago, and the wounds had never really healed. Even now, Amos refused to say his son’s name aloud, and referred to him only as That Man.
All Kael knew for certain was that he’d been born somewhere in the Kingdom, in what the Tinnarkians referred to as the lowlands. He knew this because the red in his hair was mixed with light brown.
The other villagers never let him forget that he was different. They called him a half-breed and sneered whenever he passed. He knew what they said to one another when they thought his back was turned:
“There goes Kael the half-breed, the curse of Tinnark.”