Song of the Worlds Boxed Set

by Brandon Barr

  The air screamed. A wind beat against Harcor and he dug the toes of his leather shoes into the ground, struggling to keep his feet. He held his ground for only a moment, and then he soared on the current, like a leaf in a gale. His body flew straight, like a rock from a sling, until it struck against the broad trunk of a poplar. Wiluit pursued Harcor, feverishly praising the Makers for this new tool as he raged forward through the undergrowth, staff extended.

  Harcor squirmed, his body pinned halfway up the trunk, and hovered there unnaturally, like a man hanged.

  “Unspeak your curse or die,” called Wiluit through the high whistle of the wind.

  Harcor grimaced in great pain from the wind pummeling him against the tree, unrelenting and strong. His sword had flung free in the same gust and was nowhere to be seen. “I am broken,” he managed to call out. “My back is ruined.”

  “You’re alive, and that is more than you deserve. Unspeak the curse, and I will give you the horse and send you on your way alone.”

  Defiance filled Harcor’s eyes but a moment, then he shouted, “I unbind her from her word. Remove the Cherah, and she will be yours again.”

  Wiluit lowered his staff and the wind calmed. Harcor plummeted to the ground and gave such a painful cry that Wiluit felt sorrow for the man. The Cherah hopped away from Wiluit as he approached Jauphenna. The furry centipede with the dragonfly wings atop skittered to her back to hide. Wiluit thudded his staff on Jauphenna’s shoulder and the creature sprang from the horse, buzzing like a bumblebee, and joined the others a distance away.

  Jauphenna fell forward on the horse and then rolled off. Wiluit dropped his staff to catch her in his right arm. The arrow wound pulsed with the prick of a thousand knives and he groaned in agony. Teeth clenched, he laid her softly on the grass.

  Her eyes blinked. They were her eyes again, free of the darkness. Her face wrinkled into a thing of tears and she sobbed against his chest. He stroked her hair, as he had nearly two years ago, when he’d pulled her out from underneath her home. Out from the deep dark pit she’d been cast into.

  The haunting black eyes came into Wiluit’s mind again. These Cherah had been defiled by Isolaug.

  Wiluit pointed his staff at the remaining flock a distance away.

  The wind changed this time, for it was a wind of fire.

  The devastation was swift. The little creatures crackled upon the grass where they lay, blue flames consuming them like tinder.

  Wiluit watched them burn with sadness. He’d only wanted to turn them wild. The staff, it seemed, had a will, and judgment, of its own.

  CHAPTER 35

  MELUSCIA

  The sun had not set for more than two hours before Meluscia arrived at the Hold, her horse panting beneath her. Jutting rocks that looked like teeth passed her right and left as she made her way up the sloping road to the Hold’s tall gates.

  A sentry rode up with torch in hand. His eyes shot wide when he saw Meluscia’s face. He called up to the gatekeeper. “Trigon’s daughter has returned! Open the gates!”

  The summer’s last warm breezes were vanishing, and a cold crisp wind beat at Meluscia and her party as they rode through the gates.

  Meluscia dismounted, and immediately felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “I will tell Mica only half of what you’ve done,” said Praseme.

  Praseme’s eyes loomed large before Meluscia. “Tell him whatever you wish.”

  Praseme leaned close, “Only that you apologized to me for your advances. That way he knows you are changed.”

  Meluscia took Praseme in her arms and squeezed her. “You don’t have to hide my disgrace, my friend.”

  Praseme drew back, her eyes serious. “It is better this way. May I go to him now?

  “Go, as fast as your feet can carry you,” said Meluscia.

  Meluscia watched Praseme depart up the great stairway while drawing from her saddle bag the invaluable treaty scroll with King Feaor’s signature. She then removed the precious sword in its sheath, and her fingers ran excitedly over the rough leather. A weapon forged in part by a Maker’s own fires.

  “Terling,” said Meluscia, “come with me, I want you for a witness.”

  The many steps of the great staircase felt light beneath her feet, the nearness of her destination chasing away all weariness of the ride. The metal doors that led inside the mountain opened and she entered the great hall to find it busy as usual.

  Then came a frantic voice.

  Heulan hurried down the main tunnel toward her. The frightened look upon his face halted her steps.

  “Valcere is coming,” said Heulan. “He knows of your father’s promise to you. And he worries you have a signed treaty—do you?”

  “I do, Huelan,” she said. “Does he mean to defy my father’s promise?”

  The look in Heulan’s eyes was all she needed for answer.

  “My father, tell me he has not passed?”

  “No,” said Heulan. “But he is close, unable to speak any longer. Come, we must take a side passage.”

  But Meluscia saw what Heulan did not. It was too late. Coming down the great passage was Valcere, accompanied by a host of soldiers. Any attempt to flee into a side passage seemed less than dignified for the daughter of Trigon, and besides, if his intentions were to stop her from reaching her father, he would have the royal bedroom well guarded.

  Valcere swept down the hall dressed in the attire of a warrior king. A cape-like robe fluttered down to the back of his knees trimmed with golden silk. A gold breastplate adorned his chest, covering a surcoat of dark blue velvet tied with a thick black belt. And, like her last encounter with him, he wore the smug look of victory.

  “Ah, Meluscia, so good to have you back from your journey,” rang Valcere’s voice, with the sickly sweet tone of a rival. Then his eyes sharpened, though his lips took on a frown.

  “What happened to the side of your face?” he inquired. “It looks bruised and you have the remnants of a black eye.”

  “A tale for another time,” she said shortly.

  “Very well,” said Valcere, eyes twinkling. “What news do you bring from the Verdlands?”

  She thought of lies…telling him that she had failed, but fear was the last thing she wanted to show before this man.

  She said loudly, “I have wonderful tidings. King Feaor has agreed to my father’s terms. There will be peace once again between us and the Verdlands.” In the large foyer the sight of Meluscia and Valcere speaking together had drawn most conversations silent. She looked around and saw many familiar faces among the servants.

  Valcere’s arms spread wide, a well-crafted look of delight running down his face like saliva dripping from a toothed snout. “If I can see the document and verify it, we will throw a celebration across the Hold.”

  “My father will verify it,” said Meluscia, her voice again raised. The more ears that heard, the better.

  “I’m afraid your father cannot speak and doesn’t respond to other’s words. Since I am charged with the throne in his stead, I will verify the treaty for him.”

  “Perhaps he will wake in the presence of his daughter,” said Meluscia. “Regardless, I shall see him immediately. I wish to be with my father again, considering his condition.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Valcere, “I will take you to him.”

  Meluscia thought of protesting Valcere’s presence, but he was, after all, the one her father chose to judge in his stead. It was a duty to care for the Luminar’s daughter, though Meluscia had no pretensions about his reasons for staying close to her. Would he acquiesce if her father granted the throne to her?

  She had a deep misgiving. The Maker had promised no certain future.

  Once she entered her father’s bed chambers, she would call for friends to witness, as was her right. Besides Heulan and Terling her scribe, there was Katlel, and most importantly, Valcere’s own councilor and one of her father’s ten riders, Rivdon. He carried weight among the soldiers of the Hold.

&
nbsp; “Thank you, Valcere,” she said. “Lead the way.”

  It would have been a long walk from the bottom of the mountain to the top if it were traversed only by foot. But the stables at the lower orchards allowed for a horse to carry its rider to the upper plateau. The ride was short, and the sound of war horses accompanying her had grown familiar.

  At the small gateway she sprang from her mount, and followed Valcere back inside the mountain. It was good to feel that cold draft running down the upper passages. It felt like home.

  She turned the corner toward her father’s room when a hand seized her. She wrenched her body to escape the hold when more hands fell upon her and a rag was drawn over her mouth. Her body was lifted from the floor and she fought as she was carried toward a storage room.

  Inside the room, she was roughly set on hard rock. The door slammed shut and a bolt clanked into place. There was no light in the room.

  “Are you alright, Meluscia?” came Heulan’s worried voice.

  “Yes,” she said into the dark, spitting loose the rag from her mouth. “Curse Valcere. Where’s Terling?”

  “I’m here, My Lady,” said the scribe. “And in one piece, so it seems.”

  Meluscia felt within her cloak for the scroll. It was still rolled within an inner pocket, a useless parchment unless recognized by her father. “He means to keep us here until my father’s blight finishes its work.”

  “Yes,” said Heulan. “We’re under guarded watch, I suspect.”

  The clicking of stones sounded not far away. Sparks lit. Then a flame. Terling knelt by his bag and held out a candle. The room was small and barren, one of the countless storage pens throughout the hold.

  She stood and went to the metal door and banged upon it. She promised the soldiers outside pardon if they would free her. When nothing came of it, she slumped against the rock wall and dropped to the floor.

  Sadness accompanied the anger she felt. She had come so far and accomplished so much. Was it all to fail here, now?

  Her fingers slid to her sword hilt and she found strength in the power given her by the Maker. If she had the chance, if she could draw Valcere into a challenge of swords—?

  Her fiery blood raged within her.

  The choice felt easy…be invulnerable to weaponry until death, or—

  Kill Valcere.

  --

  PRASEME

  Praseme collapsed beside Mica on the bed, her bare breasts heaving from rapturous exertion. When she caught her breath, she rolled over against him, breathing out short, satisfied sighs, and placed her hand on his chest.

  His heart was pounding like hers.

  To Praseme’s joy, she had found Mica at home in their quarters when she first arrived. He had wanted to know what happened to her bandaged hand, and she had wanted to say so much to him about the journey, but much of it was serious, and her mood was not for it then…not until she made love to him.

  But now, lying beside him, content, she was ready.

  “Our journey was a success in many ways,” she said. “The treaty was signed by King Feaor.”

  He turned in bed and in the candlelight, she saw his eyes were full of surprise. “I can hardly believe it. What changed from before?”

  “Meluscia promised Feaor that once she took the throne, there would be a new treaty. As part of her company, I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “It seems you’ve broken your promise,” said Mica. She could hear the grin on his face and glanced over with a smirk.

  “You loosened my lips with your skills,” she said, and ran her fingers over him.

  They lay their quiet for a time, Praseme lost in the many memories she had acquired in her travels. Finally, she rolled over and pinched out the candle.

  Beside her, Mica’s breathing grew uneasy, as it always did when he was conflicted about something. She waited for him to speak what she suspected.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” said Mica. “It happened the day before you left for the Verdlands. I should have told you then, but it was the night the Nightmare broke into the king’s back paddock. And besides that, I was left disheartened by it.”

  “I know what you speak of,” said Praseme.

  “Meluscia? She told you?”

  “She confessed to me,” said Praseme. “That she tried to seduce you.”

  Mica was quiet for a moment. Praseme would have liked to see the look he wore.

  “How did you respond?” asked Mica.

  Praseme laughed. “Next time you see her, take a look at her face.”

  The bed shook as he moved and grabbed her arm. “Her face? You struck her?!”

  “It was a good hit. My knuckles ached a long time after.”

  “Praseme!” said Mica, his voice filled with concern. “What did Meluscia do?”

  Praseme sighed. “She took the strike nobly. She continued to ask my forgiveness. Eventually I gave it to her and more. We have become good friends.”

  “Good friends?” said Mica, his tone incredulous. Then he laughed and kissed her cheek. “You strike the face of the most powerful person in the realm, and then make friends with the woman?” He laughed again, “That tells me two things: one, Meluscia is still the good leader we always believed her to be, and two, you’re the most charming, delightful, loveable woman in all of Hearth!”

  Praseme giggled, and found Mica’s lips in the dark and kissed them softly. “Have you forgotten your question about my bandaged hand?”

  “No—yes—what happened?”

  A rapping at the door cut off their conversation.

  Praseme hurriedly put on a robe and Mica did the same. Together they opened the door. Mairena stood in the tunnel holding a candle.

  “There’s trouble in the Hold. Valcere has locked Meluscia in a storage room along with Terling and Heulan. I heard from the servants in the entrance hall that the treaty Meluscia carried was signed.”

  “It was,” said Praseme. “We have to help her.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Mairena, “Food will be our weapon—come! I have a plan.”

  CHAPTER 36

  AVEN

  “The kiehueth killed the entire crew,” said Aven, staring at the fire the warrior woman had started just inside the recesses of the ship. “That’s why we crashed here.”

  The woman’s eyes peered past Aven, out at the dark opening of the ship. Against his better judgment, the woman had convinced him to stay the night inside the vessel. He had objected, instead making a case for heading into the forest. The only response from the woman was a grunt followed by the phrase, “Do what I tell you, and you might live to see tomorrow.”

  The eyes of the woman before him darted away from the blackness at his back and glanced down briefly upon the fire. “Kiehueth, is that a type of creature from your world?”

  “That’s the name the mercenaries gave it,” said Aven. “It’s from some other world, not mine.”

  The woman nodded without emotion. She had not said much since the start of the fire. Aven watched the flames shift upon her face.

  Her eyes flashed upon his, fierce and mysterious.

  “We should sleep,” she said.

  Suddenly she stood, then leapt up, her hand snatching the metal gridding above their heads. She swung her body upside down, so that her feet pushed flat against the ceiling between her hands. With a kick, the gridded ceiling plate at her feet rattled off its holdings and crashed loudly on the floor. The woman pulled herself up by pure arm strength and cradled between her legs a long metal bar running the length of the ceiling.

  She looked down at him and smiled thinly.

  “What are you doing?” asked Aven.

  “We’ll sleep up here, in the ceiling grids. In case the animal returns.” She looked down at him and motioned with two fingers. “Throw me my bag.”

  Aven tossed it up.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Savarah. Yours?”

  “Aven.”

  “So, Aven
, how did that thing get out?”

  “They tried to feed me to it for sport.”

  She paused for a moment. “They were drunk then?”

  Aven scowled up at her as she slipped out of sight behind a large metal plate. “Yes, that’s right,” he called after her.

  “You appear untouched…is that just luck?”

  Aven stared at the fire. “No, not luck. The kiehueth was toying with me I think. Either that or…”

  “Or what?”

  Aven gave a humorless laugh. “Either that or it’s decided to let me live.”

  Savarah’s head appeared above him, her eyes lost in some thought. “Interesting,” she finally said. Again she disappeared into the ceiling grids.

  When she didn’t immediately return, Aven stepped around the fire, toward the opening at the head of the ship where the bridge had been torn free. Outside in the sand, stood Savarah’s horse, untied. She had said the horse would act as a watchman for them, and snort at the first hint of trouble. Aven saw the gleam of firelight in the horse’s large eyes. The hair of its long mane ran over its thick muscular neck. Its nostrils flared and it snorted at him, as if trying to intimidate him. The horse seemed to embody the ferocity of its rider.

  Aven returned to the fire.

  Savarah’s shadowed form hovered above him. “Do you know why your kiehueth was acquired by the Beast?” she asked.

  “No,” said Aven. “Why?”

  “Isolaug is preparing a powerful body for himself. He hires mercenaries to bring him exotic and deadly creatures from other worlds. These creatures serve as raw material for him. He’s like a blacksmith, taking one part from a sword, another from a shield, another from an axe. Eventually, he hopes to make the ultimate weapon, the ultimate body.”

  The picture Savarah painted was disturbing. Aven listened to the crackle of the coals as the fire dwindled.

  “Thanks to that monster devouring the crew, we only have one danger to look out for tonight. I’ll be setting out on my own journey before dawn’s light—as to you, I suggest you make your way into the woods when you wake. Head away from the mountains and travel Northwest. You’ll meet hospitable farm folk after two or three days’ travel.”