When Lazarus’ steed whinnied at something, she jerked her gaze and her thoughts back to the present. Lazarus steered the horse up a narrower path into the foothills of the Cisean mountains. Quinn tipped her head back and stared up at the dark trees, the tops nearly black.
“Be on guard,” Lazarus called ahead as Draeven moved to the forefront.
Lorraine fell in line just behind Dominicus and Lazarus took up the rear. Seconds crawled into minutes, minutes crawled into hours. Quinn adjusted in her seat as the feel of hard leather on her backside began to send jolting pains up her spine as every shift of the horse’s weight had her bouncing hard enough to bruise.
They rode on—up into the mountains where the soft buzzing noises of wildlife fell away. Sheer rock and barren trees leaned over steep ravines. One wrong step would send them hurtling down. Quinn looked out over the edge as they climbed higher, but it didn’t make her heart beat any faster, nor did her palms sweat. She simply stared into the abyss as tiny pebbles fell from the rim. The sounds of them bouncing off the rockface echoing up the gorge.
Too soon they were back on a wider path with nothing but threadbare trees and miles of compact dirt. Quinn eyed the path warily, growing bored until the slight hum of other’s fear pulled at her senses. She blinked and eyed the three in front of her, finding their apprehension both amusing and pleasantly sweet. There was nothing up here, but they were worried. She glanced down at the large hands holding the reins. The three in front of her were worried. Lazarus was unaffected.
“Do you hear that?” Dominicus asked, breaking the silence. His gruff voice was low, a rumble of thunder in his chest.
All eyes turned to him. “Hear what?” Lorraine asked, confused.
“Nothing,” he replied, his shoulders tight. “There’s no sound at all.”
Ahead, Draeven slowed his mount and glanced back. His gaze met Lazarus’ for a brief moment as they all came to a slow stop along the path. Something passed between the men—an understanding of sorts.
“Let’s stop and make camp before the day is completely gone,” Draeven announced. Lazarus nodded towards a section where the trees split off slightly—just enough for the horses to pass through single file.
Unsheathing the sword anchored at his hip, Draeven drove it through the branches of the trees, marking a decidedly easier path for the rest of them as they moved into the gloom of the forest. The nature of this wood, however, was much different than the one they had slept in the night before. The air was dry, and the trees were barren. There was no hint of moisture or squish of soft dirt and decaying leaves. Only the occasional snap of a dried-out twig.
The absolute silence that Dominicus had pointed out was beginning to annoy her as they dismounted and began readying the camp. Silence meant broken bodies and deadly secrets. It was where the predators lurked, and where the stifling rules of religious propriety she’d been raised in hid the true evils of the world. Quinn herself had mastered the art of silence. The fact that the wood had as well made her take pause.
It wasn’t natural, much like her. The flapping of wings and howl of the wind and rustling of the leaves—that would have been normal. But this absence … this void … something was off.
Here, the sounds of their feet moving over dried leaves, Lorraine’s quiet actions, Dominicus brushing the horses, and the sing of metal on metal as Draeven sheathed his sword—all seemed obscenely loud, like a beacon to whatever lurked in obscurity.
Those sounds slowly began to descend back into silence as they bedded down for the night, the sun falling away to make room for the rising moon. Unlike the day before, there was no practice, no jovial teasing from Draeven, no talking. They ate a bland vegetable stew and then crawled into their makeshift beds, all without any words between them. As if the sound of nothingness that rang in her ears was so loud it impressed itself upon them.
Quinn fell into a fitful sleep alongside Lorraine. Every breath, every snore, every shift that rubbed the material wrong—half startled her even as she slumbered.
Soft rain splattered across her face, drawing her eyes open. A droplet hit her cheek and slid down into her hairline. Another hit her chin. And another, her chest. It poured down on her like a purification ritual, washing away her thoughts, her sins.
Slowly, Quinn sat up, her mind in a thick fog. Her movements felt stilted—as if her limbs were tied to strings and those strings were being manipulated by someone else. She got to her feet on shaking knees, feeling weak and confused. That confusion, instead of dispersing as she continued to get her bearings, only encroached more.
One look around had Quinn pausing. There were no horses. No people. This was no longer the clearing Quinn had fallen asleep in, though she was still in the same dark woods. She shuddered, reaching out, her fingers brushed against the heavy clouds of fog as she fanned the denseness of it away and stepped deeper into the forest.
There was a tether here, tugging her into the dark. The shadows closed around her—welcoming her into their arms. The trees fell away from her peripheral as Quinn’s gaze fixed on what was in front of her, an opening cloaked in black ivy. She reached out to swipe the ivy aside. It dropped away, falling to the forest floor to reveal a door. She turned the knob and stepped forward as it swung open.
The soles of her feet touched something soft and slippery. Small granules stuck to them as she took a slow step forward. Quinn glanced down, only then noticing her boots had been removed. She couldn’t remember taking them off. Then again, this wasn’t the real world—this was the world of dreams—of nightmares—and the laws here followed no man’s dictations. Not even hers.
The sand slid to the side with every step she took, but still Quinn strode forward, climbing the dune in front of her, leaving the forest behind. Hands out, Quinn latched onto rocks protruding up and out of the mound of sand and scaled upward.
Finally, there was a break in the silence—a sharp squawking. It was just over the top of the hill. Gritting her teeth, she put a bare foot on one of the jutting rocks and used it to push her body the last little bit it needed to reach the uppermost point. Quinn’s light head crested over the edge and her breath caught in her chest as the rest of this strange land came into view.
Miles and miles of sand drifted off in every direction—swept away in some places to reveal dried ground with spider web cracks that raced away from each other, spreading out like the black veins of the plague. The sight was as strange as it was devastating. There was no vegetation, no forest, no life.
That noise sounded again, closer than before. Quinn’s head turned until she caught sight of the only living thing in the vicinity. Pitch black wings fluttered as the bird attempted to take off, lifting several feet from the ground, only to come crashing back down with that terrified and frustrated scream of pain. Unsure of what exactly the creature was, Quinn clambered up and over the sand dune and slid down, narrowly avoiding the rocks peeking out from underneath the grainy sand.
She landed on the other side and slowly made her way over to where the bird flopped uselessly against the dry and cracked ground. As she neared, it began to flap its wings harder—terror widening its dark eyes as it attempted to flee. Fear, she sighed. It always came back to that. Any other time she might have turned around and left the animal to fend for itself since it didn’t want her help, but something kept her bound in the path she had taken. Her legs moved without permission.
A flash of color caught her off guard and as Quinn bent low over the trembling, outraged creature, she noticed a streak of silver in its feathers. A single strand of mercury among the sea of obsidian black. She reached out and brushed a finger over the feather, earning a shriek from the animal as it squirmed away.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Quinn snapped with irritation. The bird froze and regarded her with disbelieving, but intelligent eyes. Quinn blinked. “Can you understand me?”
The bird tilted its small head by way of answer. Quinn couldn’t determine if it had responded or if she imagi
ned it.
Cupping her hands under the animal, Quinn nudged it into her palms and lifted it up to her chest. Trembling, it let out an undignified cry that she ignored as she searched the animal’s feathers and limbs for whatever kept it from flying.
When nothing could be found, Quinn huffed and put the bird back down. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said.
Flapping its wings, the bird tried to take flight once again but couldn’t. One wing sat stiffly, hardly moving as if it were heavier than the other, and the bird fell in an awkward heap at her feet.
Hands on her hips, Quinn stared down with pursed lips. What is wrong with it? she wondered. Its wings were unbroken. Its legs were fine. When its head lifted, though, she noticed it tilt in one direction. Quinn squatted down, and it seemed less inclined to squawk indignantly this time. Instead it remained still as she lifted its wings and spanned them out, touching them with gentle probing fingers.
She focused on the silver-white feather—the pretty spot of color in the otherwise ink-colored down was warm, but the rest of the animal was cold. Quinn didn’t pause to think what that might mean, or why that single silver feather was different. She reached out, locking two fingers around the base of it and pulled.
At first, the feather resisted its removal, but with a second hard yank it came free. The bird let loose an ear-splitting scream and launched into the sky. Quinn stared down at the silver feather in her fist as it circled above her head, free to ride the winds at last. The feather was so much heavier than it should be, but nothing other than its weight gave her the impression that it was anything more than what it resembled.
With another loud shriek that drew Quinn’s attention, the bird shot upward several dozen feet and exploded. Gasping, Quinn fell to her backside and gaped as a creature rose out of that plume of feathers that danced on the breeze. The thing that came forth from the animal’s skin was immense. Its wings spread across the dull sky—darkening everything in sight for a mere blink of a moment. Black smoke rose from its outstretched limbs as the bird’s beak opened and lifted upward in a silent cry to the wind.
Then, with a sharp turn of its head, the bird’s eyes locked on Quinn. They were no longer as black as the pitch of its wings. Instead, they were crimson—the color of freshly spilled blood. The creature—not a bird, but an animal from beyond—tucked its smoking feathers close and fell… no, Quinn realized, it’s diving.
Quinn scrambled backwards, rising to her feet a split second before the ground beneath her disappeared, crumbling beneath her bare soles as the black force she had freed swept under her, lifting her to the wind. Those terrifying red eyes peeked back as Quinn’s hands clung to its form, wisps of darkness rising between her fingers.
The animal seemed to be trying to tell her something, though she couldn’t understand what and would never know because in the next instant, the creature pivoted dumping her into the vast opening below. Quinn fell down, into the abyss of nothing, panting and clutching the only thing she could. The silver feather.
“Wake up.” Quinn was jerked away from her fall by the sound of a low familiar voice hovering over her. She tensed, ready to throw Draeven across the clearing for coming so close, but he merely leaned in and whispered, “I wouldn’t do that.”
Indignation rose in her, trailed by a chilling calm as once more the silence of the forest drew her attention. It wasn’t a total quiet, because something was off. Something was here. Draeven’s eyes weren’t on her and Quinn turned her gaze to the side.
“They’re here,” he whispered, rising to his feet. His hand went to the hilt of his sword just as Dominicus rose from his bed, moving to wake Lorraine from her sleep before he stepped in front of her.
“Get ready,” Draeven commanded as dark figures began to step out of the forest, large and imposing.
Something fell from Quinn’s grasp as she reached for the dagger under her cloak. When she looked down, a spot of silver flashed in her vision, surprising her. A single feather, as silver as the hair on her head.
Into the Mountains
“If you turn your back on those who would stab it, you deserve sweet death—for you were too gullible in life.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, fear twister, vassal of House Fierté
A low hum of voices rose into the air, chanting in an intelligible language that Quinn had never heard before as the dark figures circled them. Magic thickened the air as they came out of the trees, gliding into the early morning fog. Draeven shifted, turning his back to her as he raised his sword. Quinn rose to her feet, the brief flash of silver—the feather—now gone as she reacted to the danger in their midst.
“Who are they?” she asked, lifting her voice so that it carried over their chanting. She turned, her back touching Draeven’s as they both took in their enemy and found themselves far outnumbered. The figures were sturdy, masculine bodies, every one of them built to be the size of monsters. They were either at Lazarus’ height or taller, Quinn noted.
Thick furs lined their chiseled chests and legs. Each of them wore what appeared to be a mask—no, those aren’t masks. They wore skulls with the jaws unhinged, and the pelts of dead animals trailing behind them as cloaks.
“The Ciseans,” Draeven said as the largest of the group lifted a horn to his lips and blew. A great echoing battle call sounded, and men fell into formation, the first circle around them going to their knees and extending their halberds as one. The next circle of men stepped up behind them, and the third row stood slightly behind, waiting for their command.
The man with the horn lowered it from his lips, letting the sound ring in the empty air. His eyes shone a pale green through the wolf’s skull adorning his head. When the note stretched out so long it blended in with the silence of the woods, he spoke.
“Eum chaka riek faerr mar,” he called out.
“Um…” Quinn glanced back over her shoulder at Draeven. “What did he say?”
“Don’t know,” Draeven muttered, cursing to himself. “I don’t speak Cisean.”
Quinn groaned. “Please tell me someone does, because wolf boy over there looks like he might be hungry, and I am not excited about being someone’s dinner.” As soon as she said it, a second voice called out. One from beyond the clearing, at the edge of the trees. The mountain men turned as one, toward the voice Quinn knew.
“Hayr chaka vurd kaeverkn!”
They parted before him, each ring of men peeling back to make a gap just large enough for him to come forward and stand before the man in the wolf pelt. Phrases were exchanged back and forth between the two while Quinn and the others stood by, tensely waiting for a verdict. Lorraine had risen and was tucked halfway behind Dominicus as the other man held his sword at the ready, waiting for the moment things would turn sour. If they turned sour.
Lazarus spoke, relaying information about their group. A short pause followed and then the man spoke in a deep baritone. “Come with us.”
The men kneeling rose to their feet and lifted their weapons, stepping back to allow Lorraine, Dominicus, and Draeven to pack. Quinn lifted an eyebrow at Lazarus, not lowering her knife even as the others stowed their own.
“Put it away,” he murmured to her, warm fingers wrapping around her wrist to force her to lower the blade. Her arm stayed locked, the metal still pointed at the men with the halberds, even if they had stopped pointing them her way.
“And get stabbed in the back?” she asked, incredulity leaking into her voice. “No, thank you.”
“Quinn—” Lazarus started with a growl. His midnight eyes flashed with something heated that she couldn’t place before the man in the wolf pelt stepped forward.
“Little she-wolf,” he interrupted. Quinn tilted her chin and turned her crystalline eyes on him, letting him see the darkness that she often tried to hide. His pale green eyes held more warmth than she expected for someone who seemed ready to kill them only moments ago. “You protect pack fiercely,” he said, nodding with respect and approval before tu
rning and speaking to the other Cisean warriors.
Quinn looked pointedly at Lazarus and a muscle in his jaw twitched. She smirked to herself, lowering her knife to her side, but not stowing it. “What happened to you behaving?” Lazarus asked, just as Draeven walked up.
“They have halberds and wear the skulls from beasts larger than I. Going anywhere with them unarmed is asking to be murdered, and I’d deserve it were I naïve enough to do it,” Quinn replied, turning on her heel to take a headcount of the possible assailants.
Lazarus may be willing to lower his weapon, but I won’t be swayed so easily. Behind her, she heard them whispering. Draeven’s voice raised slightly as he said, “She’s going to get us all killed.”
Quinn drifted farther, ignoring them as she came to a stop beside Bastian. The horse snarled and moved closer to the wild men just to be away from her. Quinn wrapped her free hand in his reins and pulled him up short, the early start and adrenaline running through her system shortening her already explosive temper.
She heard Lazarus’ reply as she forced his steed to submit to her. “Possibly.”
She frowned to herself while hooking the toe of her boot in the stirrup. If the last two weeks had taught her anything, it was how to mount a horse, and she did. Knife in one hand and reins in the other, she grabbed the lip of the saddle and hoisted herself up and onto the great beast. It reared back once, and Quinn dug her heel in its side, clicking her tongue between her teeth.
Bastian, for as much as he might hate her, yielded.
Quinn turned a fraction to look at Lazarus. To see the shadow of a grin on his face, even as he tried to hide it from them.
“Come,” the man in the wolf pelt said again. Quinn didn’t break eye contact with Lazarus as he strode forward and mounted behind her. The heat of his body was like a wildfire contained in flesh, even beneath his trimmed tunic and trousers. She wondered briefly what it might be like to coax that fire out. To see what darkness he was hiding…
Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 12