Fae Song
Ballads of Balahar
Book One
DEONNE WIILIAMS
Copyright © 2020 DEONNE WILLIAMS
All rights reserved.
ISBN:13: 9798610853215
DEDICATION
To Rory, who always believed I could make this happen.
CONTENTS
Dedication
1 Chapter One
Page 1
2 Chapter Two
Page 11
3 Chapter Three
Page 34
4 Chapter Four
Page 55
5 Chapter Five
Page 76
6 Chapter Six
Page 89
7 Chapter Seven
Page 107
8 Chapter Eight
Page 129
9 Chapter Nine
Page 146
10 Chapter Ten
Page 179
11 Chapter Eleven
Page 223
12 Chapter Twelve
Page 223
13 Chapter Thirteen Page 238
14 Chapter Fourteen Page 266
15 Chapter Fifteen
Page 284
About the author
CHAPTER ONE
Late afternoon sun sparkled across the surface of the swift upland stream when Shae let the reins slide through his hands. Talon dropped his head and swallowed greedily. It was the first stream they had crossed since midday. Shae cast a thoughtful eye at the western horizon while he dismounted, relieved that the clouds gathered along it remained few. His rapid midnight departure from Ironbarrow a few days earlier necessitated fireless camps, and he was grateful he had not yet been forced to endure the drenching bitter rains of a Meranian spring.
A sardonic grin appeared in his wavering reflection when he bent to fill his waterskin, since it seemed a good drenching might be in order. Shae had seen some hard traveling in the last seven-night, and it was painfully obvious.
Dust turned his well-worn black brigandine and leather breeches gray. His previously white shirt now matched the rest of his clothes. He rinsed what dirt he could from his face and hung his waterskin back on the saddle.
“One more night on the road,” Shae told Talon.
“We’ll sleep well in Rathgarven tomorrow.”
Experience identified the sharp hiss of arrows in flight, sending him diving to the ground and rolling before the thought was complete. Several black fletched shafts tore into the streambed narrowly missing him. He dared a glance over his shoulder and spied two men in dark jerkins armed 1
FAE SONG
with bows on the ridge above him. Shae surged to his feet, snatched his own bow from its place on the saddle and dashed for the cover of some young silver willows. It was not his preferred weapon, but his blades were useless at this distance.
Willows along the stream were too slim to provide much shelter. Several more arrows rained down in quick succession, two opening deep gashes on his right arm and leg. Intense ingrained discipline enabled him to shrug off the insult, aim carefully, and wait for the right moment despite his wounds. Yet another arrow skimmed his leg when he finally loosed his own in return, but Shae’s target dropped to the ground, the bow falling from his hands. Once the second man turned to his companion, Shae dashed for his horse. He was in the saddle with his bow back in its case when he heard more movement from behind him.He wheeled Talon to face the commotion while unsheathing his sword. Two more men crashed through the brush, bare blades gleaming in their hands, and Shae had the opportunity to identify his attackers.
Red jeweler’s scales embroidered on their chests meant this was no random ambush; these men were the employees of his most recent foe, one Felton Kensian of Ironbarrow.
Pressing Talon forward, he used the speed to close the distance faster than his attackers expected. His closest pursuer fell beneath Talon’s crushing iron-shod hooves, and Shae cut down the second before he could move out of reach. He whirled his mount searching for the second bowman while an expert flick drained the blood from his blade. With no sign of his last enemy, he tore through the stream, hoping to get out of bow range.
Water splashing under the stallion’s heavy hooves masked the approach of one final arrow; the iron broad head caught Shae just below the ribs. His brig was no defense against a longbow. His drive to finish off his attacker enabled 2
FAE SONG
him to block the pain well enough to sheath his sword and draw his bow. Wheeling one last time, Shae waited for the man to emerge from the brush. A snarl of grim satisfaction washed across his face when Kensian’s man dropped like a stone, the arrow striking him squarely in the throat.
Unsure if Kensian had recruited more men for the ambush, Shae turned southeast and spurred Talon to a gallop. With two more ridges between him and the stream, he slowed to a trot and then a halt when grinding pain forced its way through the mental blocks created by the fury of battle. A disgusted look revealed the arrowhead and a few inches of shaft protruding just below his ribs. Shae set his jaw, used his knife to saw off the arrowhead, and yanked the remainder of the shaft through with an agonized groan.
Scarlet gushed from the wound before settling to a slow trickle. He hurled the arrow to the ground, knowing even if the blood flow stopped, he needed a healer’s attention.
Shae nudged his horse into a slow jog, fighting to ignore the pain shooting through him while he pondered the best course of action. He decided to point Talon in the general direction of Rathgarven with the hope of locating help. They covered several leagues before steady blood loss began to cloud his senses. Every breath became an effort, and every effort brought fresh agony. A roar like crashing waves began to sound in his ears, and Shae knew he would not remain conscious much longer. His hand fumbled inside his brig, and the feel of the leather pouch reassured him that its priceless contents were still secure.
“It’s up to you, old friend. You’re the only one who knows what we have at stake,” he whispered to Talon when his vision grew dark. Shae remained upright a moment more before he collapsed onto the horse’s lathered neck. Talon slowed to a careful walk. His training had been equal to his master’s. The weight of a rider across his neck meant he was 3
FAE SONG
to keep moving until another human stopped him. He kept walking through the highland scrub, even when the dusk closed in around them.
The length of her gelding’s shadow brought Gwynn to the frustrating realization she was not going to reach Rathgarven before dark. “Oh gods, not another night in the dirt,” she grumbled to Rogue. A third cold night alone was not what she had planned for this evening; her plans had involved hot water and several glasses of good red wine.
The distant line of marsh oaks and silver willows ahead revealed a shal ow stream flowing briskly between the budding trees when she reached them. Knowing an ideal camp spot when she found one, Gwynn dropped from the saddle, shed the leather case slung across her back, and leaned it tenderly against her bedroll. She removed Rogue’s tack, giving him an affectionate grooming before pouring his grain on a flat stone. She didn’t bother to picket him; Rogue would never wander far from her side.
The last sliver of sun disappeared, replaced by a gusting north wind bearing the snowy chill of the distant Stalencrae Mountains. She pulled the collar of her gray leather jerkin snug and briefly regretted the cloak left behind in Layton.
The look on his face was worth it, she reasoned, remembering the boy’s stammered thanks when she fastened it over his thin shoulders. Gwynn found him shivering without a single blanket in the hay room of the inn’s barn when she went to throw Rogue some extra hay.
Appalled at his plight, she stripped off her cloak and wrapped it firmly around the boy. When she made
ready to leave the next morning, he tried to return it, but she refused, telling him it was a present for taking such good care of Rogue. The two heavy wool blankets of her bedroll would 4
FAE SONG
see her through until she bought another cloak.
The ring of scorched stones under a large oak indicated she was not the first to choose this spot on the old trade road. Early spring nights in Meran were cold, so she gathered what wood she could find in the fading light. She made a ring and stacked some of her kindling inside before calling fire. A flash of pale golden light glowed within each of the sticks before bursting into flame. Within moments, the wood was burning briskly, while Gwynn tore open her last packet of jerky and wished she was having wine and a bath in Rathgarven. With a sigh of resignation, she leaned back against her saddle and reflected on the last several months.
An early winter storm had caught her on the road from Inishmore and she had taken shelter in the keep of a Meranian border baron. Fortunately, the great northern households needed distraction during the long cold nights, and a bard’s presence helped keep the residents entertained, especially the younger unattached men. It was said that a bard of Inishmore could sing the seasons around or a king off his throne. There was truth in that but fending off the attention of those same unattached men turned into a constant challenge. Gwynn’s reserved demeanor, reinforced with a cool voice and a few mental shoves, afforded her the same respect shown to the highborn ladies of their keep. She would not have minded some companionship during the tedious stay, but none of her would-be admirers were able to hold an intelligent conversation.
Baron Manfred offered her a mammoth reward to remain with his household permanently, a position sought after by many bards; she refused him prettily enough to gain a generous parting bonus instead. Gwynn found three months in a single place nearly insufferable. It had done nothing to help her in her quest for fame. All the historical y 5
FAE SONG
famous bards fell into adventures during their travels, so how was she to become famous living her life in a lonely keep? More so, the songs born of adventure kept an old bard fed when their tired bones could no longer remain in the saddle. Only then would she tolerate sitting still by the warm hearth of an inn, keeping some comfortable rooms by singing songs and telling suitably embellished tales. Gwynn intended to live an extremely long life; it was time to get started collecting some tales of her own.
After her scant meal, Gwynn took her beloved harp from its ornate case of oiled leather. Carved from the sacred fëanulia tree, the golden wood gleamed brightly in the firelight like the precious metal itself. Her harp’s soundboard and arch were intricately woven with entwined knots. Its dragon topped pillar with sapphire eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own and was carved with such brilliant detail, Gwynn sometimes expected it to rear its head, roar, and breathe fire. She listened to the wind sigh through the trees and drew a melody from the strings, so harp and wind sang together. Surrounded by the harmony, Gwynn was no longer alone; her music provided all the company needed.
Rogue’s soft nicker, accompanied by a nudge on her arm, startled her from her tune. He raised his head and stared out into the darkness beyond them. She put the harp on her bedrol , closed her eyes, and reached for her gelding’s wisdom. Using Rogue’s heightened senses, she discovered another horse was moving slowly in their direction from the north. She rose and went to the edge of the firelight, peering into the darkness while she used the gelding’s natural gifts to learn what she could of her unexpected visitor. No, visitors, she corrected herself. There are two; Rogue scents a horse and a human.
Gwynn’s sudden snort of disgust echoed Rogue’s when the acrid metallic tang of blood washed over her 6
FAE SONG
before she could release herself from the gelding’s senses.
One of the pair was hurt, although Rogue did not scent fear from either of those approaching, nor did they have any company.
“Stay here,” she instructed, giving him a push on his shoulder.
She melted into the darkness beside the stream bank to greet her unanticipated guests. Gwynn could see with equal ease at midnight or midday, and she spied a huge, black horse picking his way carefully over the willow roots with a dark blond man collapsed across his neck. He snorted and stopped at the sight of her but did not shy.
“Easy friend,” she murmured while reaching for the reins. He eyed her for a moment before he lowered his head, sighed, and nudged her chest gently in greeting. “Great Mother, you are a monster!” Gwynn gasped, realizing his head was nearly the size of her torso. “Come along; let me see how we can help your master.” She led the pair to her fire, ducking under the horse’s massive neck to get a look at his rider. Her prodigious bard’s memory served her well; she identified the black clad man from song.
A Southron, she thought; it seems adventure has already found me!
Warriors of great proficiency, Southrons worshipped no gods formally, but discipline and perfection of one’s skills was practiced with all the devotion of a religion. Their honor was legendary; a Southron would keep their word or die trying. They were often employed as private soldiers, bodyguards, or military advisors, and unlike many other lands in Balahar, Southron women were equal to the men in all things.
There were deep, angry gashes on the man’s arms and legs, the edges caked by the reddish-brown of drying blood, but what concerned Gwynn most was the red trickle from 7
FAE SONG
an ugly wound just below his ribs. It marked the heavy skirting of the saddle and encrusted the hair of the stallion’s shoulder.
How do I get him off this beast without making things worse? A few moments spent searching her memory gave Gwynn the answer. “Katar!” At the Southron command, the horse’s ears shot forward, and he obediently buckled at the knees and hocks, sinking slowly to the ground, and she barely caught the man’s broad shoulders when he slid sideways. It took every bit of her strength to drag him clear of his horse’s hooves before the black scrambled to his feet.
“Who could have done you so much harm?” she exclaimed, studying the unconscious man after easing his head to the ground.
Needing to get a better look at his wound, she removed the heavy double wrapped belt supporting a sword and matching dagger. When she unbuckled his brigandine to reveal a blood-soaked shirt, a large dark leather pouch tumbled free. Gwynn dropped it at his side and turned her attention back to the Southron. Being without the strength to lift him, she had no choice but to roll him off his brig and cut the shirt away, disgust wrinkling her features when she threw what was left of the tattered garment into the fire.
Water from her water skin rinsed most of the blood away from his chest, but crimson continued to leak from the wound below his ribs. Gwynn rocked back on her heels, studying him.
The Southron’s lean, handsome features were pale under his tan while his breathing was raspy and shallow.
From the sound of his fading life song, it was obvious to Gwynn that death was coming for him. There was something she could attempt, but she had no idea if it would save him.
To any bard, everything possessed a song; all one 8
FAE SONG
must do was listen for it. When something was hurt, its life song was badly out of tune. Of course, since no living thing was perfect, there were always notes slightly off, but it was simple enough for her to put things back into a harmonious whole.
There had been many bards who could restore a land torn by nature’s wrath or the horrors of war, but very few who had the ability to heal people. She had never shared her hidden talent with her teachers out of fear they would insist she stay in Inishmore, and that likelihood was unbearable.
“I will try,” she told him aloud, “but I’m not a true healer. I’ve played away cuts and bruises, but this…”
Gwynn sighed and stared at the seeping wound. “I suppose you don’t have anything to lose by my attempt.”
Reaching for her harp, s
he listened closely to his failing life song. Some of the notes were too faint to hear, but Gwynn was a musician. She knew what notes would best replace the absent ones from what was left around them. A thunderous chord shook the willows, and the fire blazed in response when she began. Gwynn was immediately lost in the music, seeking to recompose it into its former strong refrain. When she finally let go of his song, the fire lay in embers. She lifted her aching hands from the harp strings and gazed at him.
Color had returned to his face; his breathing was rhythmic and quiet. Perfect unscarred skin stretched below his ribs. The gashes on his arms and legs were gone, although the outline of crusted blood remained. She emptied her waterskin twice scrubbing it away.
Returning her harp to its case, she staggered once more to her feet, surprised by her own fatigue. Gwynn threw another armload of wood on the fire, commanding it to burn strong the rest of the night. She removed the bedroll from behind the Southron’s saddle and covered him with his own 9
FAE SONG
blankets.
Returning to the stallion, Gwynn took off his tack, carefully laying the bow case beside the man’s belt, certain his weapons would be the first thing a Southron would seek when he awoke. She fed the black some of Rogue’s grain, not daring to rifle through the saddlebags of so formidable a man. The stallion dove greedily at the oats, and she gave him a thorough grooming, working to curry away the lather marks and dried blood, but having to force her quaking hands to finish the task.
“You deserve it,” she told him, “you were the one who brought him here. You saved his life.”
Fae Song EPUB Page 1