Ancient Allies (The Malvers War Book 2)

by Tora Moon

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Also by

  Thank you

  To Get More

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  The small scout ship was a long way from home. The star system they were exploring was vast, and the area they had penetrated so far held few life-supporting planets. Ka-te-tak, the captain, despaired of finding anything worthwhile on this trip. If that happened, he’d rather not return home; Ke-ke-tak, his conclave commander, was as ruthless as any of the rulers of his home world.

  Except, if he failed to return and report, his sons would suffer a long time before they would be allowed to die; his concubines would endure even more. He’d return home and alone face the consequences of his failure. No excuse was acceptable for not finding anything. He would push farther into the star system before admitting defeat.

  Supplies were running low, and few of the slaves brought for food remained. Slaves could be drained of emotions and blood for a finite period before they were empty. Then he, as the captain, would get the honor of siphoning off the soul of the worthless body.

  The translator slaves were still alive, but they couldn’t be consumed. He’d pay for it out of his hide if the expensive translators didn’t make it back because his crew was hungry.

  Their fuel was dangerously low; they couldn’t go much farther and make it back home. Pe-te-tak glowered at the empty space. Time to turn around and face the punishment of his failure. Maybe the star charts he’d made of this system would be enough to keep his crew alive, although they wouldn’t be enough to save him.

  “Captain, Captain!” his science officer cried, an unusual amount of emotion wafting off him in his excitement. “Look at this reading.”

  “Take care,” Pe-te-tak responded to his officer’s emotion. He looked at the reading, then punched in the code to get a printout. He snatched it from the slot and scanned it carefully. If it was correct, their luck had just changed. The readings were the highest concentration of nucla from outside of their home star system. The precious mineral fueled the fleet’s ships and all the machines on their home world and their supplies were almost exhausted. Without it, they couldn’t continue the empire’s expansion and conquest.

  “How far?” he asked, careful to keep his emotion locked tight. One excited, emotional officer was more than this small ship needed. If the hungry crew smelled it, they might storm the bridge. He noticed the officer had tucked most of his emotion behind his personal shield.

  “Not far, a few paraclicks,” his navigations officer replied. “We can be there in a few cycles. We have just enough fuel to investigate it and then get home.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Four weeks later, they entered a cluttered star system. Fifty planets among thousands of asteroids orbited around one large star. Their instruments went mad in warning; the light spectrum was so bright it would be dangerous for them. But the pull of the riches to be had from the large nucla concentration would be worth the risk. The pilot guided them through the maze to where the readings originated.

  Below them was a small planet with two landmasses, one a continent and the other a large island. The reading came from the continent’s southern peninsula.

  The science officer scanned the planet. The scan revealed the continent had a fairly small population. The large island held few people, but more importantly, no nucla readings were coming from it.

  As the scout ship dipped into the atmosphere, a crater so large they could see it from far above the surface loomed on the screens. Pe-te-tak nearly whooped with delight when the readings showed a mother lode of the mineral in the crater’s core. With this, he and his entire conclave would be rich; it was enough to fuel the fleet of starships for many years. Conclave commander Ke-ke-tak would be pleased with this find.

  They orbited the planet for a short time before they had to return home or risk not reaching it. Their scans revealed the people didn’t have any technology and grabbed enough snippets of conversations for the slave linguist to decipher the language. This planet would fall quickly to their greater technology.

  Chapter 1

  Deep in the swamp, trees knocked knees and intertwined arms with dangling mossy fingers. The filtered green light shone on a huge cypress. Its multi-triangle depths of twisted roots created a protected cave from the larger predators living in the swamp. It was home to the largest—Blazel.

  In his human form Blazel was a lesser predator, but in his warrior form, he was the greatest. So far none of the beasts, natural or twisted, had been able to best him in a fight. He had spent the last three years traveling from swamp to swamp, always traveling south, always testing himself against all they had to offer. His journey had taken him beyond Shandir’s Crater and the Barrens to the southernmost swamplands, where he had been living for the last year.

  During his early wanderings in this swamp he had explored the peninsula, and in its center, he had found the ruins of a black fortress. It had emanated such evil he hadn’t dared to investigate it. He made his home far away from it.

  The animals weren’t the only dangerous swamp denizens. Numerous carnivorous plants sent out tendrils or vines to snare the unwary. Blazel had a scar circling his left ankle where one had caught him sleeping his first chedan in the swamps.

  He’d found the twisted swamp plants and animals didn’t like helstrablades any better than the Malvers monsters. The blades, made from an alloy of helstrim, were strong and sharp enough to penetrate the thick hide of one of the dual Malvers monsters. Only the women with fire Talent, called Reds, could feed fire magic into the blade to make them deadly enough to slide like butter through the tough hides. Unusual for a male, he had just enough fire Talent to make the specially crafted blades glow with heat. All Posairs were given a helstrablade once they were old enough to handle a blade, usually by age seven; he had his at five.

  Blazel stepped carefully on the path heading home. There were few areas firm and dry enough here to be called a path which changed frequently, sometimes from the rains, but most often from the malignant magic that pervaded these places. He hadn’t found a single swamp in all of Lairheim that wasn’t saturated with more malignant magic than water.

  Long ago, when he had lived in the Sanctuary, Blazel’s place of refuge had been the library, and he had frequently delved into its dusty corners. In his wanderings, he had found some ancient books on a forgotten shelf about a group of people who worked evil magic, the Malvers. They had been destroyed in the Great War. But had they? Had they caused the malignant pools and hence the swamps? The swamps were getting larger. From his reading, he was certain the Malvers created the symbiont duo of monsters known as the Malvers monsters; he just didn’t know if the monsters came before or after the end of the Great War. The next time he went back to the Sanctuary to visit his mother and grandmother he’d look for answers.

  The subtle movement of air warned him—he’d let his mind wander and hadn’t been paying attention—and he slid to the side, slashing with his helstrablade as the angulete flew past him. The flying serpent hit the ground a few feet from him, hissing. A shallow cut ran along the last third of
its length. It turned quickly, coiling, readying to strike.

  The angulete was fairly large, about nine feet long and fifteen inches around, and had landed close enough to attack him. In his human form the angulete’s fangs would easily penetrate his thin skin, and if it managed to coil around him, it would crush his bones. He didn’t dare shift to his warrior form, this area wouldn’t support its weight nor did he have time. But he was stronger and faster as a wolf and the pelt of his wolf form would give him some protection from the fangs.

  Blazel pulled the magic to him, and in a blink a large red-brown wolf with a gray streak along its back and nose stood where the man had been. The angulete pulled back in surprise, but then spread its wings and flung itself into a leap, aiming for the wolf’s head. He ducked and caught the serpent behind its head with his teeth. Damn, I missed. He’d grabbed it too far back and couldn’t sever the head. He tossed the angulete low to the ground, where it skidded in the dirt before crashing into the knee of an old cypress tree.

  Before the dazed serpent could coil and launch another attack, Blazel sprinted to it and slashed deep gashes across its body but the serpent was too thick for his claws to slice completely through in one swipe. He slashed again and again. The serpent turned to face him, hissing furiously, and struck with its head. Blazel leaped, avoiding the snake. He landed on the outstretched body and crawled up it to clamp his jaws just below the head. The serpent’s tail writhed and tried to coil around him.

  Dark green ichor drenched the ground from the gashes in the angulete’s body, and the smell was drawing the attention of the other swamp inhabitants. He had to finish this before they arrived. Blazel growled. He hated biting through the neck; angulete tasted horrible. Trying not to swallow the ichor, he clenched his jaws tighter together.

  At times like this, Blazel wished he could turn just a part of himself into his warrior form. His warrior jaws could easily crush the serpent, or his longer, sharper claws could have torn it to pieces. He sensed movement to his right. With a growl, he closed his jaws completely and jerked, severing the serpent’s head from its body. He spit out the pieces, wishing he could lunge to the water and rinse out his mouth, but first he had to deal with the creature sitting just at the path’s edge.

  At first it looked like a normal large rabbit. It sniffed and seemed to smile, showing large front teeth; however, they weren’t the blunt teeth of an herbivore but the sharp fangs of a carnivore—a twisted beast. The front claws were also long and sharp. Behind it more twisted rabbits hopped to the path, their noses twitching and their eyes glowing. It would cost Blazel in time and strength to fight them all. He’d let them have the angulete’s corpse—he certainly didn’t want it. He ran toward them, and used the surrounding trees as a springboard to jump over the herd.

  He could smell other predators and scavengers moving toward the dead angulete. Death here brought even more death. This area wouldn’t be a safe place for several days. He snatched a twisted rabbit sitting at the edge of the herd in his jaws, shaking his head to break its neck. Although nothing twisted tasted good, the rabbits weren’t poisonous or too foul tasting, and they were edible where few things weren’t in the swamp depths. Closer to the edge there was more food, but the trade-off was there were more Malvers monster nests and although Blazel had more magical ability than most men, his strength still wasn’t anywhere near a female Red’s. He couldn’t cover a nest with super-heated magical fire, nor was he strong enough to fight a monster nest alone. He was safer to stay deeper in the swamp.

  Now that there were predators rummaging near his home, Blazel took a circuitous route back. He’d been in sight of it when the angulete attacked. Instead of a few milcrons, it took him almost an octar to reach home and safety. It was almost dark when he reached the perimeter of his camp. He’d been careful not to let the dead twisted rabbit touch anything but the tall grasses and he’d crossed several water paths to cover his scent.

  Now Blazel was wet, hungry, and tired. His dinner was a sodden mess. He debated whether to change back to his human form and cook the twisted rabbit, or just eat it in his wolf form. Blazel shook his head; there had been too many meals lately in his wolf form.

  He jumped over the line of herbs warding the boundary of his home, lifting his tail high so as not to break the line. He dropped the twisted rabbit and tried to shift back to his natural form. A whine escaped him as the magic sizzled along his nerves and his body refused to change. Panting, he reached for his magic again, then howled with pain. He stood with his head hanging between his front legs, shivering with pain and fear. He’d never before had trouble changing forms. He realized he’d not just eaten too much as wolf, he’d spent too much time as one. Much more of this and he risked staying a wolf for the rest of his life.

  Gathering his willpower, he dipped again into his inner magic pool, allowing the power to wash over him, and willed the change from wolf to man. His legs lengthened, his muzzle receded, his pelt melted into his body, and finally he felt the cool breeze brush against his skin—his human skin.

  How much was he a wolf now, even when he was a man? Blazel hadn’t seen or talked to another Posair for three years. He lifted a hand, pulled out the band holding his waist-length hair back, and shook his head. Matted and tangled hair flopped into view. He held up a matted, twisted lock so coated in grime he couldn’t see the true color of it.

  There were a few fresh-water ponds in the swamps where he could bathe, but he had to do so quickly while watching for other predators. Blazel sniffed himself and snarled. Yep, it had been a few chedans—or more—since he’d taken a bath. Living in the swamp was easier as a wolf than a man. He just kept paws and face washed of any lingering blood and rolled around on some course sawgrass to clean his wolf pelt.

  It was too late to go to the pond and get clean; tomorrow he would. He stopped. How many times had he promised himself to do that and then not bothered the next morning? Quite often. This time would be different. This time he had the incentive of having trouble shifting. Blazel needed to be more man than wolf or he would become only a wolf. He considered this. Did he want to be a wolf? No, he couldn’t do that to his mother and grandmother. They’d risked challenging the Supreme White Priestess in order to keep him in the Sanctuary when no other males were allowed. He had to stay human and return to them eventually.

  With great care, Blazel skinned and cleaned the twisted rabbit. He saved the entrails; they would make good bait. Carrying the rabbit, he crawled through the small opening in the huge cypress tree’s roots and entered his temporary home. In the center, the tree roots formed a natural chimney that drew the smoke from his fire. He threaded the rabbit on a stick to roast it and set it aside. He knelt in front of his fire pit and stirred the ashes.

  No coals.

  It looked like he hadn’t had a fire in days, maybe even several chedans. It shocked him. Blazel looked around his home with new eyes. Bones of past meals were tossed to the side, a bed of leaves showed the imprint of his wolf form, and the fire was cold. He spent more time as a wolf than he realized.

  He found a small pile of kindling and carefully placed the wood in the fire pit. Calling on his fire Talent, Blazel sent a tendril of fire into the kindling. He jumped when more than a trickle answered his call and the kindling flared and was quickly consumed. His fire Talent only became uncontrolled when he hadn’t used it for quite some time. He searched his memory for the last time he had used it. It had been just after he arrived in this swamp and found this tree. He’d used it to create the boundary wards to protect his claimed space. Blazel had to think hard how long ago it had been. It was now the middle of spring and he had arrived here the latter half of summer. It had been over six lunadar since he’d used his Talent and probably that long since he’d been a man.

  Now Blazel was frightened.

  He had more Talent than most men. They could do very little with theirs while he could do as much as a weak Red. He recalled the childhood drills that had taught him how to call and cont
rol his fire Talent, and performed them until he was sweating. Only then did he rebuild the pile of kindling in the fire pit. With great care, he again called his fire Talent. This time it stuttered; he’d called too little.

  Taking a deep breath and letting go of his fear, he reached again for his birthright. And there it was, flowing in his veins. A tendril of fire spread from his fingers and jumped to the kindling to gently light it afire. Blazel breathed a sigh of relief. Having control of his magic was as important as having control of his wolf-self. He fed fuel into the fire until it burned brightly. He put the rabbit on the spit over the flames. He felt better watching the fire cook the meat.

  Fire was the dominion of man, not wolf.

  Tonight, he was a man.

  What would he be tomorrow?

  * * *

  Blazel woke to the smell of smoke tickling his nose. He sneezed to clear it, but it was still there. He shook and rolled to stand on his paws, sniffing more carefully. Was there a fire in the swamp? His looked around and saw the remains of his fire, the coals sending out tiny tendrils of smoke.

  He looked down and realized he was in wolf form. He had changed in his sleep. Not good. His body was becoming more comfortable as a wolf than as a man. Blazel shifted back to human form, howling with the pain as the magic jerked through his system. His tongue lolled out as he panted. He shoved his fear away and calmed himself down. This time when he willed the magic, it flowed easier, giving him uncomfortable pinpricks under his skin—his human skin. He rubbed his arms and face to erase the last of the prickly sensation. Shaky, he sat in front of his fire, stirred the coals, and fed it bits of wood until it again blazed bright.

  The day was warming up, but he needed the fire to warm his cold soul. Shifting forms was his birthright, an essential part of himself, the part that defined him as a Posair man—a warrior. Without it, he would be nothing more than a rogue. His hands shook. He had never been part of a pack—by the circumstances of his birth—but even so, he considered himself a lone wolf, not a rogue. He didn’t hunt and kill people. But would he begin to do so if he remained a wolf and lost the ability to change shape back to his human form? He’d like to believe he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t be sure.