The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Cliodhna gave a soft whistle, and a fox fearlessly slunk out of the shadows. The faeries mounted it, and with a wiggle of her fingers, Cliodhna produced a small orb of light. She tossed it in the air before them, where it hung suspended.

  “Follow it,” she commanded.

  “I need water,” Halla reminded her.

  But the faerie seemed to have changed her mind about granting this request. “You’ll drink when I say so!” Cliodhna spat. “Now move!”

  Chapter 7

  All through the long night they marched, following the soft floating light. Twice Halla stumbled, the second time scratching her face badly on a sharp branch, for with her hands bound she was unable to break her fall. To make matters worse, invisible insects began to attack every inch of Halla’s uncovered skin, and their incessant humming was a further torment.

  As the hours trudged past, Halla’s strength flagged. Even fit as she was, lack of sleep and a very real thirst plagued her every step, and she was beginning to suspect that the faeries had somehow delayed the dawn, for it seemed the sky should have lightened long ago. She considered dropping in her tracks and simply refusing to go further, but she feared her captors would then just leave her, bound and lost, in the dark.

  So she marched onward, one foot after the other, all the while straining her ears to catch their furtive whispers, hoping to glean some information that might help her escape. Cliodhna was clearly a renegade among her kind, at odds with Tarna, whom Halla had worked out was the faerie queen. It seemed Cliodhna thought making an example of Halla would strengthen her bid to usurp Tarna’s throne.

  “A true faerie queen would stand up to the elves! As it is, we’re little more than chattel to them!” Cliodhna lamented. “They keep us patrolling their borders, yet forbid us our freedom. It’s been centuries since we’ve been allowed out of Mithralyn, and now Elvinor is letting humans in? They’ll rampage through the forest and defile our dwelling places!”

  “Cliodhna, you know that our queen agreed to all of Elvinor’s requirements—in exchange for elven protection,” Oren replied. “Once the humans grew to fear and revile us, they sought to stamp us out. Mithralyn was the only refuge for the last of our kind, and the elves make few demands on us. We can still revel and roam where we will…”

  Cliodhna made a rude noise. “Only within Mithralyn! Where’s the fun in that? I can’t recall the last time I gave faerie locks to a human, or wore out a young man by making him dance ’til dawn under the moonlight. Life has become so boring! I long for the days when I could act on my whims, making keys and spectacles go missing, changing sugar to salt, tormenting a housecat with nips and pinches…”

  “You got up to darker deeds than that,” said Oren. “Drying up milk cows and leaving changelings in newborns’ cradles. It was this sort of mischief that put us in conflict with humans in the first place.”

  “Piffle! I doubt the humans ever even noticed they had different babies. They’re all so ugly!”

  “This one’s not. Her eyes are as green as the Lake of Aslinga.”

  Cliodhna snorted. “Don’t tell me you find her attractive? Why, she’s as tall as a tree!”

  Halla endured further unflattering remarks about the size of her feet and the length of her neck. They only served to remind her how ridiculous it was that she was being abducted by faeries. Some protector of the realm she’d make, if she couldn’t even defend herself against these wee folk. True, they had magic, but she had her wits. She needed to employ them, and soon.

  So she stumbled and fell once more—this time deliberately—and lay still. When Cliodhna poked her savagely with her stick, Halla just let out a low moan. “I must slake my thirst,” she croaked, “or I shall surely die.”

  There followed a fierce debate between the two faeries. To Halla’s relief, Oren prevailed.

  “I’ll take you to the water,” he said, helping her to her feet.

  Leaving Cliodhna behind—who stood with her back turned to them both, her small shoulders hunched in disapproval—Oren took charge of the glowing orb of light and led Halla to a stream that was not far off.

  She dropped to her knees on its mossy bank, only to realize she had no way to bring water to her lips. “Please,” she whispered, in case Cliodhna had crept after them, “free my hands—just for a moment—so that I may drink.”

  Oren looked fearfully back the way they had come. “I daren’t!”

  “Then I shall surely die,” Halla moaned, “and Elvinor will know the reason why.”

  “No, no—don’t do that! I… I will release your hands. But you must promise to let me bind you again after you’ve drunk your fill.”

  “Of course! You have my word.”

  Her promise seemed to satisfy him. He sketched a sign in the air, then touched Halla’s wrist.

  She flexed her fingers, careful not to let her glee show, then cupped her hands and drank deeply from the stream, for her thirst was real. But when she filled her hands a second time, inspiration struck. Instead of drinking, she whirled toward Oren and flung the water full in his face.

  He leapt back, sputtering, giving Halla the instant she needed to reach for her knife.

  At the sight of it, Oren blanched and staggered backward. “No! Put it away! You… you gave your word!”

  Bending over the rushing water, Halla had recalled the tale of Ailben and Crystwal, two dark faeries who had tried to abduct a human child. They had failed because the child drove them away with cold iron.

  She raised the blade higher. “I’ve not broken my word. You may bind me again—if you dare to touch me!”

  Cliodhna’s cherubic face appeared suddenly over Oren’s shoulder, and her rosebud mouth twisted when she spied the blade. Gnashing her sharp teeth, she dragged the quivering boy behind her and hissed, “Ffoi rhag y brathiad oeo haearn melltig!”

  Halla recoiled, expecting to be hit by a venomous spell—but all that happened was the glowing orb blinked out, plunging them into darkness.

  Halla kept her knife at the ready, anticipating an ambush. As the moments passed without incident, and her eyes adjusted to the pale light from the sinking moon, she dared to entertain the possibility that her captors had fled.

  But even if they were gone for good, she was still in difficult circumstances. She had no idea where she was, she’d lost her pack, her bow and arrows, and what little provisions she’d had left. Worst of all, she was exhausted, and she knew that if she slept, and the knife slipped from her fingers, the faeries could bind her again. The iron blade hadn’t kept Cliodhna from working her magic earlier, when it lay hidden under Halla’s tunic.

  Considering this, she struck on a solution. She removed the leather thong from the mouth of her pouch and used it to secure the knife around her neck, where it would remain visible against her chest. She wasn’t sure exactly how the iron worked against the faeries, but she hoped this would do. She couldn’t stay awake indefinitely.

  Then she waded across the shallow brook and trudged upstream. When she was too tired to take another step, she slumped down in the hollow of a decaying oak and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  When Halla awoke, dawn had at last come to the forest, revealing it to be decidedly less enchanting than the woodlands the elves inhabited. The tree trunks here were covered with thick grey curtains of moss, and heavy vines dragged ruthlessly at their branches. There was no trail to follow and she was forced to navigate around swaths of low water from which threads of malodorous mist rose. All the while she was alert to every cracking twig and rustling leaf.

  Yet luck was with her. No innocent-faced faeries accosted her, and before long she chanced onto a well-worn path. Better yet, the path was ascending. Once she reached higher ground she might be able to determine where she was and how to proceed.

  The trail ended abruptly at a set of crude steps carved into the heavy earth. As she climbed
them, a rhythmic sound from above grew in intensity. She’d heard it before—but where?

  The answer came as she reached the top and gazed out at a wide expanse of dark water stretching as far as she could see.

  This could only be the Erolin Sea.

  But how is it possible I’ve reached Mithralyn’s easternmost border?

  Cliodhna’s magic must have played a part. Perhaps the faerie had been heading to this clifftop intending to drive her over it, for if Halla had fallen here, no one would ever have found her. A dense fog swirled ominously below, obscuring the beach.

  It seemed she would have to go back the way she’d come and hope she didn’t meet any more faeries along the way. What had started out as a liberating interlude had turned into a waste of time. She’d failed to follow a marked trail and had been overcome by wee folk. If she hadn’t deliberately tarried in her chamber, none of this would have happened.

  As she turned her back on the glaucous sea, a shrill cry sounded from below, at the oceanside. Another cry followed it, so piteous it wrung at her heart. Halla lay on her stomach and peered down into the eddying mist. From this vantage, she could see that there was another set of rough steps hewn into this side of the cliff as well.

  Without pausing to consider the risk, she started down the cliffside stairway. Only when she reached the point where the mist obscured the steps below did she hesitate, listening for another cry.

  The only sound now was the perpetual thrust of the sea.

  She had nearly convinced herself that what she’d heard was the cry of a gull when another wrenching sob pierced the air.

  It compelled her down another step. Now she could no longer see her feet, so she lowered herself to a seated position and slid one step lower, then another until she was completely engulfed in fog. She stretched out her legs, reaching for the next step, levering herself toward it, and then repeated the sequence.

  But in the mist, the stones had grown slick with moisture, and suddenly the heel of her right foot skidded from beneath her. She pitched backward, striking her head against the rock so hard that stars flecked her vision, and then she was jouncing downward, battering her spine against the stones as she scrabbled for a grip, for anything to latch on to.

  Her hands met only empty air.

  * * *

  Halla awoke to a world of pain. Every bone and muscle throbbed, and it was either the darkest of nights or she had been blinded. Rough ropes bound her wrists and ankles, and a cloth tasting of blood was stuffed into her mouth. Jolts of agony informed her that she was bumping along in some sort of conveyance.

  In minute increments, she tested the magnitude of her injuries and was grateful to discover that she could move her fingers and toes. But it hurt to breathe—suggesting at least one broken rib—her head and her right ankle both throbbed, and there was a constant ringing in her ears.

  Who had tied her up, and why, was beyond her ability to fathom in her present state. Ensuring she stayed alive took all her effort.

  Afraid of suffocating on her own vomit, she concentrated first on working the cloth forward in her mouth. She managed this much, but her battered body refused to do more than this. She could only lay shattered and shivering, one breath removed from a nameless terror.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t bear another moment of the pain, that the darkness would drive her mad, the cart rolled to a stop. In the sudden silence, she found herself lucid enough to sense, as last, the cloth over her eyes. Realizing that she might not be blind after all, she heaved a ragged sigh of relief.

  “Good,” said a soft voice. “She’s alive. That’s something.”

  Not a faerie. A man with a slight accent that Halla had heard somewhere before.

  He tugged her gag free, then pressed the rim of a flask against her lips. She swallowed greedily as the brackish water slid down her raw throat.

  “Let’s hope the fall didn’t damage her insides. She’s worth nothing dead.”

  “But plenty alive, I’ll wager.” A different voice, this one with a southern lilt. “The knife we took off her was forged from Glornadoorn steel.”

  “Aye, and most likely stolen.”

  “Still, she’ll fetch a goodly price if she survives. I suppose it’s too much to hope she’s still a maiden…”

  Cold beads of sweat trickled down Halla’s spine. These men were slavers!

  Her fear made her bold. “Please,” she croaked, “I beg you to ransom me. My family will pay you whatever you ask.”

  A heavy silence ensued before the blindfold was pulled roughly from her eyes. Halla blinked in the grey light as the boots of one of her captors, very near her head, came into focus. She didn’t try to twist her neck to see his face. Every movement was rife with pain.

  “Who’re yer people, then?” asked the man from the south.

  “I’m Lady Halla of Lorendale.”

  “Are you now?” said the other voice—the sly, soft one. “Are you indeed? Well, that changes things, yes indeed.”

  “What’re yer on about?” said the southerner.

  His companion was chuckling to himself. “Oh, Drowl—don’t you see? Our fortune has dropped from the sky onto this gods-forsaken beach!” Without warning, a sudden, fierce kick to the skull knocked Halla against the side of the cart. Her head exploded in pain, leaving her no breath to cry out. “Now stop your lying!” hissed the soft-spoken man. “By your garb and your trinkets, it’s plain to see you’re no lady. Still… do you know, Drowl? I’m taking this one to sell in the bazaar.”

  “That’s not where the others are goin’. We’ve orders to sail south with the whole lot.” He nudged a bundle next to Halla with his boot, and it gave a small whimper.

  “You’ve got orders,” said the other man. “I’m selling this one myself.”

  Halla had found breath at last to speak again. “Please—sell me back to my family.”

  She drew a sharp painful breath as she was rolled roughly onto her back, then looked up at a man with long dark hair and a swarthy complexion. Even without the silver hoop in his nose, Halla would have known him as one of the å Livåri.

  With a flood of relief, she whispered, “Dikaia e vitsza Arges, Kak.”

  I am a friend of the family Arges, Uncle.

  The man smiled, revealing blackened teeth. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked back her head so hard she feared her neck would snap.

  “Ah, my pretty,” he growled, stuffing the wad of cloth back into Halla’s mouth, “but I’m your family now.”

  Chapter 8

  Fynn

  Fynn trudged up the hill toward home with a heaviness in his chest. The promise of the day had been marred by his encounter with the yarla, and he wondered what cruel revenge Wylda would exact for his perceived disrespect.

  And then he saw the slow curl of smoke rising from the smokehouse and realized he’d forgotten Teca’s instructions to feed the fire! Mamma had never raised her voice, let alone her hand, to Teca, but after what had happened to the slave responsible for the yarl’s standard, Fynn was not entirely certain what Father might do to her if the fish were ruined.

  Fynn broke into a run.

  As he pushed through the heavy leather hanging at the smokehouse door, he nearly hurtled right into Teca. She caught his shoulder to steady him, and he was relieved to see no reproach in her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I saw you and Einar crossing the bridge. I got back in time to keep the fire going.” She shook a playful finger at him. “You didn’t say you were going down to town.”

  Fynn hung his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to go, but…”

  “I know—your mother was busy with the yarl.” She ruffled Fynn’s hair affectionately. “You needn’t look so woebegone. There’s no harm done.”

  “Teca,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’m… I’m sor
ry about what my father said… about you being just a thrall.”

  Teca bent to stoke the smoldering fire. “I am a thrall, and as long as I am, it’s as the yarl says.” She straightened and looked Fynn directly in the eye. “I’m no one.”

  He felt a surge of dismay. “But you’re someone to us! And you were someone to… to your people before you were brought here.”

  Teca was silent as she fanned the embers to an orange glow.

  Fynn hunkered down beside her. “Tell me about your life in Langmerdor?”

  She shook her head.

  “Please, Teca? I really want to hear—”

  “No!”

  Fynn flinched. Teca never lost patience with him.

  Then he saw the tears trembling in her eyes, and he felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Teca. I—I didn’t mean…”

  She ducked through the curtain, leaving him standing alone in the darkened shed.

  “Now you’ve done it,” he muttered to himself.

  But when he followed her out to the yard, where she was hanging freshly laundered clothes on the line, she didn’t seem to mind, just handed him the sack of pegs to feed to her. And after they worked in silence for a while, she began to hum a song from the Isle. It seemed all was forgiven.

  After the clothes were set to dry, she bumped him playfully with her hip. “Shall we collect some puff berries? The bushes along the ridge are bearing.”

  They gathered two buckets of the sweet, yellow berries, Fynn easily eating as many as he plucked. Teca laughed when she saw his stained lips. “Did you have trouble finding your bucket, meylys?” she teased. After they’d picked their fill, he helped her carry wood to the kitchen, then perched on the counter while she rolled out pastry for the tarts. She let him press out the star-shaped shells to fill with berries.

  They were slipping the tarts into the oven when Mamma appeared from the darkened hall. As always, Fynn’s heart leapt at his mother’s beauty. She was dressed for riding, her cheeks prettily flushed, and her dark hair fell in glossy waves to her slim waist. A new gem the color of her eyes hung from her slender neck. When she saw Fynn admiring it, she winked.