The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  She was running full tilt when something scuttled at her feet, making her stumble and bite her tongue so hard blood flooded her mouth. She rolled over to see a viper undulating across her path. Lying still—exposed to anyone who appeared—she waited until it had moved on, then she did as well.

  Dawn was still hours off, but a light was showing in Palan’s tent, and she was close enough now to hear muffled voices within. A single remaining banner snapped above the pavilion, fraying Halla’s nerves as she circled to the rear of the tent. There she found a jumble of wooden crates, which she edged behind to better listen to the conversation in progress.

  “You’ve watched your comrades die, most unpleasantly, for refusing to disclose the whereabouts of your camp.” Palan. Halla would never forget that arrogant, entitled voice. “You will suffer the same fate if you persist in remaining silent. But if you cooperate, I can be generous, and promise you a clean death.”

  Ice replaced the fire in Halla’s blood as a high-pitched scream shattered the night. She smelled the stench of burning flesh.

  “Dal d å nimic då na vul, divolè!” The strangled words were Nicu’s. I will tell you nothing, wormspawn.

  Then all was ominously still. Halla leaned closer to the tent wall, and she was so intent on hearing Nicu’s voice that she was oblivious to all else until rough hands seized her and wrenched her to her feet, twisting her arms at her back.

  Halla kicked her heel back, but her captor dodged the blow. He spun her to face him and she saw he was a bear of a man. Beside him, another man held up a lantern. This one had the look of an aristocrat, with thick black hair and a close-trimmed beard ringing his narrow lips. He jerked back Halla’s hood, and his jaw dropped.

  “Bring her,” he commanded the bear.

  Halla was propelled forward, her arms pinned painfully behind her. She faked a stumble and succeeded in bringing her boot down hard on the big man’s foot, but he merely grunted and levered her arms higher. The pain was so intense she feared she might pass out, but he suddenly released her to push her after the bearded man into the pavilion.

  She barely registered the tall man’s groping hands searching her and cutting away her scabbard. All her being was focused on Nicu, who hung pinioned between two stakes. A glowing iron rested on the brazier beside him.

  Halla gave an anguished cry when she saw what they had done to him. The skin on one side of his beautiful face had been flayed off, and a black, bloody hole gaped in place of the perfect shell of his ear. Burns were seared into his naked chest, and the reek of scorched flesh filled the tent. His eyes, once so bright, held only desolation.

  “Cucè, Åthinoi?” he whispered through his torn lips. Why?

  “What have we here?”

  At the sound of Palan’s voice, Halla tore her eyes away from Nicu. The Albrenian commander was just as she remembered him, with the same menace in his mocking smile and ice-pale eyes.

  “She’s my captive.” Nicu’s voice was raspy and strained. “She’s of high birth and worth a king’s ransom. That’s what we planned to do with her.”

  The commander moved toward Halla with the grace of a leopard and lifted a strand of her filthy hair. She wanted nothing more than to spit in his face, but she knew Nicu would pay for her venom. Still, De Grathiz’s eyes narrowed, as if he sensed her loathing. “Where did you take her?”

  “In Altipa,” Nicu said. “She was up for auction.”

  “I don’t believe you. Even under the grit, you can see her beauty. She would have been snapped up on the block in Segavia.” He nodded to the man by the brazier, and Nicu’s face paled. “Think again, dog.”

  Halla edged slightly closer to Nicu. “You’re right. I was sold in Segavia,” she said. She’d just realized Palan’s underling had neglected to check her boot. If we are to die today, Seor Palan, then so will you.

  De Grathiz’s eyes lit up with sudden recognition. “I thought we’d met before.” He jabbed a heavily ringed finger at her. “It was at Casa Calida, wasn’t it? Before you were so ungrateful as to flee the litter bearing you to my home. That ill-considered act cost your friend Kainja her life.”

  Halla felt the blood drain from her face.

  De Grathiz turned to Nicu. “This wench is my property; I invested a considerable sum in her training. I should thank you for returning her to me, but the question is—in what condition?” He smiled ruefully. “If you’ve had her, she’s of no use to me. She’s tainted goods in that case, soiled beyond cleansing, for which I shall have to exact a special restitution.”

  “He never touched me!” Halla cried. “I swear it!”

  “Let’s find out how honorable your word is.” Palan snapped his fingers. “Nemia.”

  From the shadows, a slender woman rose from a low couch, her honeyed hair hanging to her waist. Underneath her sheer tunic, her voluptuous body was clearly visible. “My lord?”

  “See if her maidenhead is intact.”

  The bear gave Halla a push toward the couch, but the woman drifted forward and ran her hands over Halla’s belly.

  “There is no need, my lord,” Nemia declared, her voice low and throaty. “The mare is breeding.”

  Palan’s mouth twisted with distaste. “In that case…”

  He raised his chin, and his henchman lifted the iron from the fire.

  Halla’s cry of protest was silenced by the back of Palan’s hand striking full force across her face. She reeled back, but he grabbed the front of her tunic and pulled her so close she could smell the wine on his breath.

  “For your lie,” he hissed, rage in his frosted eyes, “I will send you somewhere that will make you long for the Abyss. But first you will witness this swine’s death. We’ll make sure it’s slow, so that you can recount it in detail to his bastard.” He tilted his head thoughtfully at Halla’s expression. “Does this upset you? I would not wish you to think me heartless.” He turned to Nicu. “Perhaps we should offer you a final entertainment, swine? Would you like your whore to show you what she learned at Casa Calida before we proceed with your punishment for taking what was mine?”

  He thrust Halla to the center of the tent.

  Halla wiped the blood from her split lip, still reeling from Nemia’s pronouncement. The mare is breeding. Her heart caught in her throat as tears streamed down Nicu’s ravaged face.

  Palan smirked as he followed her gaze. “Ah, I see. Neither of you knew? Of course, a woman of high birth would be ignorant of the signs. A pity I didn’t get to her first. I can tell you from personal experience what vixens well-born virgins turn into, once they get a man between their legs. They generally put up quite a fight, which makes it all the more interesting.”

  He shook a reproachful finger at Halla. “But you’ve gone and sullied that pure blue blood of yours with the scum of a Lurker.” His nostrils flared. “Revolting—I can even smell him on you.” He snapped his fingers again. “You will dance for us, Lurker’s Whore, as Kainja taught you.”

  Halla’s eyes were still locked on Nicu’s. “Fitar, dragost me moasă,” she said. “Nim pecarnu să natingă să imil.”

  Be strong, my beautiful love. Nothing he can do to us can touch our spirits or our hearts.

  Nicu’s reply was barely above a whisper. “Promi că nev salv copul. E dorțna me moa.”

  Promise me you will save our child. It is my dying wish.

  “Be silent!” Palan thundered. “If you speak in that filthy tongue again, I shall cut yours out.” He signaled to Halla. “We’re waiting.”

  When she remained stubbornly motionless, he inclined his head, his bright smile still in place. “You refuse? Very well. I think it is time for the knife now, Franco.” The smile widened. “My man is a sculptor, and he will carve out a long, slow agony for your Lurker. The cur will die in any case, but there’s still a chance to win him a merciful death. Otherwise, Franco will ensure that his worthless li
fe is protracted in most exquisite pain.”

  Franco raised his blade, awaiting his commander’s order.

  “Please, my lord.” Halla spoke through gritted teeth. It took all her force of will to resist flying at De Grathiz to strangle him. “What is your pleasure?”

  The Albrenian’s cruel eyes sparked with triumph. “Our pleasure, wench,” he corrected. “You will dance, as the floritas do, for your foul-blooded lover and for me.”

  Franco waggled his blade and leered at Halla, then pointed its tip at Nicu’s groin. She knew then that regardless of how compliant she was, Palan would make Nicu suffer terribly. He had left her with only one choice.

  With trembling fingers, Halla untied her cloak and let it drop to the ground. She kept her face turned toward Nicu, as if only the two of them existed in the room, in the world.

  Slowly, Halla, she imagined the prima florita of Segavia saying, slowly, so as to mesmerize your man.

  She unbuckled her belt, swaying slightly as she did so, ignoring Palan’s amused snort. Then, incrementally, she raised her tunic over her head, arching her back and thrusting her breasts forward.

  All that was left to remove now was the linen wrapped over her breasts and her torn hose and boots. She felt all of their eyes on her, even Nemia’s. Franco’s mouth had fallen open, lust plain on his ugly face.

  Halla lifted her arms and began to untie the knot of her hair. She could almost hear Kainja urging her on. Roll your shoulders ever so slightly—yes, like that. Drop your chin and then raise it, and slowly shake that unruly mane loose.

  “That’s better,” Palan said. “Now the rest.”

  As desperately as Halla wanted to prolong the process, unwrapping the cloth binding her breasts took only a moment. To buy time, she writhed her hips enticingly as Kainja had done.

  De Grathiz let out a slow breath. “Perfect,” he murmured. “You were worth three times what I paid.” He sighed with what sounded like true regret. “For that reason, I shall have to raise my remuneration.” He raised his brows. “Franco?”

  The henchman drove his knife into Nicu’s gut. Halla screamed and lunged at Franco, but Palan caught her and held her fast, the crook of his arm pressed so hard against her throat it stopped her breath. She struggled in vain as Nicu looked down at the stain blooming on his tunic, then lifted his eyes to her. They spoke of all he could not find the power to say.

  “Don’t worry,” De Grathiz said with a laugh, his sour breath hot against Halla’s hair. “He won’t die from that wound, at least not today, and likely not tomorrow either. Franco has much more in store for him. It will get worse—much worse—unless you cooperate. Fully.”

  At the sight of the dark blood seeping from Nicu’s wound, Halla felt all the fight go out of her. She’d witnessed too often the agonizing, slow death from a blade to the belly.

  “That’s better,” crooned De Grathiz. He released her and gave her a little push in Nicu’s direction. “You haven’t yet finished your dance. If it fails to please us, Franco will give a little demonstration of his own. I hope the sight of a dismemberment won’t give you night terrors… what with your delicate condition.”

  Franco fumbled with the ties of Nicu’s breeches, and Halla guessed what was to come next. From the dark terror in Nicu’s eyes, so did he.

  She knew what she had to do, and she would have only one chance.

  As she began swaying again, she was no longer aware of who was watching her. Her thoughts flew back to the days—so many days—spent with Florian in Lord’s Wood. She could feel his hand on hers, the heat of his body as he stood close behind her, moving the knife in her fingers until she mastered the grip. Over and over again, he guided her through the flicking motion. Over and over, until it became second nature, until she could send her blade spiraling, with blinding speed, to hit its mark every time.

  Franco tugged Nicu’s breeches to his knees, and as Palan turned to savor his next assault, Halla bent forward.

  The hilt of her knife leapt into her grasp, and in less than a breath, the blade spun through the air—to plunge, with deadly accuracy, into its mark.

  She lifted her gaze from the knife to meet the eyes of the man whose life she had just taken. The ghost of a smile curved his lips—lips that had so recently pressed against her own.

  With his dying breath, Nicu whispered Halla’s name.

  Chapter 27

  Fynn

  Fynn kicked and flailed in a turbid sea that had no up or down. This was how the gods had always intended he would die. He had robbed them twice already, once during the synda that Midsommer’s Day, and then again when Vetch wanted to throw him into Restaria’s harbor with his pockets filled with stones. This time, the sea would have him.

  Fynn struggled to free himself from whatever held him. Perhaps the serpents of Nagror already possessed his soul. He braced himself for gnawing daggers of pain, then his stomach clenched and he gagged and spewed. He gulped in the unexpected air, not caring that it reeked of singed hair, weak with relief at discovering he was still alive.

  Hearing a groan—a very human one—he dared to open his eyes.

  All color had fled from the world. All he could see was white fire raging within a row of grey buildings.

  Then hands hauled him to his feet and dragged him toward the flickering light. Fynn tried to turn his head to see who held him, but breathing in and out was as much as he could manage. If it was one of Aksel’s men, better the sea had taken Fynn. His traitorous cousin would use him to lure Jered to his death.

  He tried to pull away, until a familiar voice said, “Don’t fight me, Fynn. I need your help.”

  “Whit?” Fynn struggled to stay upright on the stony strand, but he couldn’t feel his feet. “I’m trying, but I’m numb all over. And my… my eyes… ”

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with them. You’re in my shadow.” Whit’s breath was labored as he heaved Fynn forward a few more paces. “Are you hurt?

  “No… only… I smell smoke. Is my hair on fire?”

  Whit gave a weak laugh. “That’s the lapin fur. I summoned bales of it to the beach to break our fall. Some of them were alight.”

  Fynn stumbled over something and pitched forward, and in an instant, color returned to the world.

  “Now that’s a stroke of luck!” Whit cried. He bent over and picked something up from the stones. “You’ve found my flask!” He took a deep draught, then offered it to Fynn.

  With his first swallow, Fynn felt heat pulsing through his veins, and his toes and fingers tingled back to life. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling surprisingly steady. “I can walk by myself now, I think.”

  They made for one of the warehouses, where the wizard collected his boots and staff. Fynn could only imagine how hard it must have been for Whit to leave his rod in order to come to his rescue. Not to mention that Fynn’s impulsive race into the Helgrins’ clutches had almost cost them both their lives.

  “Where’s Sinead?” he asked.

  The wizard put his finger to his lips and hurried them along the crescent of the port. He stopped at last at the smoking ruin of a rambling house and stood in silence, surveying the shards of broken crockery and the big stone fireplace, which was all that remained.

  “Were they friends of yours?” Fynn asked.

  “Yes, I guess they were. In any case, they were good, kind people. I’d planned to leave you with them for a spell.” Whit nudged a charred piece of wood with his boot, rolling it over to reveal a gruesome mask. “Where to take you now?” he muttered, then turned to Fynn. “What about your mother’s people? Where did you say they came from?”

  “Langmerdor. But my mother never spoke of them. I don’t even know her family name.” For the first time, Fynn regretted that he hadn’t asked Teca when he’d had the chance.

  Whit frowned. “Langmerdor’s too far away. Vetch will
soon have the roads watched, if he hasn’t already.” Suddenly the wizard brightened. “Trillyon. That’s where we’ll go.”

  Now that the elixir had cleared Fynn’s brain, what he’d learned on the longship began to sink in. “I should have killed him.”

  Whit didn’t need clarification. “Aksel might have been lying… about what happened to Aetheor.”

  Fynn heard a lack of conviction behind the wizard’s words. “He has my—the yarl’s longboat. Aetheor would never have let another man captain his Ydlyia, not even Jered.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Aksel was telling the truth. Aetheor Yarl lies under the sea.”

  He wished he could promise to avenge Aetheor’s death, but that obligation would have to fall to Jered, the yarl’s true son and heir. The brother with whom Fynn shared no blood ties. And if Jered ever learned that Fynn was fully Drinnglennian, he wouldn’t want anything to do with him. The realization made Fynn terribly sad.

  They made their way back to the southern edge of the harbor. Fynn’s stomach twisted at the rank smell of blood as they passed the worst of the carnage, even though he averted his eyes from the butchered bodies. He was ashamed of his weakness. You should have known after Thorpe that no Helgrin blood flows through your craven veins. He wondered if Aetheor had suspected it when he’d sent Fynn home in disgrace.

  At the thought, a sob escaped him. He felt Whit’s hand come to rest on his shoulder, and Fynn brushed away his tears. Thankfully the wizard made no comment.

  As they approached the woodlands, Whit gave a soft whistle, and Sinead trotted out of the brush with Rowlan following docilely on her heels. Whit rummaged in the saddlebags and handed Fynn some dry clothes.

  “I’m sorry I lost your good cloak,” Fynn mumbled, wiping his nose on his sodden tunic.

  “I imagine you had little choice in that. At least no one stole the horses while I was looking for you.” Whit patted the white mare affectionately and offered her an apple, crooning to her as she nuzzled his hand. The stallion whickered softly, and Whit gave Fynn another to feed to him. Rowlan’s warm breath against Fynn’s hand was oddly comforting, and by the time he’d changed and had another glug from the flask, he’d stopped snuffling.