The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1)

by Warren Thomas

  Studying the hesitant witch, Danica briefly wondered if she could be trusted. A powerful wizard like Talar could probably destroy her even from faraway Allaria. Or could he? She was suddenly painfully aware of how little she truly knew about magic, or its limitations. Though she did understand that wielding Sorcery was at best difficult and dangerous.

  If the talisman was as powerful as the Vikon said, and she did manage to take Talar by surprise, then she might actually be able to capture the wizard. Then either force him to undo his deed, or kill him. She would not — could not — allow Talar to continue to live with her body.

  Turning to the mirror, she wondered if it would be better not to know the outcome of this decision. Knowing too much might cause her to hesitate at the wrong moment. It might mean the difference between success and failure. Still, wouldn't knowing what the fates had in store give her an edge? Perhaps this would be the Gods' way of rendering their divine aid.

  Reaching out for the mirror, "If I go to Ismat al-Haratha for the talisman..."

  A flash of intense white light brightened the mirror's surface before the scene was slowly condensed into an aerial view of Allaria — from a warhawk's back! Danica almost cried out in joy. Changing, the scene became a wizard's darkened laboratory with two powerful spellcasters locked in battle, Talar and a very beautiful woman with long snow white hair. Danica recognized her as the High Mage of Allaria, Ayesha, called the White Rose. Danica watched as she jumped in to make it a three way battle.

  "That's it!" she cried triumphantly, whirling on the Vikon. "That's the answer. Go for the talisman."

  Cautiously, "The mirror only showed the most likely conclusion. One misstep along the way and everything changes. You still could end up as a slave or wife to nomads. Or worse."

  Or worse! What could be worse than what it had already shown her? Her only other choices were slavery, be mutilated and murdered, or raped to death. Or the very real possibility of gaining bloody vengeance.

  Danica considered that a moment. The talisman was her only chance. Was she willing to face death? Yes, without a doubt. What about slavery to nomads? A nomadic warrior's wife? A brothel slave? To get to Ismat al-Haratha she would have months of riding across the steppes and desert. The thought of capture by nomads gave her gooseflesh. She tried to picture herself submitting to a man, and letting him do anything he wanted with her. Her mind returned to the slave house, and the things they did to her. And worse, how much her body enjoyed it.

  Even now, she struggled to suppress those erotic thoughts.

  Were there any other real options? Could she learn to live in a woman's body? She looked herself over briefly, and found the thought of life as a woman was as terrifying as eternal damnation and slavery. Worse, elves lived at least a thousand years. Her father once told of attending the nine hundredth birthday party for an elven envoy in Dakkor. She had no way of knowing how old her new body was, but it appeared young even by elven standards. Talar said she was probably around five hundred years old, which would leave her another five hundred years. She could end up in a very long slavery.

  But vengeance could be exacted with the talisman.

  Vengeance!

  Danica's sapphire eyes flashed with evil glee, "Describe this talisman to me."

  Chapter 4

  Danica reined in the bay stallion. The assembling caravan was still too disorganized to discern who was in charge of what. She pulled her right leg up and hooked it comfortably over the saddle horn and idly played with the rowel and jingles of the bronze spurs. Jingles were an Amazon oddity, meant to drawn attention. If she managed to hire on with this caravan, the first thing she planned to do that night was hunt down the smith and have him remove the annoying things.

  She twisted and stretched in the saddle again. The previous night spent sleeping in the stables beside her horse left her muscles and joints tight and sore. She had spent her last coin in a tavern, on a bowl of thin soup and a mug of watered ale instead of lodgings. Now she was questioning her judgment in that decision, since she could have eaten some of her trail rations.

  In the early morning light, she looked the caravan over with a critical eye. Several Merchant Houses were assembling their wagons and pack trains in the bazaar just inside the north gate. The cold winds blowing down off the Tyr Mountains whipped up clouds of the fine dust, coating the streets, men, and everything else. The men, horses, and wagons moving about didn’t help the situation any.

  Basically, she liked what she saw. The caravaners seemed to know what they were doing. The wagons were in good repair, and the teamsters and guards looked confident and competent. She already knew they were heading for Ismat al-Haratha by way of the desert cities of Samulla and Tamera. It would be a long trip, probably taking the better part of three or four months. It would be faster for a lone rider, but it would be dangerous alone. And Danica knew better than try to go it alone on the steppes and desert.

  There looked to be some hundred-odd sharp-eyed caravan guards, slowly moving through the bustle astride horses. Most looked to be steppe nomads, decked out in their distinctive lamellar armors and wide-brimmed hats. To someone knowledgeable in steppe lore, the choice in styles of hats would tell which tribe and clan each warrior belonged. The style of lamellar armor, with its bright lacings, would also be some indication, but armor was a highly prized war trophy and frequently worn by the victors. Especially if they were young warriors with little resources to buy the small steel lames, or plates, used to assemble lamellar armor. The non-nomads were quite distinctive in contrast, most wearing steel cuirasses not unlike Danica's, or chain mail hauberks.

  The commander of the caravan guards stood to one side, carefully watching everyone and everything. In the tavern the previous night, Danica had heard many good things about him. He was tall and dark, with a short black beard and short-cropped hair. His father was a renegade Taag warrior, a volatile and reclusive tribe roaming the southwestern regions of the vast desert bordering the steppes. His mother was a Tyrian warrior, said to be even more headstrong and fearless than his father. He had literally grown up riding with the caravans his parents hired on to guard across both steppes and desert.

  The men who told her of this caravan had only the highest regards for Captain Fulgar's ability. They guaranteed the pay would be good, the food plentiful, and discipline tight. All things Danica considered important.

  Spurring over to the Captain, "Ho, Captain Fulgar."

  He turned and looked up, black eyes narrowing, "What do you want, Amazon?"

  Close up, she thought he looked more like a Jarland mercenary officer than a half-Taag caravan guard. His unadorned armor was expensive half-plate, with a close-fitting, open-faced helm resting in the crook of his left arm. Pauldrons protected both arms and plain steel greaves did likewise for his lower legs. The heavy blue cotton breeches were faded but clean. The spurs on his boots were bronze. He was big-boned and heavily muscled, not at all like the thin desert folk.

  "I come to hire on," she said.

  Looking her over slowly, and with growing appreciation, "So you do. I may just have a position for you, Amazon."

  His leer gave her a good idea of what kind of position he had in mind. And if there had been any doubt, he’d addressed her as "Amazon." Amazons were notorious flirts and carousers. They were legendary in their wild ways, and easy morals.

  "A guard position," she said.

  "Of course," he said. A crooked smile spread across his scarred, bearded face, not quite making it to his eyes. "You'll be the only female in the caravan, you understand?"

  Shrugging, "That's of no consequence."

  Nodding, "Maybe not to you." He smiled even wider. "I would offer my services. My protection."

  "I have all the protection I need right here," she said, grabbing the hilt of her sword. "Your services are neither needed, nor wanted."

  "You don't understand — "

  "I do understand," she snapped. "I am not going to be your whore, or anyone else's. I
can take care of myself, thank you."

  He glared at her a moment. She tensed, but returned his glare with a determined look. She would ride alone across a thousand deserts before she submitted to his touch.

  "I would honor you — "

  "Honor someone else."

  "Begone," he snapped.

  "What do we have here, Captain Fulgar?" a large man asked as he approached. The man was powerfully built and dressed in expensive but practical clothing. Danica figured the dark-haired man to be a merchant, maybe even the leader of the caravan. "Another guard, I hope."

  "That I am, my lord," she called before the Captain could answer. "I am eager to hire on with your company."

  "She is not acceptable," Captain Fulgar said, shooting her a hot look. "I have just told her to leave."

  "And for no good reason," Danica said, glaring back at the big mercenary.

  "She looks more like a pampered Silk Slave than a warrior." He sneered as he took in her shapely body and long golden mane. "I'd wager that the only sword she can handle with any talent is hanging between your legs."

  Looking him straight in the eye, "Test me."

  "Excellent idea," the merchant said. Then to Danica, "I am Omar, Master of the House of Charra."

  "And the leader of this caravan, I presume."

  Shrugging with a shy smile, "The other merchants seem to think I have some ability in leading. I do my best."

  "It will be an honor to serve you, my lord," she said with a slight bow.

  "If you pass my test," Fulgar said.

  "When I pass your test," she corrected.

  She still had her knowledge and talent with weapons. Danic was a swordmaster, she would be very close, at least. She hoped. Prayed. Anyway, it was doubtful the Captain had another swordmaster in his company.

  Danica slid from the saddle and pulled her sword, while Fulgar called over another guard. A steppe nomad, by the look of him, strolled over with his rolling gait, and not much bigger than herself. On being apprised of the situation, he pulled off his beige burnoose and started stretching his arm muscles. His steel waist length lamellar armor with chain mail sleeves was stained black and laced with plain leather, with innumerable patches, scratches, and dents from scores of battles and brawls. His peaked helmet was typically nomad, being a segmented steel construct with a horsehair crest. A large circle then formed around the two combatants as they sized each other up.

  The man sent up against her was young and in his prime. He looked cheerful, but confident. Considering his fresh-faced look, Danica figured the armor was handed down to him through several generations. He carried a steppe sword, the two-handed, single-edged, slightly curved sword favored by the steppe nomads.

  Danica found herself wondering if Fulgar had a very low opinion of her abilities, or if the blonde youth, called Horse, really was his best swordsman. Looks could, and frequently were, deceiving. She would be cautious.

  "My lady," Horse said, bowing with a flourish. "You are indeed the loveliest vision my sad eyes have ever beheld."

  Definitely a steppe nomad and by his accent, Horse Tribe. The Horse Tribe was the largest and most powerful of the steppe nomads. As a caravan guard, Danica had dealings with them before, and knew them to be generally friendly and outgoing among their own and friends, but stark and merciless fighters and raiders otherwise.

  "And you have the slickest tongue I have ever heard." She smiled back. "You sound like a courtier."

  He laughed. "I wish, but I am but a simple herder granted the honor of riding with these fine men."

  "Is Horse your real name, or were you tagged with it because you're from the Horse Tribe?" she asked, and received a surprised look from him.

  "Very good," he said, pulling his sword. "I am indeed a son of the Horse Tribe, and Horse is my nickname." Shrugging, "I have a way with horses."

  He presented his blade with a confident smile.

  "Why do I have a feeling you're even better with a sword?"

  "Must be your woman's intuition."

  She gave him a doubtful smile, then turned to Fulgar. "What are the rules?"

  "No rules," he said, sneering. "Just win."

  Bowing with a self-assured smile, Horse said, "Any time you're ready, my lady."

  Danica gave him a crooked grin, then kicked some of the fine dust covering the street at his face. On instinct, he jumped back, brandishing his sword wildly. She drove into him with a vengeance. It was all he could do to defend himself, but he recovered before she could exploit his brief disadvantage.

  "Well met," he said, his lazy smile returning. "I see there's more to you than first thought."

  "There's more to me than you'll ever know," she said, circling slowly.

  In a move almost too quick to see, Horse stepped in and thrust for her heart. Twisting, she swept his blade away, but not before receiving a long shallow crease across her breast plate.

  She continued the spin, dropping low and throwing a leg out. Horse's legs were swept away and he came down with a grunt. He rolled aside just before the point of her blade slammed into the cobbles. Any hesitation would have cost him the fight, if not his life.

  "Never underestimate you opponent," she chided him.

  "I stand corrected," he said, looking at her with respect now.

  They circled for several minutes looking for a chink in the other's armor. After extensively probing each other's defenses, they concluded they were fairly well-matched.

  Danica cursed her loss of physical strength. Her sword felt unusually heavy and difficult to wield. As Danic, she knew she could've made short work of the man. With a little practice she felt she could get real close to her former abilities. If nothing else came of this, at least she had proven to herself that she wasn't totally helpless. That nagging doubt in the back of her mind was now put to rest.

  While circling, Danica heard Fulgar's snort of anger, then felt his boot slam into her lower back. She stumbled into Horse's arms. He caught her with a laugh, looking down into her startled face. Twisting and bucking violently, she almost escaped Horse's suffocating embrace, but just ended up facing Fulgar. Horse had her arms pinned to her sides, forcing her to face the gloating guard commander in helpless rage.

  "Cheat!" she cried at the Captain.

  Laughing, he said, "I said no rules. Besides, no one plays by the rules in a real fight."

  She seethed. Nothing she could do would break the nomad's hold. He was too strong. Then something occurred to her.

  "Take that!" she cried as she drove one of her heels into Horse's foot. As his grip loosened, she broke free and swept an elbow across his jaw. Then she kicked him in the chest as he fell back. He laid at her feet, too stunned to stand. Turning to Fulgar, "I win."

  While Fulgar glared at her, the other guards and teamsters crowded around. Ignoring Fulgar, she acknowledged their welcomes, congratulations, and hardy back slaps. Like it or not, Fulgar had to accept her now.

  Pushing his way through the crowd, Horse grinned at Danica. Rubbing his jaw, "Well met, my lady. It will be an honor to serve with you."

  "Friends?" She asked, offering her hand.

  "Friends," he said and cheerfully took it. "I think you broke my foot."

  He was only slightly favoring that foot, so not broken.

  "I hope not," Danica clapped him on the shoulder. "How about I buy you an ale in Samulla? To make up for my mistreatment of you?"

  "I look forward to it."

  "I'm glad we're all such good friends now," Captain Fulgar grumbled, pushing through the crowd. Stopping, he gave everyone a hard look. "Get back to work. We move out in fifteen minutes."

  Horse, looking even more sheepish, patted Danica on the shoulder and winked. Captain Fulgar cast a withering stare at the retreating nomad before turning his attention back to Danica.

  After everyone left, Danica said, "And just where do you want me?"

  She regretted her choice of words the second they left her lips. Several visions flashed before her mind'
s eye, of Fulgar bending her over and having his way with her. Of her on her back, legs wide as he sated his lusts. Of her on her knees before him, mouth full and head bobbing.

  He looked her over sullenly a moment, but there was something in the cast of his eyes that told her Fulgar was having similar erotic thoughts. She bristled. The way his dark eyes lingered on certain parts of her body almost made her feel dirty. She fought the urge to cross her arms across her chest.

  "Bring up the rear," he said, then abruptly turned and stalked off.

  Great, she thought darkly. Now I get to eat dust the whole trip.

  "Aye, Captain," was all she said, though. No profit in pushing her luck.

  * * * * *

  Riding into the wind to escape the choking dust cloud, Danica reined up on a small rise under a lone acacia tree. She watched the caravan slowly winding its way through the low, rolling hills of the steppes. There were few trees, and most of those were stunted oaks next to the rare rivers and streams, and thorny acacias. They were still in short grass country, near the desert to their east. Further north and west the grasses grew taller. Though she'd never ridden through them herself, Danica heard there were areas where the grass was twice as tall as a man afoot.

  Not counting the ocean, the Steppes was the largest single region Danica knew existed. It was bordered by the Qakara Desert to its east, the Tyr Mountains to the south, the Black Forest to the north, and the Dragonback Mountains to the east. Danica had either flown or ridden over most of its vast expanses. She knew most of its tribes, but only a few of their scattered clans. The only cities were ruins from the time of the War of the Gods, when the Arisen Gods routed the Old Ones and took over the godly duties of their world.

  Legends from that time said the Steppes was then a vast forest, which was destroyed along with the Old Ones' mortal armies. Indeed, the Dragonback Mountains came into being during that war, when the King of the Arisen Gods, Baldr, called Father Sun, cleaved the land asunder to stop the retreating armies. The doomed armies were then crushed before the mile high wall of granite. The Dragonback Mountains to this day were still sheer mile high cliffs and impassable except by warhawk.