Janrae Frank - [Lycan Blood 02] - Fireborn Law

by Fireborn Law [lit]

  "The direct route is across the Hellblade Corridor. However, that's heavily patrolled and I don't wish to reveal myself. It would be in the best interests of our people if no one knew that the Second Mother was at large in the world again."

  Caimbeul considered that a wise decision. Before the Lycan Rebellion of 997, Red Wolf had touched on Silverpaw in the north. When the Waejontori crushed the rebellion, they seized that strip of land and fortified it in an effort to isolate the two strongest of the Nine Great Clans: Red Wolf and Silverpaw. That area currently lay in the hands of the Waejontori Queen Tomyrilen the Bastard, who had raised a revolt against the Sharani.

  "So you won't simply Jump us there?" He tried to keep his gaze on her face, but his eyes kept drifting across her exquisite body in spite of his best efforts; and he wondered by what cursed chance he had managed to fall in love with the Second Mother of the lycan race. All lycans, to one degree or another, traced their ancestry to Pandeena, a yuwenghau a minor divine.

  "Same reason."

  Caimbeul nodded and puffed on his pipe for several minutes, thinking. "That leaves only making a detour through Waejontor proper. We'll still be dodging Queen Tomyrilen's forces until we reach Sharani held territory."

  "We're taking the same route back that I took getting here. I know what I'm doing."

  "There are things I will need to buy along the way."

  "I guessed as much." Pandeena unfastened a pouch from her belt and tossed it to him.

  Caimbeul caught it in mid-air with a speed and ease that belied his obvious age, noted the weight, and opened it. Coins filled the pouch, mostly silver, but with a substantial amount of gold. "All of this is mine?"

  "I said I would take care of you."

  A small smile lit his grizzled face. "You always were as good as your word."

  "Don't spend it all on whiskey. A drink or two at the inns we stop at is one thing but if I catch you lost in a bottle I'm going to beat the unholy hell out of you."

  "You have my word. I will stay sober."

  * * * *

  The final purchase at Running Horse had been two pack animals and a gentle gelding for Caimbeul. He had thrown a fit, wanting a spirited animal like he had ridden in his youth. Pandeena overruled him; she had no idea how badly his skills might have deteriorated after spending years in the bottle. The single thing she had no doubts about was the condition of his mind: he was as sharp as ever.

  They rode out of Running Horse three days after Pandeena appeared at Caimbeul's shack, winding their way down through the western foothills of the Eiralyskali Mountains, heading into Waejontor proper. The Waejontori and hence the Sharani also considered the lands of the Nine Great Clans to be part of Waejontor. The lycans considered themselves independent and neutral. The Sharani had respected the lycans' right to rule themselves; while the sa'necari aristocracy of Waejontor never had even to the slightest degree, and with the rise of Queen Tomyrilen, were beginning to pressure the clans. The situation did not bode well for the lycans.

  They entered Waejontor in the evening of their second day of travel, stopping for the night at a lycan-owned inn on the outer edge of the town of Skinner's Hollow. Pandeena got them rooms with a connecting door and had dinner sent up to Caimbeul's room. They sat together eating in silence, worn out by the tensions of the day. Pandeena had been bending her Wilderkin talents to avoid the guard patrols, the birds and the beasts alerted her whenever one was near and they got off the road.

  Caimbeul pushed his plate away and settled back in the chair with his pipe. "You still haven't told me if you have a suspect."

  "I do and I don't. It's hard to explain."

  "Try."

  "Claw Redhand extended a kindness to the women and children fleeing the war, by creating and supporting a refugee camp they call the Sanctuary."

  "Humans?"

  Pandeena nodded. "And five sa'necari women with lycan offspring. Some of the children are sa'necari-born."

  That brought a frown to Caimbeul's face. "Sa'necari murdered his sons and he's taking their offspring in? Where'd he get that?"

  "His grandson is sa'necari. His daughter had a bastard child by a Dark Brother of the Light, possibly a descendant of Dawnhand."

  "I thought they were all dead. That massacre ten years ago." Caimbeul took a long draw from his pipe.

  "There were two survivors. Isranon and his sister. The sister perished three years later. According to Lokynen Willidar, Isranon is now calling himself Dawnreturning."

  "What's the cub's name?"

  "Darmyk. He's a sweet little cub. However, there are several odd things about him. He's Wilderkin. And he has a wine-stain birthmark on his left shoulder in the form of the Willodarian bear."

  "Godmark?"

  "I suspect so. I haven't been able to contrive an opportunity to examine it."

  "We are living the old curse about interesting times. I've never heard of a sa'necari child who was godmarked and Wilderkin."

  "Neither have I. But he is."

  "I'd like to have a look at him."

  "You will. Any way. There's a mon at Sanctuary who has a lot of influence with the young wolves. He's human. I touched him, so I should know. However, I swear he tried to Read me."

  "Mage?"

  "No sign of it. His name is Malthus Estrobian. My gut instinct says that's not his real name. He came to the camp with two sa'necari born nieces, orphans. When Lokynen found Nikko, the young wolf said something that sounded like Marl or Mal or something like that, and that there was a sa'necari in Wolffgard who shot him."

  "You have five of them to pick from."

  "You mean the women? No, they've been there for several years now and they're spellcorded."

  "So you think he meant Malthus?"

  "Possibly. The mon makes me uneasy."

  "Well, you've given me a lot to think about. I'll probably have more questions later."

  After Pandeena had gone to bed, Caimbeul slipped downstairs and purchased three bottles of whiskey that he stowed in his packs. He would keep his word about staying sober on the road, but once he got settled into Wolffgard, Caimbeul intended to tie one on.

  * * * *

  As they descended out of the mountains where the lycan clan, Silverpaw, dwelled, the tangled forests gave way to larger and larger stretches of farmland, and the towns and villages grew closer together on the flatlands of central Waejontor. Despite the war, people still traveled. They passed peasants on the road; black clad Waejontori women in their headscarves and shapeless dresses following the proper number of paces behind their men. A coach rattled past them at midday with a large armed guard. As the number of people on the road increased, it soon became clear to Pandeena that it would be next to impossible to avoid the Waejontori patrols entirely. They would become mixed in with the others and her animals spies would more easily confused.

  What they did not see caused a sense of tension to grow in both of them: there were no lycans anywhere.

  "Where have they all gone?" Pandeena asked, frowning at Caimbeul.

  "I don't know, but we're conspicuous by their absence. And I think we're about to find out."

  Pandeena followed his glance and saw a small unit of guardsmyn approaching them: dark myn in blood-red livery.

  "Ho, lycans!" The captain shouted at them.

  Pandeena reined in and waited. Had she been alone, or had Caimbeul still had all the skills of his youth, she would have acted against them at once; however, it seemed better to take a wait and see approach to this.

  The Captain swung off his horse and stalked toward them. "Dismount and show me your papers."

  She blinked. "My what?"

  "Travel papers. All lycans in the Queen's territory are required to have travel papers. You must have permission to travel."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The commander raised an eyebrow at her. "Clans wolves are you?"

  Caimbeul dismounted and sauntered up to the commander. "We dinna know aboot this." H
e thickened his accent in a deliberate fashion, hoping to appear as a simple-minded farmer. "Ah'm takin' mah new bride home. She's a pretty thing, don't ya think?"

  The commander glanced at Pandeena. "If you like them pale."

  "Sa what we do aboot these papers?"

  "You'll have to come into town with us. We'll talk, and if my commander likes your answers, you will be given papers and allowed to go on."

  "An if ya dunna like them?"

  "Matters could get rather ugly." The captain sneered at them. "I'm sure the garrison will enjoy opening your wife's legs."

  Caimbeul frowned. "Ah dunna want thaht. Ah ain't hawd time ta swell her yet."

  The captain chuckled at the stupidity of Caimbeul's answer. "If you don't cooperate, you'll leave with her swollen but it won't be yours."

  "An' if'n ya like muh answers, Ah get her back untouched?" Caimbeul sounded puzzled, scratched behind his ear, and flashed Pandeena a cat sign that was hidden by his large head and thick neck.

  Pandeena extended her Wilderkin talents, touching the Waejontori horses' nostrils with the scent of lions. They bucked and reared. Several bolted.

  "What the hell?" The captain froze, staring at the spectacle incredulous.

  In the moment of distraction, Caimbeul drew his knife, grabbed the captain by the shoulder, and plunged the blade into his throat with a ripping twist. The captain's eyes bulged in shock as he sank to his knees. Caimbeul jerked the blade out, turned, and remounted his horse. "Come on, let's get out of here."

  A sharp tingling sensation swept through Caimbeul and his horse shuddered under him. He felt Pandeena's powers gathering for a Jump. They vanished from the road in a shimmer of golden light.

  They materialized beneath a stand of beeches and Caimbeul had no idea where they were. The roads had changed a lot over the century that he had retreated gradually into the bottle in Running Horse.

  "You should have done that in the first place."

  Pandeena shrugged. "I wanted to see if you could talk us out of it."

  "I tried. I'm rusty at that stuff."

  "I saw that." Pandeena noticed that Caimbeul was shaking. "Are you all right?"

  "I haven't killed anyone since Skeleton Creek."

  "When Gwythyr died?"

  "I put my blades up. This isn't even a proper knife." He pulled his blade and showed it to her as they rode.

  "It's just a belt knife."

  "Yah. I'm surprised it worked so well."

  "You must start wearing your blades again. It isn't safe."

  "I don't own any." Caimbeul's expression darkened as if staring into the mouth of nightmares.

  "Then I'll get you some."

  He gave a mute nod and did not reply. His thoughts drifted to the pair of fighting knives wrapped in silk and buried in his packs the ones he had not worn since he failed to save his son. "Where are we?"

  "Sharani held territory or at least it was last time I was through here."

  "Yes, but where?"

  "Due west of Tamrath Falls."

  Caimbeul scratched his chin, certain that his request would not go over well with her, but deciding to make it anyway. "Can we stop off at Skullbones?"

  "Why?" Suspicion crept into her tone. "What do you want there?"

  "Stop off at that mage shop if it's still there."

  A frown deepened on Pandeena's face. "The only thing you ever bought there was contraceptives those bloody seed crystals. We're almost killed and all you can think about is sex?"

  Caimbeul winced, glaring at his hands as he summoned up the courage to respond, and wondered where he had lost it. It had always been easier to argue with her when a haze of alcohol lay between them. Some days he was painfully conscious of who she was and on other days, she was just Pandeena to him. Caimbeul was too self-aware not to realize how and why he wavered between reverent and irreverent with her. She was both one of his gods and simply a bitch he had gotten his bone into. Life was easier when he took the latter view and he clung to it when he finally formed a response. "Why not? I've no intention of remaining celibate."

  Pandeena snarled at him wordlessly.

  "I'm male. Deal with it."

  "Kynyr isn't like that."

  Kynyr ? "Who the hell is he?"

  "Kynyr Maguire. Cahira Sinclair's grandson."

  "Are you sleeping with him?

  "Not that it's any of your business not yet." Pandeena went arch on him, savoring her jabs in undisguised fashion. "However, we will be soon. Have you ever known a wolf that could turn me down?"

  Caimbeul averted his eyes and did not speak to her for the rest of the day except to answer brief questions. Meanwhile, she prattled on about the 'noble' and 'handsome' Kynyr Maguire until Caimbeul wanted to hit him in the face.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KYNYR AND THE KID

  The young guardsmon, Kynyr Maguire, strode through the second floor hallway, heading for the Blue Room. His golden ginger hair, so thick it bloused around his face no matter how tightly he tied it back, hung at his shoulders in a clubbed knot. A narrow fringe of close-cropped golden beard framed his face from sideburns to an inch from his chin. His lantern jaw, pronounced cheekbones with dramatic hollows beneath them, and cleft chin made him the visual epitome of lycan masculinity. This often produced more discomfort than pleasure.

  Growing up, his four older sisters would start telling him how handsome he was just before admonishing him not to get dirty on pain of being whomped with a hairbrush. He had decided young that ugly cubs had more fun and probably got to go fishing more often. Fishing had been one of Kynyr's favorite childhood pastimes and they had been forever trying to prevent him from doing it. Kynyr had spent many hours making elaborate plans for eluding them and running off with his fishing pole at every opportunity. Now that he was grown and living away from home he rarely got to go fishing, but the reasons were different.

  Claw had sent for him to come and play checkers. The chieftain had been sending for Kynyr with increasing frequency just to talk to him over checkers or chess. The servants, as the Redhands insisted upon calling their small herd of nibari slaves, passed him along the way, going about their chores. They always smiled at him.

  Redhand Manor had three main sections: the guard wing on the west, the main section where the family lived in the center, and the servants' wing on the east side. Ostensibly, the sections where only connected through doors that opened onto stairs wells on either end of the main hallway through which Kynyr walked. There were rumors of hidden passages and servants' passages that provided closer links with the rest of the house, but if they existed, Kynyr had never found them. The manor had been added onto many times over the five centuries of its existence, making it a veritable warren of halls, passages, drawing rooms, closets, and bedrooms.

  The guardsmyn wing, where Kynyr had lived until two months ago, was the most recent addition. Claw had expanded his household forces to two hundred myn-at-arms over the last eighty years since the Lycan Rebellion of 997 had been crushed by their sa'necari overlords. He continued to expand it and still had room to hire another one hundred myn. In addition to his regular patrols that moved through the house and watched the manor grounds and their herds of sheep, goats, and racing horses, Claw had added a unit of at-large guardsmyn to the family section of the house that spent most of their time sitting with his bitches Aisha his wife, two elderly sisters, Fianait and Searlait, and his daughter Merissa eight myn and an officer to keep them company, walk in the gardens with them, and take them shopping. As a sign that Claw was adopting more of the human ways, he declared Kynyr their lieutenant , although no one really knew how to interpret the title.

  Of the dozen drawing rooms in the manor, the Redhands used the Blue Room most often. The room was done in shades of blue: rugs, furniture cushions, and curtains. A long row of built-in cabinets another thing borrowed from the humans lined the south wall. A dining table that could seat forty stretched its stout polished surface near the west windows, which were open to
cope with the summer heat. The hearth on the north end had not been lit in months, and a cluster of chairs with end tables and a pair of sofas framed its heavy bricks. A square table that normally sat off to the side had been moved over to the chairs and the checkers and board rested in the middle.

  Claw sat stacking and unstacking the red and black wooden rounds, his pipe clenched in his teeth although the fire had gone out in it. The chieftain looked up as Kynyr entered. "About time you got here."

  "It's my day off," Kynyr protested.

  "You get those, do you?" Claw tilted his head, eyes narrowing in an appraising way.

  The young guardsmon could tell that Claw was in one of those unpredictable moods that so often threw Kynyr off-stride. "I was out in the barn when Kissie found me. Larkspur needs more exercise than I have time to give her."

  "You could sell her to me." Claw arranged the pieces on the board, with a nonchalance that Kynyr recognized as pure fakery. The chieftain had given Larkspur to Cullen Blackwood before he realized just how much horse she was. Larkspur could outrun nearly anything on four legs and she was carrying a foal by Claw's top stud, Stormsong.

  "No, sir. I couldn't. Cullen left her to me made me promise to take good care of her."

  "Then you should hire a boy to take her out every day. She's a racer, Kynyr."

  "On my wages?" Kynyr settled into the opposite chair and stared at the checker board.

  Claw wagged a thick finger at him. "Don't give me that. I know your gram gives you a stipend. A couple of coppers a week isn't going to steal all your drinking money."

  "I don't know a cub who could handle her."

  "Don't lie to me." Claw brought his fist down hard in the middle of the checker board, knocking everything onto the floor. "Georgie Rogan says that dwarf of a cousin of yours rides her."

  "Cooley?" Kynyr sucked in a breath, and swallowed back a groan. He wished the cub would stay away from the manor. Larkspur had belonged to the cub's murdered father, and so proved an irresistible draw to the boy. However, the last thing Kynyr and his family wanted known was that the cub was actually Cullen Blackwood's bastard son by the Madam of the Crimson Lady Brothel in Hell's Widow. When Cullen died, Silkie Faggini had sent the boy to Kynyr along with permission for his grandparents to adopt the ten-year-old. If these visits kept up, someone might start asking about Cooley and Kynyr worried that Cullen's murderers might come after the boy.