Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  Chapter Thirty

  HARRED

  “EVERYBODY BE KEEPING their distance,” Elmar told Harred softly from behind. “Still, you be neck deep now.” Harred nodded. Earlier, when he had tried to talk Elmar out of accompanying him, his brother-in-law had snorted. “I promised your Gran I be guarding your back.”

  Ryce waddled angrily toward them. His mercenary bodyguard followed a half step behind—the same dark-jowled guard from Lachlann. Though more battle ready than he had ever been, Harred felt an additional surge when he realized this man might well be part of the ordeal ahead.

  “You seek to outbid the bride price?” Ryce demanded, halting in front of Harred. His lip curled. “Don’t bother; it is more than you will see in several years.”

  “I am Harred de Tarenester en Wright, Clan Arshessa. Who addresses me without proper greeting?”

  The guard stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, coarse features taut with anger. “Watch your mouth, Arshessa, or I will spill your guts on the dirt!”

  Harred’s gaze never left Ryce. “I see a clan dagger but am greeted with the manners of a tavern wretch. I ask again, who addresses me?”

  The guard reached for his sword.

  “Stay your hand!” Maolmin roared. “I will handle this!”

  Muttering darkly under his breath, the guard stepped back.

  Tall and distinguished, his black cloak thrown back over wide shoulders, Maolmin was the very image of a clan noble. He placed both hands on his hips and regarded Harred with a heavy look of disapproval.

  For a moment Harred found himself wilting under that piercing gaze—then he rallied. The die was cast. If Breanna turned her back on him, so be it. But he was going to see that she had that chance.

  A man now stood beside Maolmin: his short and wiry rhyfelwr Lomas. The man’s sharp gaze took Harred in. As their eyes met, one warrior to another, Harred recognized pure bloodlust. Lomas chomped his teeth in anticipation. Would he cross swords with Lomas today, too? Well, Harred thought, I never imagined this was going to be easy.

  The High Lord spoke in a flat, precise voice. “A Wifan-er-Weal, marriage or death, has not been done in generations and for good reason. Marriage is properly handled between families, with calm deliberation and not with swords.” He shook his head. “Leave us, Harred Wright, and find a good wife from among your own clan.”

  Lomas frowned. He turned to Maolmin.

  Harred had been afraid Maolmin would take this approach. “Do you Dinari no longer give heed to loretellers, High Lord? Do your loretellers stand around the fires and recount the glories of the past simply to tickle your ears, or do they tell their stories to remind you of the traditions we all stand on?”

  Maolmin’s eyes narrowed, but Harred pressed on. “Call forth the Dinari loretellers and tell them you turn your back on the sacred honor of your ancestors. Have Abel Caemhan name your lineage and their deeds. See if you do not have the blood running in your veins of at least one man who stood as I am standing today and fought a Wifan-er-Weal for his wife. We Tarenesters have three!”

  Seeing the High Lord waver, Harred played his next card. “You are Breanna’s kinsmen lord. I am the Arshessa sword champion two years running. Are you refusing,” Harred sneered, “because you fear you will have to face me?”

  Maolmin’s countenance changed. His face darkened and his whole body seemed to swell. Everything about him became icy steel. Lomas sensed the change and turned to Harred hungrily.

  “Very well, boy,” Maolmin said. “If the maiden agrees, you will have your Wifan-er-Weal.” The High Lord’s black eyes pulsed, and Harred had to fight to keep from taking a step backwards. “I hope your reputation is justified. If you are still standing after the fourth warrior has fallen, it will give me more pleasure than anything I have done in a long time to carve you up a piece at a time.”

  Maolmin turned to Breanna, who stood beside Cyndae and Abel, a stunned expression on her face. “Refuse this man’s suit, and we will drive him from our Gathering,” Maolmin said. “But know this, girl! If you accept, you will be removing yourself from the covering of your suitor, Ryce Pleoh, and coming under mine. Then when this Arshessa lies dead in the dirt I will be the one to decide your future. Make your decision.”

  Breanna’s eyes widened, and her lips parted as everyone looked at her.

  Harred’s heart hammered inside his chest. He waited, not daring to breathe. If she refused his suit, the odds of Elmar and him leaving the Gathering unharmed would be slim. Though he stood on the ancient lore of the clans, more than anything he stood on that last talk with Breanna in the mountains. He risked all on that talk.

  The struggle going on inside Breanna was evident. She gazed straight ahead, eyes unfocused, as she digested Maolmin’s statement.

  Finally, she blinked and looked at Harred, her expression unreadable. She turned slowly to her mother. Cyndae’s face was a mixture of compassion and concern.

  Breanna opened her mouth in a silent plea of understanding. Then she ripped off Ryce’s wreath and threw it to the ground. The crowd gasped and Ryce’s pig eyes bulged. Breanna laid her Maiden Staff in the crook of her arm, walked to the Pole, and turned around. She grounded her staff, chin held high as the damp breeze lifted her hair.

  Pure white joy surged through Harred. He wanted to lift his face and hands to the sky and bellow in triumph! Taking a deep breath, he reined in those emotions and tried to save that savage energy for the trial to come.

  With a derisive growl, Maolmin stormed away to make preparations for the rite. Ryce gave Harred a long, challenging look of contempt, then whirled around and followed Maolmin, the guard on his heels. Lomas lingered a moment. He showed Harred his teeth like a wild animal, then turned away to follow Maolmin.

  Abel wavered on his crutch, stunned and ashen-faced. Cyndae took his hand and pulled at him. Then rage twisted his features. He opened his mouth, but she shushed him and led him reluctantly away.

  Elmar let his breath out audibly, then stepped up and whispered in Harred’s ear. “You don’t be making it through this, can I be taking Coal?”

  Harred snorted and relaxed a tad. Elmar squeezed his shoulder and stepped forward to act as his second. It was the second’s task to examine the swords of the five opponents and make sure they wore no armor or protection of any kind.

  The crowd cheered as High Lord Maolmin returned with four men walking single file behind him. Next paraded the Dinari loretellers, dressed in the traditional decorated vests denoting their position. Harred knew that, to a man, each loreteller was blessing his good fortune to be a witness to the first Wifan-er-Weal in generations.

  Girard stepped forward and waited for the crowd to quiet. He was in his glory as he sent his rich voice projecting out to the assembly with the traditional opening of his office.

  “Clansmen and kinsmen! Turn your hearts and ears to me! Today we hearken back to our past. Before our Maiden Pole comes Harred Wright of Clan Arshessa. He brings suit for Breanna Caemhan of our Erian kinsmen. Her father, Loreteller Abel, has refused this suit, but as Breanna has signaled her acceptance of this suit by grounding her staff, High Lord Maolmin has agreed to Harred’s demand for a Wifan-er-Weal.”

  A wave of murmuring swept the crowd. Girard stepped forward several strides and turned slowly as he scanned the faces. He lifted his arms dramatically, asking for quiet. “Clansmen and kinsmen! Be it known that Breanna de Erian en Caemhan no longer resides under her suitor’s covering. She now is under High Lord Maolmin’s authority, and should Harred fail in this trial, there she will remain.”

  Every eye turned to Breanna standing alone by the large pole.

  Girard paused, then thundered, “Harred must vanquish all five warriors, one after the other, without rest or succor of any kind. Then he must walk to Breanna Caemhan unassisted. The moment his right hand touches her right hand, they will be lawfully wed before the Eternal and all men, and the Wifan-er-Weal will end.”

  Watching it unfold, Branor was
struck by how alone the Arshessa warrior and the maiden looked. She, tiny under the Pole, staff grounded, family and kinsmen left behind to accept Harred’s suit; he, straight and tall in the open with only his sword strapped to his waist to protect himself. The crowd around them was comprised mostly of Erian kinsmen, Abel’s folk, and they clearly were against the Arshessa.

  You are not as alone as you may think, warrior.

  Branor’s mouth firmed. Harred had handled himself well thus far, and his reputation as a warrior had reached even Branor’s ears, but was he good enough to get through the first four opponents? He had to be if he was to cross swords with Maolmin and thus make the High Lord vulnerable to spiritual intervention. But would Harred survive the ordeal?

  The Keeper’s blood pounded; his muscles twitched. He looked at Lakenna. She squared her shoulders and swallowed nervously. Like him, she was ready for battle of a different kind. Branor opened his mouth to speak to her—

  And found himself somewhere else.

  Harred and Breanna gazed at each other across the short distance separating them. A solid covering of gray clouds hid the sun now, and the wind scattered a few fat drops of rain. An angry buzz came continually from the crowd; it seethed as a living thing. Harred barely noticed. Breanna’s white dress rippled in the freshening breeze, and the red ribbons in her hair fluttered. He nodded minutely. She returned it with a quick, brave smile.

  While Elmar inspected each of the five swords, Harred ran his eye over the men and smiled grimly to himself. Maolmin had chosen with cunning. The first two were large and heavily muscled. These would be arm-jarring slashers, thrown at him first to wear him down. From the way the third one moved, Harred realized the man was pure swordsman and would be a worthy and dangerous foe. Not surprisingly, the fourth in line was the Sabinis guard. Ryce Pleoh had wisely decided he had no place with warriors. The guard met Harred’s eyes, swallowed, then looked down. His hand played nervously across the hilt of his sword, bravado gone.

  Harred wondered why Maolmin had not chosen Lomas, his rhyfelwr, as one of Harred’s opponents. The man, who now stood beside his lord, had seemed like a wild animal that couldn’t wait to get at Harred. Such rage could be used against an opponent.

  Finally Harred studied Maolmin. He knew with iron certainty that there lay his true challenge. The High Lord had shed his cloak and wore only breeches and a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone to give free movement to his massive chest. The sword in his hands seemed small though Harred knew it was larger than the one he carried. Unlike the guard, Maolmin returned Harred’s scrutiny with the flat-eyed challenge of a predator. Seeing that, Harred realized why Lomas wasn’t included. Maolmin wanted it all for himself. Harred wondered how much he would have left when he faced Maolmin. By then the High Lord would have watched him meet four foes, ample opportunity to access technique and tendencies.

  Maolmin strode forward. “On your honor, Harred Wright, does your sword and clothing meet the demands of personal combat?”

  “Aye, High Lord.”

  Elmar finished checking the other swords and clothing. He nodded his acceptance and moved aside.

  Harred gripped the pommel of his sword and approached. “I come to bring suit for Breanna Caemhan, to ask her to be my wife, the keeper of my hearth, and the mother of my children. Who stands in my way?”

  The first opponent stepped forward. Thick-necked, with shoulders like a bull, he held a broadsword upright in massive fists. “I am Tay Erian. You have been found unworthy of her. Withdraw or die!”

  Harred’s blade sang as it left the scabbard.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  LAKENNA

  AN UNNATURAL FOG covered everything. With spiritual eyes Lakenna could see shapes and murky images moving around her and Branor, but she could not identify them. From within the blanketing mist came anxious mutterings tinged with anger and more than a little fear.

  Slowly the gray veil parted, and the shapes became less obscure. She and Branor stood in a central square surrounded by buildings. A dull glow shed light but produced no shadows. The leaden sky above pressed down, cloudless and oppressive. The structures seemed wrong, the corners at odd angles. The windows sagged like melted wax. The distance ended too soon, fading into a blur. The air was unpleasant and held a hint of spoiled meat mixed with swamp mud.

  She stepped forward, her shoes bumping on the dusty, uneven cobblestone pavement. Her footing felt solid, and yet the ground seemed tilted at odd angles. Everything looked weathered. Faded. The plaster on the buildings cracked and peeled. The wooden casements outlining the doors and windows looked ready to crumble at a touch.

  She saw Branor moving beside her and took comfort in that. They continued downward on the flat, yet uneven pavement. The effect was disconcerting. Her insides quaked. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. She whirled to look. Nothing. But the stone buildings loomed taller and closer. How did that happen? Turning to Branor, she saw he was staring tense-shouldered to his other side.

  “Where are we?” she whispered.

  He glanced back at her, his face pensive. “The heavenlies? The spirit world?” He looked around, nodding to himself. “It must be. Legends tell of Destin fighting here during the Founding, of course. We Keepers have accounts of this happening to some after the Covenant. Accounts of fighting and . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  “Albanes, too.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Some teachings maintain that if you are . . . ” Now her voice trailed off, too.

  Branor nodded gravely. “If you are harmed here, it will affect you when you return.”

  Lakenna stared at the wrongness all around them. “Destin had Asunder and armor.” She gestured to their clothing, which was the same as they had been wearing—were wearing?—at the Maiden Pole.

  “No, Lakenna,” Branor said quietly. “What Destin had was the Eternal. And so do we.”

  Something inside one of the buildings noticed their presence. Lakenna knew it was evil. She did not know how she knew, only that she did. A door swung open, and the evil stepped into view. The muttering stopped, and everything turned deadly quiet.

  The evil moved closer. The thing was massive and possessed overwhelming power. It had the body of a giant male human with wide shoulders, long, thick arms, and enormous legs. The huge head, however, resembled that of a bull. Two horns projected sideways with the pointed ends curving forward. Glowing red eyes pulsed in fury as the creature regarded the humans before it. Somehow Lakenna knew it was the Mighty One of the North. Her mind quailed in fear. She had been prepared to face a siyyim—but not a Mighty One! Her heart thudded inside her chest. What lunacy was this?

  The North regarded them for what seemed ages. How dare you presume to interfere? Leave, or be squashed like the worms you are!

  Lakenna’s skull vibrated with the voice. Were she and Branor about to appear—dead—in the midst of those watching the Wifan-er-Weal? Her mind demanded that she turn and flee. But from her spirit surged an answer.

  “We are warriors of the Eternal! He has called us to stand in the gap, and so we stand! You will not have the Land!”

  The North laughed. The central square rang with it. The Covenant weakens daily. Our power is upon the Land as it has not been in centuries. You are too late. Be gone.

  Something came together in Lakenna’s mind. “Then why does the West seek inroads through Clan Arshessa? We beat the West back when Tellan renounced his partnership with the pagans. Now we come against you.”

  A shocked silence reigned—but only for a moment. A vortex of power built around the huge demon. The swirling mass gathered speed, and dark red lightning flashed within. The square crackled with energy, and the nauseating stink increased. The humming vortex rose higher and higher until it completely covered the creature like a shield.

  Then, with a mind-numbing roar, the Mighty One attacked.

  Harred leaped forward without hesitation, knowing it was imperative to dispatch this first man and the
second as quickly as possible. Deflecting the heavy swing with a sharp clash of blades, Harred moved inside the man’s guard and drove a knee into the groin, followed by a forearm to the throat.

  Tay oofed and staggered backward but did not go down, face registering surprise at the unorthodox tactic. He tried to bring his heavy sword back up—but too late. Cat-quick, Harred surged straight in and drove half a cubit of sharp steel just below the big man’s breastbone. Tay’s face twisted, and he crumbled to the ground facedown as Harred withdrew his blade.

  Elmar and a Dinari partner trotted out, grabbed the fallen man and his sword, and pulled him aside to clear the field.

  Harred had showed his foot speed and quickness, but not much else, and he was determined to dispatch the next big man without giving Maolmin any clues as to his swordsmanship.

  Keeping his mouth open with seeming fascination, Harred watched Elmar and the other man drag Tay away. Harred had positioned his side to the remaining four, pretending to be unaware that the rite called for the next opponent to engage him immediately.

  Seizing the bait, the second rushed ahead without announcing himself, sword held high in a killing stroke.

  Harred saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and dove. Tucking into a ball as he hit the ground, he rolled into the man’s feet, bowling him over. The warrior hit the ground with a heavy thud. Whipping upright, Harred lunged straight back, but the man scrambled up with desperate speed and managed to partially deflect the thrust. Even so, Harred’s blade opened a long deep slice across the man’s upper chest and left shoulder.

  Both male and female voices screamed encouragement, pleading with the second warrior to kill this Arshessa and end it quickly. Harred was only vaguely aware of the clamor. He shut it out, alert only for Elmar’s warning should someone slip in and try to betray the rite.

  The wounded swordsman shook his head like an angry bull and came more slowly and deliberately this time. Though taller than the first, this large, muscled Dinari was not as heavy and moved lighter on his feet. But he too was a slasher, depending on arm strength to batter down his opponent’s blade.