The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1)

by Jocelyn Fox

  “So that’s why you asked me whether I was a dog or cat person,” I said lightly. My voice came out a little higher than I intended. The wolf, sitting quietly with its tail wrapped neatly around its forepaws, fixed me with an eerily familiar golden gaze that sent shock waves through me. “Well,” I continued, trying to keep my mind from freezing up entirely, “it has your eyes. Charming.”

  “This is Beryk,” said Vell fondly, roughing the wolf’s neck fur. “He’s the reason that the knights let me join. I’m not a full knight, you see. Not even close, because I’m from the Northern wild-lands.” She grinned, her canines glinting a little. “Traditionally my people don’t come to Court. And we aren’t exactly missed. But we possess certain skills that they find particularly useful.”

  “So you’re a scout, or something?” I found Kaleth’s tack nestled in the long grass and tried to make sense of the myriad straps and buckles, succeeding after a moment.

  “Sometimes a scout. And sometimes the…something,” Vell replied evasively, checking her own mount’s tack. I marveled at the fact that both mounts seemed perfectly comfortable with Beryk sitting just an arm’s length away. As I watched from the corner of my eye, Beryk stood and padded closer to me. I concentrated on Kaleth’s bridle, ignoring the prickling as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  Beryk leaned closer to me, and I realized he was taking in my scent. I held very still, wondering if I needed to introduce myself or if that was a breach of etiquette. But the dark wolf seemed to be satisfied. He trotted back to Vell, nipping at her leg with a slight flash of very white, very long teeth. I heard a low, playful kind of growl, and it hadn’t come from Beryk.

  “She is speaking to the wolf,” Wisp whispered into my ear. “She is North-kind. I have not seen one of them this far south in a very long time.”

  I finished tightening the straps. “Well, desperate times, I suppose,” I murmured back to Wisp.

  “Ready?” Vell said. “Beryk is going to go on ahead, to flush out any ambushes.” She leapt up lightly onto the back of her gray mount. I sighed enviously as I hooked my toe in the stirrup and took handfuls of Kaleth’s mane as leverage. After I had hauled myself up into the saddle, we started forward at a brisk trot, continuing toward the forest.

  The morning sky hung low and gray over our heads, the air hanging lank and damp. The horses’ hooves churned the dirt path into mud. Kaleth snorted in distaste. I laughed a little at him and he shook his head, almost dislodging Flora. I urged him up beside Vell’s mount.

  “You said there was no one hurt in the attack on the rescue party from Darkhill?” I asked, raising my voice over the rhythm of the horses’ hooves.

  “Not in that attack,” Vell said grimly. “The original patrol, though…” She shook her head, her mouth tightening.

  “It was bad?”

  “Worse than bad,” she replied. “Brutal.”

  I winced, thinking of the horrible destruction the creatures had wrought at the ruins of the Saemhradall. I didn’t want to imagine what the Shadow-servants would do to an unprepared patrol. “How many?”

  “Seven dead, and the rest wounded.” She shook her head again. “But at least five of the wounded will probably be dead by the time we return. They used iron, and most of the wounded won’t survive.”

  “We should go faster. I might be able to help them,” I said urgently, leaning forward in the saddle.

  “You’ll be no help to them if you’re dead or captured,” Vell replied succinctly. “There have been many sightings. I was told not to take chances.”

  “If we’re traveling faster, we should be harder to ambush.”

  “If we’re traveling faster, we see less and it gives Beryk less time to scout the area,” Vell pointed out calmly.

  “Well, have him scout faster,” I replied. Kaleth surged into a rolling canter. I heard Vell’s mount break into a canter as well.

  “You’re just as stubborn as they said,” Vell told me, but her golden eyes flashed and she grinned.

  I grinned in reply, and then pressed myself lower against Kaleth’s neck.

  We took a break for lunch, but that just meant slowing the horses to a walk and eating while still riding. Wisp flew over to Vell, much to my surprise and amusement, quickly winning her over with his mischievous charm. We rode hard into the afternoon, and finally, when we were almost to the forest, Vell turned her mount off the path. Kelath followed her. Beryk appeared suddenly out of the long grass, matching his easy lope to the horses’ pace, his tongue lolling out between his long teeth.

  “If you would, Beryk, please go tell the sentries we’re here,” Vell said. Beryk bounded off, soon invisible amidst the grass.

  “I shall go find Forin and Farin,” Forsythe said. I nodded, and he sped off, hot on Beryk’s tail. I felt my heart speed up a little bit, and took a breath to steady my nerves.

  We crested a hill and a large structure came into view. It was made of skillfully hewn timber, taken from the conveniently located forest, and it was easily the largest building I had seen since Darkhill—although the white structures I had seen from a distance were hard to judge. This long, low building was distinctly less graceful than the white buildings, clearly meant for utilitarian use. It had no windows but boasted three chimneys spaced at even intervals.

  “A barracks,” Vell explained. “Used now and again by patrols stopping through the area, or if there’s a storm that scares them into hiding.” Her contempt reminded me of Molly’s father when he spoke about Yankees and “city-folk.”

  Large, old trees dotted the area around the barracks, the forest’s last hold on the land. To my vague disappointment, there were no river-trees. Two Sidhe materialized out of the shadows, Beryk trotting beside them as they walked toward us. Vell dismounted, so I followed suit. My sore legs protested, giving out as soon as my feet hit the ground. I grabbed at Kaleth’s mane to keep myself upright while I dealt with my rebellious muscles. Kaleth snorted but Vell seemed not to notice, I saw gratefully, managing to balance on my sore legs.

  The sentries spoke to Vell briefly, and looked at me silently as we passed. And then I saw my first familiar face.

  “Donovan,” I said, my voice laced with profound relief. He looked a little worn, but he smiled at me all the same.

  “Tess. It is good to see you well. I will take your mounts, if you please.”

  I took my bow and quiver and cloak from where they had been tied to Kaleth’s saddle, and then I gave the reins to Donovan. He led the horses away.

  “How many others are following you?” one of the sentries asked me. He looked young, younger than Ramel and Finnead, with the fresh face of a boy just recently past adolescence.

  My heart twisted at the hope in his eyes. I opened my mouth to answer, trying to think of the right words. I looked at Vell, hoping that she would interject and save me the trouble, but she stared back at me with her honey-colored eyes silently. Beryk gazed at me too, standing by Vell’s other side. The combination of both their stares was distinctly disconcerting. I raised my chin and looked at the young sentry. “No one else is following me,” I told him in a matter-of-fact voice. “It’s just me.”

  He struggled not to show his emotions, trying to emulate the older generation at Court, but I still caught the disappointment that flattened the light of hope in his eyes.

  “Follow me,” the other sentry said, glancing at his younger companion. “The Vaelanbrigh will want to see you all the same.”

  I tamped down my own rush of hope at the mention of Finnead. Vell motioned for me to follow the sentry first, and so I trailed after him into the barracks, the Glasidhe hovering just above my shoulders.

  Chapter 25

  The interior of the barracks proved much more comfortable than it looked from the outside: it was well appointed with worn but still serviceable rugs, and a
fire blazed in the huge fireplace to the right of the door. The barracks was partitioned into three separate, spacious rooms; one for each fireplace, I realized. The first room that the sentry led us through was further divided by heavy curtains, and from the other side I heard voices, raised in heated conversation. The sentry stood to one side to let another Sidhe walk past, and although I didn’t recognize him, he stopped, looked at me, and then looked at the sentry.

  “Just this one. That’s all,” the sentry said grimly. He led us through a door into the second large room. In this room, packs rested against the walls, cloaks hung up drying on the backs of chairs, and on the long, low table against the wall sat the scattered remnants of a meal. There were several chairs pulled up in front of the fire in a loose semicircle, and the Sidhe sitting in them were deep in conversation, heads leaned forward toward a map spread on a circular table in the center of the group. The sentry motioned to us to stop, and walked forward. He cleared his throat politely. I strained to hear his words.

  “Excuse me, my lord, but my orders are to alert you of any newcomers,” he said in a low voice to one of the Sidhe sitting with his back to us.

  I felt two of the Glasidhe alight on the edge of my quiver, their slight weight pulling on the straps. They began a fiercely whispered conversation.

  “I tell you, that was the tree,” said Wisp. “We led her to it but we should have told her.”

  “If she did not feel it, then perhaps she is not meant to bear it,” Flora replied. “We are only the keepers of the secret. Who are we to choose?”

  “Who is anyone to make that choice?” demanded Wisp, forgetting to whisper. “She is mortal, she is a Walker and she is of Gwyneth’s line!”

  I stopped listening to the conversation, because the man to whom the sentry had spoken stood up, and before he even turned around I knew it was Finnead. My chest ached with a strange sensation as he saw me. An enigmatic emotion burned in his gaze—I couldn’t decipher it. Was it happiness to see me, or disappointment that I hadn’t brought a band of reinforcements, or just disappointment in the most general sense of the word?

  Then another man stood, and the firelight glinted off Ramel’s coppery hair. “Tess!” he said in a ringing voice, striding forward past Finnead. “Well, finally this barren outpost is graced with a bit of feminine beauty!”

  Vell made a sound somewhere between a disgusted snort and a warning growl. Ramel looked at her, and then down at Beryk, who was watching him intently.

  “No offense meant, my dear wolf-charmer,” he said to her, giving her his best roguish grin. She raised her eyebrows at him and then looked past him to Finnead. “May I make my report?” she asked in her broad accent. I noticed the conspicuous lack of the honorific—she didn’t call Finnead “sir,” or “my lord,” as the sentry had done. I knew immediately from Ramel’s expression that she omitted it purposefully, and it was not a new occurrence.

  “If you expect respect, Northerner,” said Emery, standing languidly but fixing Vell with a hard stare, “you had best show some.”

  “I know well enough that if I didn’t have Beryk, I wouldn’t be here,” replied Vell coolly, a flash of her golden eyes the only indication of her anger. “You afford me no respect, so why should I bow and scrape before your Court-appointed master?”

  “Respect is earned,” said Ramel, just as Emery said, “Maybe I shall teach you some respect, north-whelp.”

  Beryk stepped in front of Vell and showed his teeth, a low growl vibrating in his throat. Vell stood with her weight on one leg, lazily, but I saw her hand drifting toward her dagger-hilt.

  “Enough,” said Finnead firmly. He looked fixedly at Emery for a tense moment until the shorter man stepped back, and sat back down—although not without one last glare at Vell. Beryk’s low growl still reverberated through the air. “That goes for you as well,” Finnead told the wolf. Beryk didn’t quite let his lips down again to cover his white teeth, but he stopped growling.

  “This is why we shouldn’t let animals in here,” Ramel said under his breath. He merely grinned when Vell shot him a poisonous look, but it wasn’t a very nice grin. I could tell that the strain of the mission was beginning to affect them all.

  “Make your report,” Finnead said to Vell. He added gracefully, “If you please.”

  Vell seemed taken slightly aback by his courtesy. She cleared her throat. “I found the mortal a half-day’s ride out. She says she left Darkhill only a day ago, in the morning hours.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Emery. “Where did you find her?”

  “Under the river-tree. Closer than anyone expected, I suppose,” Vell replied. She idly stroked Beryk’s dark fur with one hand. “Beryk didn’t even need to track her down.”

  “And why is that?” Ramel asked, his gaze fixed on me.

  “She lit herself up like a torch with the taebramh,” Vell replied matter-of-factly. “It was like a beacon. I just pointed myself in that direction.” She shrugged. “Too easy.”

  “Well,” said Emery from his chair by the fire, “if your skills are so great, Northerner, then perhaps you could use them to track down the Iron Sword.” He glanced at Vell with hard anger in his eyes. “Is that a difficult enough task? Does that equal your…skills?”

  I frowned. A few snide comments, I could forgive. But I actually liked Vell—at least from what I knew of her in our short acquaintance. Sure, she could apparently talk to a wolf. That was a little weird. But then again, I’d lit myself up like a Fourth-of-July sparkler yesterday. I couldn’t really afford to be squeamish when it came to my friends.

  “Hold on just a minute,” I said. “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

  “You know nothing of fair,” Emery replied, on his feet again. “And you know nothing of the Northerners. You know nothing of what her kind has done!”

  I refused to show that Emery’s words had stung me. I clenched my teeth and resisted the urge to look down at the floor, facing him with my chin raised.

  “My people have done nothing!” Vell said vehemently, her eyes blazing with open anger. “You think you know everything simply because you’ve spent time at the almighty Court!”

  Everyone in the room had gone very still, Finnead included, their attention solely focused on Vell.

  “My people,” she said fiercely, her voice now deadly quiet, “were the first to bear the burden of this evil! They were the first to fall to the Shadow. They were the first to try to stem the tide of horrors from the Deadlands.”

  “If your people had kept the pact, and protected the Lesser Gate, then the Shadow would not have gained a foothold in the first place,” replied Emery. “And we would not be fighting for our lives right now.”

  Fighting for their lives? A shiver rippled through me. I had never heard the stoic Court-bred Sidhe put the conflict in such baldly unequivocal words.

  “My people did their best,” Vell said, her voice shaking with the effort to keep control. “And you would do well to remember that they paid for it with their blood.” She stood silently for a moment, then turned her golden eyes from Emery to Finnead, saying, “Is there anything else you would like to know?” When Finnead shook his head, she continued, “Permission to be excused?”

  “Granted,” Finnead said. Vell turned on her heel and strode quickly away. Beryk bared his teeth to the room at large, and loped after her.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, I said, “What the hell was all that?”

  Emery shook his head tightly, and Ramel sighed.

  “An old wound, reopened by the wounds we have received now,” my sword-teacher said with an uncharacteristic weariness.

  “What message do you bear?” Finnead asked, taking a few strides toward me.

  “Message?” I looked at him in confusion.

  “From the Queen,” said the Vaelanbrigh
expectantly. “After our Walker did not return, I felt it through her power…I felt that you were coming. I could not say why or when, but I felt that much.”

  I stood silently for a moment, noting dully that my boots were staining the carpet damp. “I have no message,” I said finally.

  Finnead frowned faintly. “But the Queen must have said…she must have sent a message with you.”

  “I didn’t exactly leave with Mab’s blessing,” I explained slowly.

  Finnead looked at me silently with his sea-blue eyes, and Ramel said, “But when is she sending the reinforcements we requested?”

  The silence was deafening, and the air in the room became heavier and heavier with each passing breath. I felt the Glasidhe slipping into my quiver—trying to escape the oppressive atmosphere, I guessed. I wished fervently that I had the option of hiding in a quiver.

  “When your Walker was killed,” I said softly, “the Queen decided not to send out any more forces until Molly is ready to ride out with them.”

  Ramel raked his fingers through his hair, and a look of great weariness passed over Finnead’s face. I wanted desperately to throw my arms around him and tell him that it was all going to be all right, but I knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. And I didn’t know whether it was going to be all right.

  “We’ve lost eight already,” said Emery heavily. “How many more must die before the fendhionne is ready?”

  “There’s more,” I said quietly. I stared at the rug rather than see the looks on their faces. “I’m a Walker. Titania…she dragged it out of me, really. She took me to her kingdom.” I looked up. “The Saemhradall was attacked, and Titania was taken prisoner.”

  The shocked silence was worse than any sounds of disbelief.

  I continued doggedly. “I saved a Seelie woman from the creatures. I think she got away. And they burned the forest near the Saemhradall.” I looked at Ramel. “I need to talk to you, later,” I said quietly. He nodded heavily.