The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1)

by Jocelyn Fox

  “We say only what is true,” Emery responded as Finnead merely shrugged unconcernedly.

  “Uncle, I feel as though I know her, though I acknowledge her inferiority as a mortal,” Molly said, each word enunciated delicately in that detached voice.

  “That is because she is a witch,” the Vaelanmavar said as he dismounted. He walked forward and tossed the reins to Emery. “Take my mount to the stables.”

  Emery raised one eyebrow coolly and led the black charger away, murmuring to it in the Sidhe tongue.

  “Well, is she of account or isn’t she?” Ramel asked the Vaelanmavar, squeezing my elbow slightly. “Because I’ve heard tales of mortal witches and, to tell the truth, I wouldn’t want to tangle with one.”

  A rather large group had gathered behind Finnead, and I heard their murmurings. I couldn’t tell if they were murmuring about me or the Vaelanmavar, and I shifted uncomfortably.

  “Look at the girl squirm,” the Vaelanmavar said, smiling nastily, his one eye glittering with malice. “She knows that I speak truth, when I speak of her witchery.”

  “I’ll show you witchery,” I growled.

  “I wouldn’t test her,” Ramel said. “She threw Kavoryk, there, across the room, without just a twitch of her finger.”

  Ramel’s mention of his name gave Kavoryk the chance to push his way through the crowd. He took up a stance in the space vacated by Emery, and the feel of his solid bulk by my side pushed away a little bit of the crawling fear still skittering up my spine every time the Vaelanmavar spoke. I felt phantom fingers close around my throat, but I raised my chin and looked at him challengingly.

  “Mere trickery,” said the Vaelanmavar dismissively, “in which only a half-wit would put any stock.”

  A ripple of murmurs swept through the assembled company again.

  “Are you here, Vaelanmavar, to take charge of the company, or to debate the reputation of one of its members?” Finnead asked in a calm, strong voice.

  “I am here to take charge of the company, Vaelanbrigh, and as the new captain, it is my duty to ensure the loyalty of every warrior here,” the Vaelanmavar replied.

  Molly slid down from her mount. She wore a deep blue riding gown, slit up to the hips to reveal an underskirt of silver cloth, glimmering softly with her every move. The Vaelanmavar’s other knights dismounted and one took the reins of his fellows’ mounts.

  “There are larger problems than your personal quarrels.” Finnead took a step toward the taller knight.

  “Oh, it is not my personal quarrel,” the Vaelanmavar said silkily, a venomous smile on his lips. He raised one black-gloved hand and pointed at me. “You are harboring a traitor to the Queen herself!”

  I heard his words with a sinking feeling. Kevoryk stood solidly by my side, and Ramel stepped forward a bit.

  “Such an accusation is dangerous,” Finnead said softly.

  Hands went to sword-hilts, and the air crackled with tension.

  “The mortal left Darkhill at a time when travel was forbidden by the Queen,” the Vaelanmavar said. “She disobeyed explicit orders handed down from the Dark Throne, and as such is a traitor.”

  I bristled. “I came out here because Mab was doing nothing to help the patrol, even when it had already been attacked!”

  The Vaelanmavar spread his hands. “And so why am I here, girl? Why has the Queen sent the fendhionne to the company?”

  “I don’t pretend to know what Mab is thinking,” I replied, despite Ramel’s warning glance, “but I am no traitor.”

  “You are sealed to the Queen, and you disobeyed her orders,” the Vaelanmavar said clearly and slowly, as if talking to a dullard.

  The silence around me was deafening. There were no more murmurs from the company.

  “Do you think it is an accident that the Enemy’s trap was set just after she arrived in camp, and she is the only one who may escape it?” he demanded, appealing now to the warriors gathered around me. “Do you think it an accident that she hid the Glasidhe conspirators, when their self-styled queen knew of the Iron Sword’s location?”

  My stomach dropped sickeningly, and before I had a chance to think I blurted, “What have you done to Lumina?”

  The Vaelanmavar smiled, and I knew I had played into his hands. “The Small Ones’ exiled monarch kept the secret of the Sword’s resting-place admirably, almost unto death.”

  I heard wordless cries of anger and outrage, and saw the Glasidhe—Wisp, Flora, Forsythe, Forin, Farin—circling the Vaelanmavar like small, blood-hungry hawks. I saw the glint of their small swords and I knew that they intended to attack the Vaelanmavar. I knew just as surely that one or all of them would be killed, crushed beneath the knight’s merciless boot.

  “Don’t!” I called out to them. “Please!”

  I couldn’t tell the difference between them, their auras were burning so brightly with fury. The Vaelanmavar watched them with one cold eye, smiling slightly. He drew one of his small daggers, and stood deathly still as they swooped down at him. One opened a cut on his cheek, another stabbed a small dagger into his arm and another swiped open the tender skin of his throat, but not deep enough to be any real danger. The Vaelanmavar snatched at one of them, his hand moving as quickly as a cobra strikes; and to my horror I saw Flora struggling between his thumb and forefinger. She stabbed into his hand with her dagger, baring her teeth in defiance.

  With his cool face showing only the barest trace of malice, the Vaelanmavar pressed the tip of his dagger to Flora’s torso. Flora stopped struggling and lay limp with fear as the massive blade pinned her down, while the other Glasidhe prepared for another diving attack.

  “Stop!” I shouted at him desperately, breaking free of Ramel’s restraining hand.

  “These are traitors too, simply receiving their just punishment,” the Vaelanmavar replied. He applied more pressure and Flora gasped, her aura flickering.

  “You are overstepping your bounds,” Finnead said, his own sword out now. “The Glasidhe have been friends to us.”

  “Vaelanbrigh,” said the Vaelanmavar, looking down at Flora in his palm, “you seem to make no division between friends and traitors.”

  Forsythe dove at the knight’s remaining eye, his sword held in both hands as he shouted a battle-cry for all to hear. The Vaelanmavar was forced to choose between killing Flora and saving his eye. He swiped with his dagger at Forsythe and I lunged forward, knocking his hand aside before he could close his fist around Flora to crush her. Flora skidded into the grass, raising a small cloud of dust, and dimly I heard a cry from Forsythe.

  Forsythe’s aura flickered as he fell like a small shooting star. I saw the blue blood streaming from him, and the Vaelanmavar raised his boot to crush the Glasidhe. Still off balance from knocking his hand aside, I knew I wouldn’t be able to save Forsythe and I watched helplessly.

  A black wolf barreled into the Vaelanmavar, snarling fiercely as he took the knight to the ground as if he were prey. Vell scooped up Forsythe tenderly, her golden eyes blazing defiance and hatred as she looked at the Vaelanmavar.

  “Call off your familiar, North-witch,” hissed the Vaelanmavar from beneath Beryk.

  “He’s his own wolf,” Vell replied, her voice hard.

  I found Flora among a few broken stalks of grass. She seemed unharmed, though still shaken. I gently picked her up and stood, giving her to Vell. Flora fell upon Forsythe with a small cry, all her limpness gone as she began binding his wound.

  “Take them and go,” I said to Vell in a low voice.

  “Not without you,” she said.

  “I’ll be fine. I promise. Go, please, before he kills you or them!”

  Vell turned, Forsythe and Flora held gently against her chest in a cupped hand, and ran swift as a wolf into the darkness of the forest. Beryk snapped his jaws near the V
aelanmavar’s face, gave a yip of derisive amusement at the knight’s flinch, and then bolted after her.

  Kavoryk stepped forward and drew me away from the Vaelanmavar. The knight stood and brushed himself off. He looked at me, his remaining eye burning with cold hatred. He sheathed his dagger. “Arrest her,” he ordered. The knights who had arrived with him stepped forward.

  Ramel, Kavoryk and Donovan stepped in front of me protectively.

  “She is no traitor,” I heard Finnead say.

  “You are no longer commander here,” the Vaelanmavar snarled, “and you must follow my orders, or be branded a traitor along with your mortal whore!”

  I heard the sharp report of flesh hitting flesh and I pushed Ramel aside. The Vaelanmavar wiped blood from his lip as two of his knights restrained Finnead, who had his fist drawn back for another punch. The silver hiss of swords drawn from their sheaths slid through the silence. Finnead lowered his fist, and stood very straight, allowing the Vaelanmavar’s men to restrain him.

  The Vaelanmavar had his sword out, now, and so did his men. Molly stood behind him, gazing impassively at the scene before her. “Any who aid the Vaelanbrigh or the mortal will be branded as traitors as well,” the Vaelanmavar announced. “My words carry the power of the Queen, and any that doubt may look upon her royal seal.” He took out a ring from his belt-pouch. The stone on the ring glittered like a star, just like the jewel in the diadem I had seen Mab wear before the feast so long ago at Darkhill. One of the knights moved forward and grabbed my arm roughly. I saw Ramel raise his sword, his eyes blazing with that fearsome Fae-fire, and I shook my head desperately. I knew with a cold, sick certainty that the Vaelanmavar would take a certain pleasure in cutting down my friends and allies. I caught Ramel’s gaze and to my relief he lowered his blade, watching as the knight pulled me away from my protectors, face grim.

  My captor wheeled me roughly, turning me to face Finnead and the Vaelanmavar. The two men holding Finnead tightened their grip on his arms as the Vaelanmavar slowly removed one of his black gloves. He handed the glove to Molly, who held it silently, still watching with that serene expression. I had a nauseating inkling of what was about to happen, and although I wanted to close my eyes, I forced myself to watch. I wouldn’t let them see my weakness.

  The Vaelanmavar hit Finnead hard in the face. Finnead took the punch without a sound, reeling back and then righting himself, blue-black blood trickling from his nose. Donovan started forward, his normally calm eyes glittering with anger; and Ramel was just a step behind him.

  “No,” Finnead said, looking at his companions as he blinked, trying to regain his bearings.

  Ramel growled in wordless anger.

  “You had best obey your former captain,” the Vaelanmavar said silkily, rubbing the knuckles of his bare hand. He struck Finnead again, still producing no sound from the other knight.

  “Have you no honor?” Kavoryk asked in his grating, giant voice.

  “You should ask that of the traitors,” the Vaelanmavar replied. He turned to one of his men and spoke in a low voice—giving instructions for our handling, I surmised.

  Blood trickled down Finnead’s face. He took a few deep breaths and drew back his shoulders, his face devoid of any emotion.

  “Go back to your posts,” the Vaelanmavar instructed.

  The group of Sidhe standing about regarded him stonily. None moved. The Vaelanmavar turned and Molly handed him his glove. He pulled it on slowly, and clenched his black-clad hand into a fist.

  “Molly,” I said in a strangled voice, still harboring a slim faith that somehow she would break whatever spell the Vaelanmavar had woven over her. She looked up at me, but her beautiful face remained smooth, untouched by emotion. “I know you don’t remember me,” I continued, twisting away from the knight who held me as he tried to silence me with one gloved hand. “But we were friends—we were more than friends, we were like sisters!”

  A small furrow appeared upon Molly’s brow. A spark of hope flared in my chest.

  “You were my roommate, we went to college together, and I was—I came with you, when you first went through the Gate!”

  Molly tilted her head to one side.

  “Silence her,” hissed the Vaelanmavar to the man holding my arms. He shifted his grip and got one hand over my mouth after a few attempts, with me wriggling in his grasp like an eel.

  “Uncle,” Molly said in a slow, inquiring voice, taking a few steps closer to me. “Why does this mortal claim to know me?”

  “She lies, like any mortal,” the Vaelanmavar replied without looking away from me, his one eye boring viciously into mine. I growled curses into the knight’s hand and struggled. “You have no kin,” he continued, turning to Molly with a smile that turned my stomach, “except for me.”

  Molly looked at him for a long moment, and in one instant I thought I saw the old, familiar Molly surface in her eyes; but then she lowered her gaze demurely and nodded. “Yes, Uncle,” she replied. “I know.”

  “Now,” the Vaelanmavar said, turning back to Finnead’s men, “as I have already ordered, you will all resume your duties, and await further orders.”

  Finnead turned as much as his captors would allow, looking at Ramel. He gave one curt nod and Ramel said, “Back to post, everyone,” in a hard, steely voice. Ramel glared at the Vaelanmavar as the group slowly dispersed, the slow hiss of swords being sheathed the only accompaniment to the defiant silence. Ramel was the last to leave. He glanced at Finnead, then at me, his gaze conveying a stern resolution. I nodded to him, and he turned away, walking toward the barracks.

  “It seems you have spread your poisonous thoughts throughout your company, Finnead,” the Vaelanmavar said.

  “No more than you have corrupted your men, Carden,” Finnead replied.

  Hearing the Vaelanmavar’s proper name elicited a strange feeling: half amusement, that his name sounded so ordinary, and half disgust, like peeling back the shell of a slug or seeing a snake shed its skin.

  Carden—it was so harmless-sounding a name for such a sinister man—lunged forward, closing one huge gloved hand about Finnead’s throat. The man holding me tightened his grip as I reflexively tried to move forward, snarling in helpless anger.

  “You will call me by my title, boy,” the Vaelanmavar hissed, tightening his grip on Finnead’s throat until the younger knight paled. The Vaelanmavar released him just as his eyes began to glass over. “Unlike you, I have earned it.”

  Finnead, taking a huge gasping breath, chuckled softly at the Vaelanmavar’s insult.

  “Take them away,” the Vaelanmavar snapped at his men. “I want a guard on them both at all times.”

  Carden’s men erected a large tent at the edge of the clearing, near the first trees of the forest. They worked quickly, felling a few saplings and stripping them of their branches, using the sturdiest for the tent’s center-poles. They took Finnead’s daggers from him. When they tried to unbuckle his sword-belt, he growled, “None may touch the Bright Sword without the Queen’s blessing.”

  The burly Sidhe hit him, and said, “You have fallen out of the Queen’s favor. You have no blessings.”

  I saw the awful pain in Finnead’s eyes at the other man’s words. I hoped fervently that the Sidhe was lying, that Finnead hadn’t been stripped of his title and branded a traitor because of me. A small sound of pain escaped him as they took his sword from him, the only sound that he had made throughout all their abuse. They tied Finnead’s hands behind him, pulling the rope brutally tight.

  “Your weapons, lady,” one of them said to me. He was tall, and slight, his dark curly hair unruly.

  “At least you still have some courtesy left,” I snapped at him, noting with satisfaction the slightly wounded look in the man’s eyes as I unbuckled my sword-belt.

  “Some of us are just following orders, la
dy,” he said quietly to me as he took my sword and my daggers.

  “That’s no excuse,” I said tightly, my voice equally quiet and my eyes accusing as I stood empty-handed, watching him put my weapons in a pile at the side of the tent. He shook his head and disappeared around the back of the tent.

  At first they left my hands unbound, and for a few moments I entertained a slim, bright hope. But when the tent was completed, they took me inside and sat me against one of the tent-poles, tying my hands behind the rough wood. I couldn’t see how they bound Finnead, but I had no doubt it was the cruelest way they could invent.

  My stomach growled, reminding me painfully that I hadn’t had anything to eat since the rabbit Vell had roasted over the fire. They had bound me facing the back wall of the tent. After a few awkward attempts, I got my feet under me and slid my hands up the pole behind me, wincing as the rough wood scraped my palms. By the time I was standing, I was sure that my hands were bleeding, but I didn’t care. I shimmied around the pole so that I was facing the entrance.

  They had forced Finnead to his knees, binding his ankles and his hands on the other side of the pole. He faced the tent entrance, and I saw the shadows of two guards through the cloth of the tent.

  “Finnead,” I said, barely breathing life into the word. He raised his head slightly. “Are you all right?”

  I heard him chuckle slightly.

  “All right, maybe that was a stupid question,” I whispered. I saw one of the guards shift outside. I watched and waited, and when he settled down again, I whispered, “What the hell is going on?”

  He shook his head wearily, as close a sign of defeat as I had ever seen from him.

  “Why would Mab send Molly into a trap?”

  “The Vaelanmavar has more to do with this than the Queen, I fear,” Finnead answered in a low voice, pressing his shoulder hard into the pole so he could lean his face back toward me.