Smoke rose from his body where the first tendril touched. It charred his flesh, revealing bone. The smell of burned flesh filled Sorsha’s nose and her eyes watered as more smoke billowed up. The combined sensory input of both smell and grisly vision was enough to turn her stomach. But the absolute silence was the worst.
He burned. And yet he stood with his arm raised, the bracelet still absorbing magic even as the slave body died, mute and emotionless. More tendrils attacked, tearing into his body, until moments later he vanished in a cloud of ash.
In a small part of her shock-numbed mind, Sorsha prayed the man the acolyte had once been had died at the first moment of enslavement. Sorsha couldn’t even contemplate having to endure enslavement for gods-knew-how-long, only to die like that. Burned to ash, unable even to scream.
Her Larnkin looked out through Sorsha’s eyes and took in the scene, studying the wall of fire that was still advancing on them and beyond it to where Tomb Guards still fought with acolytes. Standing motionless amid the gently waving tendrils of magic, Sorsha felt her Larnkin debate for a heartbeat before she turned her attention to Shadowdancer.
With a soft push, her Larnkin ordered Shadowdancer to move.
He did. Just not toward the direction Sorsha wanted him to go.
“Shadowdancer, wait. Stop. There’s still time to help our friends...”
But Sorsha’s pleas came too late, or Shadowdancer no longer heeded her, for he plunged through the tendrils into the grey world of the Wild Path.
Once a few strides in, Sorsha’s Larnkin turned Shadowdancer to look back toward the archway. At the Larnkin’s silent command, the thick braids of power turned upon the bone-white archway, crumbling the stones one piece at a time until the whole of it crashed to the ground and dissolved.
Her Larnkin watched the spot where the archway had been, its white stones and powerful magic now reduced to nothing more dangerous than a few bits of swirling, silvery mist. With a shiver of power, Sorsha’s Larnkin relinquished its hold and she felt her body was once again her own. While they might be safe from both acolytes and Tomb Guards, she and Shadowdancer were also firmly stuck on this side with no way of finding their families.
Sorsha screamed once in frustration, then drew breath for a second venting, but fought the urge. Screaming her fool head off wouldn’t bring her loved ones safely to her side. She fisted her hands and vowed in the depths of her soul to find them. No matter what. Even if she had to go through every acolyte on this side of the ocean to reach them.
Chapter Eleven
The first sting of failure finally penetrated Sorsha’s mind as her self-righteous anger slowly cooled. They’d left Lamarra, Winter’s Frost, and Summer Flame in the hands of Tomb Guards. If she’d tried to convince her Larnkin to fight the wall of fire, there might still have been time to go after their friends while the acolytes and the Tomb Guards fought. If she’d only done something more, tried harder to control her Larnkin instead of being controlled by it.
“Sorsha.” Shadowdancer’s mind touched hers. His emotions came clear across the link. Shame ate at him; he’d left members of the herd behind. Worse, he’d possibly been responsible for leading them all into the trap. “Forgive me.”
“Oh, Shadowdancer, it’s not your fault. It’s mine. Lamarra and I were followed from River’s Divide. I should have hidden our back trail better. I’m sorry.”
“It is not yours, either. We were both acting on the commands of the Elders. But I understand your grief and worry. Know I feel the same sense of helplessness.”
Sorsha leaned down and hugged her arms around his neck. The simple gesture wasn’t enough. She wanted to sooth away his shame and hers as well. “We’ll find Lamarra, Flame, and Winter’s Frost.”
“They’ll take her to the Elemental City of Grey Spires. It is their home as well.”
“What?” Sorsha released his neck and straightened.
“The Tomb Guards protect the Dead Rulers; the guards will take Lamarra to their lieges.”
Sorsha was speechless. Thoughts couldn’t even form in the chaos his words created in her soul.
“I don’t understand,” she said at last, her voice weak and young-sounding to her own ears. “How can the Elementals allow evil to dwell under their very feet? I thought they fought the darkness.
“The Dead Rulers are ancient and powerful, but they are not of the Dark. They serve the Light and protect the City.”
“Then why take Lamarra and the others?”
“Perhaps to protect them.” Shadowdancer didn’t sound convinced.
“That didn’t look like protection. And why didn’t they try to take us, too?”
Shadowdancer pondered his thoughts for a moment before he spoke. “I think they did try, but the acolytes were between us and them.”
“Yes, yes... but why didn’t they just attack the acolytes in the first place—neutralize the immediate danger? By the way the two gryphons took those acolytes apart, they looked like they were capable of dealing with the rest of the priesthood. Why take the time to try to subdue Lamarra and the santhyrians? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Actually, it might,” Shadowdancer said with growing concern.
“What aren’t you saying?”
“I think they wanted Lamarra. It was her they went after first. Winter’s Frost and Summer Flame may just have gotten in the way.”
“You think they wanted Lamarra in particular? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fine, take me to Grey Spires. I’ll confront the Dead Rulers in their own domain. I don’t care what I have to do. I’m not losing another family member to magic. Where do these Dead Rulers dwell?”
“Deep underground. It will not be easy to breach, there are protections.”
“I don’t care. I want Lamarra back.”
Shadowdancer galloped onward. Sorsha clung to his back and studied the grey road ahead. The next archway was the only discernible object. She glanced back and saw not one, but three arches. She might have asked how he navigated the Wild Path had she not felt worn thin, too tired even for conversation.
* * * *
The grey mists swirled around his hooves as Shadowdancer galloped onward. He’d set himself a grueling pace. The physical exertion helped him feel useful, less like an inadequate beast of burden... which, by how drained his Larnkin felt, was exactly what Trensler’s acolyte had been trying to turn him into.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see the dull-eyed expression of the enemies’ mounts. Those horses might have been alive in the physical sense, but their souls had been stripped from them. He wondered if acolytes could do more than feed off magic. Could they feed upon a soul? A shiver crawled across his skin, from muzzle to flanks, like it was the height of gnat season. He hadn’t told Sorsha that little detail. He prayed she never again got close enough to an acolyte to discover the truth for herself.
Exhaustion beat at him, foam flecked his body, and his breath came in great billows, but he refused to stop. Sorsha’s welfare took precedence. If he could just get her safely to the herd...then he could rest and make sense of a world gone mad.
Magic-devouring acolytes. Tomb Guards willing to interfere in the affairs of the living. In all his years, Shadowdancer had never heard of Tomb Guards meddling in the living world.
“You’re worrying hard. I can feel it. I can also feel your weariness.”
Sorsha’s voice washed over him, her tone soothing. Her power followed on the heels of her words, and new strength returned to his body and flagging spirits.
“How’s that?”
He was gathering his magic to tell her she should save her Larnkin’s strength—they might have need of it later—when, just ahead, the swirling mist parted and revealed a partially hidden grey mound. Shadowdancer veered left and slowed to a trot. He didn’t sense any kind of danger. But his Larnkin was weakened enough by the acolytes’ attentions, he wasn’t sure if it was aware of its surroundings. Sorsha, too, must have felt some un
ease for she had her bow at the ready with one of her few remaining arrows already notched.
As he trotted closer, the mound’s outline grew sharper. A serpentine, scale-covered body, half the length of a mature santhyrian, lay semi-hidden by the silvery mists. Three arrows with blue fletching peppered the body. Trotting a tight circle around the corpse, Shadowdancer studied it at length. One arrow was imbedded between two ribs, close to the heart. Another was lodged in its flank, and a third had impaled the Wardlen’s throat. The beast had crawled away from the sight of the battle and died here, quite some distance away. The body looked dead less than a day, but he knew it had been much longer—over three months ago. He’d been with the delegation when they’d been beset by this Wardlen’s pack.
“What is it?” Sorsha breathed, barely above a whisper.
“A Wardlen.”
“Like what attacked Ashayna and Crown Prince Sorntar last time they were here?”
“Yes.”
Shadowdancer slowed to a walk and circled the body once more.
Sorsha’s weight shifted a moment before she slapped his shoulder. “You can’t just tell me ‘yes’ and honestly think that is enough of an explanation. Keep talking.”
Snorting with humor, Shadowdancer shook his head, sending his mane flying in a way he knew was likely to hit Sorsha in the face. When she grumbled something snide-sounding under her breath and slung her short, wooden bow back over her shoulder with jerky motions, he knew he’d hit his mark.
“You’re sounding dangerously like Ashayna. And just so you know, unlike your sister’s dutiful phoenix bondmate, I won’t refuse a good challenge.”
The string of words Sorsha mumbled as she dismounted to get a closer look at the dead beast didn’t sound particularly complementary, either.
“Since it took three mostly well-placed arrows to kill it, I take it this is one seriously mean bastard.”
“As you so elegantly put it, yes, Wardlens are nasty opponents. They are immune to many types of magic, they can outrun most land-based creatures, their sense of smell is superb, and they have stamina to match even one of my people.”
“Looks like the arrow here,” she pointed to the one lodged at the base of its throat where its long, serpentine neck joined with its chest, “did the most damage. See the crease between its body armor plates—the arrow slid right in and found the heart or some other vital organ. Design fault.” Sorsha loosed a low whistle as she looked over the body again. “And it’s about the only one this beast has. I doubt the other arrows penetrated deep enough to do much damage.”
Shadowdancer lowered his muzzle until his whiskers were nearly touching the body, then he jerked his head up with a snort. “I’d say you’re correct. There isn’t that much blood, considering what it took to kill some of the other Wardlen.”
Sorsha poked the carcass with a boot toe. “Doesn’t look like it has been dead very long. Might it have friends nearby?”
“This one has been dead for almost three moon cycles.”
Sorsha arched a brow in question and gave the beast another exploratory poke. “It doesn’t smell like it has been dead three moons. The kill looks a day old at best.”
“It’s three moon cycles dead. It, and several of its pack members, attacked the delegation as we returned to Grey Spires with Prince Sorntar and your sister. I was there, tail tucked firmly and running for my life like the rest of the delegation.”
“The delegation that came and kidnapped Ashayna?”
Shadowdancer knew there was no point in saying Ashayna had chosen her fate. As soon as the delegation had guessed Ashayna was Prince Sorntar’s bondmate, the human female’s fate was decided for her. Everyone present knew there could be no other outcome. Unfortunately, Sorsha’s old resentment was justified. “Yes, the same one.”
Sorsha was silent a long time. She straightened from her crouch and circled around the body once more, still silent. After a moment, she extracted the three arrows from the body, cleaned them, checked them over, and added them to the quiver at her back.
“You realize we had no choice. Ashayna and Sorntar are bondmates. We couldn’t separate them and Ashayna knew when she answered the challenge that she’d likely lose to Sorntar, and become our ‘prisoner’. It was the price of the peace treaty between our peoples—one Ashayna was willing to pay.” Shadowdancer chuckled. “If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for Prince Sorntar. He answered the challenge for our side, completely unaware he would meet his bondmate for the first time over crossed swords. It was quite the shock for him.”
Sorsha’s expression softened, for the first time in days a real smile brightened her face and she laughed. “Summer Flame told me a bit about it.” At the mention of their lost herd-mate, Sorsha’s grin faltered then vanished.
“We’ll get them back.”
“Or die trying.”
Shadowdancer shifted nervously and came to stand at Sorsha’s shoulder. He nosed her softly with his muzzle.
“Don’t worry. I don’t plan on getting killed. I plan on doing the killing and know exactly who to shoulder this whole sorry mess on—the acolytes are a blight that needs curing. It was they who first started hunting those with magic, saying it was a corrupting influence. And yet they are the corruption that nearly led to war—and probably still will.” Sorsha prodded the body of the Wardlen. “I almost hope the acolytes run into these Wardlen creatures. Maybe they could finish each other off and save us the trouble.”
“I doubt we would be so lucky, my little mane ornament.” He nudged Sorsha in the shoulder again. “Come, we should go. We need to reach the city and find out what has happened to our friends and why Tomb Guards are now taking action.” Shadowdancer paused and then continued. “I almost fear the answer.”
Sorsha mounted in one smooth motion and Shadowdancer stretched into a canter.
The cold chill of the place, which usually had a renewing effect on a Stallion Mage, no longer felt welcoming. Shadowdancer increased his pace and endured. After a few moments, he felt Sorsha’s magic wash into him. Clean, cool, refreshing. New energy eased the aches in his muscles and soothed his spirit as he carried his Herd Mistress closer to the safety of the herd.
Chapter Twelve
Tears streamed down Sorsha’s cheeks. She scrubbed the cuff of her sleeve across her eyes for the third time and blinked against the viciously bright sun. After the dull illumination of the Wild Path, the outside world’s brightness bordered on cruel.
With a curse, Sorsha spat a tendril of hair from her mouth and dragged another from her eyes before wrapping her fist back into Shadowdancer’s mane. The santhyrian galloped down the cliff-side path, his breakneck speed kicking up clouds of dust and grit in his wake. Ahead, the path turned back on itself, snaking its way down the mountain. She adjusted her seat in preparation for Shadowdancer’s next skidding halt. He trotted the tight turn then stretched into a canter again. Sorsha risked a glance up and across the gap to the city on the other side. Somewhere within that stone behemoth, Lamarra was being held against her will, and Sorsha didn’t care who or what she had to go through to get her back.
They’d escaped the grey world of the Wild Path nearly a candlemark before. Mistakenly, she’d assumed the last arch would dump them out in Grey Spires. But it didn’t and they’d had to ride for another candlemark. Even though they both wanted to reach the city in all possible haste, Shadowdancer was too tired to maintain a gallop the whole way. Sorsha offered to walk to allow him to rest for a short time, but he’d refused, saying he could draw on her reserves easier with her touching him. She continued to feed him power while she prayed they wouldn’t be too late to rescue Lamarra and the others.
Had Shadowdancer been a horse he’d have burst his heart, snapped a leg, or plummeted over the cliff-side. Thanks to his santhyrian stamina and agility, they were both still alive, and he was still in fair condition when they reached the bottom. But even with the aid of her magic, he had to be feeling the pace.
; “How are you holding up?” Sorsha called over the wind, momentarily forgetting to use mind-speech.
Shadowdancer splashed through an icy stream and didn’t answer as he started across the valley floor. His ears were swiveled forward as if listening, and he arched his neck in a high-headed, alert stance. She tightened her fists in his mane and closed her eyes. The calming darkness behind her own lids allowed her to school her turbulent emotions and focus. There was a trace of foreign magic upon the santhyrian. Thinking it was another attack, she reached for him with her power.
Oh. Not an attack. One of his people was speaking with him mind-to-mind. A murmur of voices filled her head. Straining to make them out made her head throb with a dull ache. She waited, clawing for the patience not to simply interrupt him and demand information about Lamarra.
Shadowdancer didn’t slow his pace as he continued across the vast, grassy plain leading to the foot of the opposite mountain. High up its slopes, the City of Grey Spires perched, overlooking the ravine below. Had she not been so worried about Lamarra, she might have enjoyed the view.
With a little shake, he twitched an ear back in her direction. “I have been in contact with my sire and dam. They forbid us from seeking out the Tomb Guards. They say the Dead Rulers must have a reason to act as they have and it is not for us to interfere. The Council has ordered us to leave with the rest of my family herd and go to the Sea of Grass.” Shadowdancer’s mild annoyance at being treated like a child reflected back along their mental link. “We are to await there for news.”
“What? That’s it?” Sorsha understood Shadowdancer’s annoyance at his Elders, and clinched her fists seeking calm. “There must be more news.”
“There is some. Both Winter’s Frost and Summer Flame have escaped their Tomb Guard captors.” Shadowdancer paused, but Sorsha still felt his hesitation.
“What are you not saying?”
“The Elders claim our herd-mates escaped—or as I and my sire believe—were allowed to escape, since both santhyrians seemingly avoided the Tomb Guards with relative ease once they were safely on the other side of the gate. Winter’s Frost and Summer Flame immediately sought out the Elemental Council and told them Tomb Guards still had Lamarra in their custody.”
In Deception's Shadow Box Set: Book 1-3 Page 37
