Shadows of the Keeper

by Karey Brown

  Emily gasped. “His beheading?” She remained motionless, not even blinking. “How absolutely terrible for anyone to have to end another’s life. Mercy killing.” She shuddered. And saw Broc in a different light. Whore. Her pity vanished.

  “This is upsetting for you.”

  She nodded, then rolled her hand for him to continue.

  “Broc travels the tunnels, refusing to face any of us, claiming he sees accusations. He fails to realize ‘tis sadness we feel for the burden he carries. Urkani reports the Outlander sits in her garden, perhaps to be close to her? Roses fisted, he sobs when he thinks none can hear him.”

  “Or was he crying over the clan he lost? The mistress who betrayed him by becoming pregnant by another? Even now, all these centuries upon centuries later, he still reacts instead of asking questions. He chose to believe the worst.” She stood. “Well, between Broc, and this bastard Pendaran—“

  “Never speak his name.”

  Emily paused. “Seriously?”

  “He is the son of Xyn.” Blade’s voice lowered. “He hears all. He sees all. To speak his name is to call him. The ancient peoples referred to him as druid. But I assure you, Lady Emily, he far exceeds the simplicity of druids.”

  Emily started making her way to an obvious exit. “If I’m this Keeper, why should I fear him?”

  “His power far outreaches any you have exhibited thus far.”

  “Yet, he left Aurelia to die. At least she had power to save herself. I have no such recourse.” She spun and faced Blade. “Tell you what, however, if it had been me that long ago ill-fated day when Lumynari attacked, the Elders be damned, I’d have used all power in my possession to save Broc’s clan. Humans versus these Shadow Masters? What kind of fair fight was there in that? And Princess Goody-Goody withheld her help simply for the sake of remaining obedient to a bunch of old guys who never bothered showing up to help her. Nah, you can keep your power. You can keep your Elders. And you especially can keep your adoration for this Aurelia. I’m outa here!”

  “I have said something to upset you?”

  Emily stormed to the exit she’d spied, hoping it would lead to a normal corridor out of this crazy labyrinth. Broc raged against a memory, forcing her to carry the shame of another’s failures. “I’m going home, Blade.”

  “I will guide you back to your chamber.”

  “Not that home. Home, home.” I need to be surrounded by my everyday normal things. My normal duplex. With the sound of normal traffic outside my bedroom window. Normal electricity. Normal food. Normal, normal, normal. Right now, even the God-awful heat of Texas will be a balm. I can quench my thirst at Starbucks. For that alone, I’d swim the bloody Atlantic. Did I really just say ‘bloody’? Gah!

  “You have suddenly been enlightened of how to return to Quemori?”

  “Nope, but I certainly know the way to Texas.” Disgusted with everyone’s need for her to be the goddess in the portrait, Emily yanked open the door.

  Her bloodcurdling scream filled the chamber, scorched the stretch of corridor, and rattled antiquated glass windows high up in the Elven towers of Aunsgar’s domain.

  And drenched fierce, ancient Forest Lords in pure terror.

  CHAPTER TWENTY- THE KEEPER

  A room once sacred . . . private-perfect for musing, was now nothing more than a memory crypt. Broc stormed from his precious library, centuries upon centuries in the making—Pout Room, he could hear her voice echoing followed by contagious laughter. A hand snaked out. Startled to see it was his own, it braced him against aged walls of the long winding corridor. War braids fell forward, his head bowed, hot tears coursing shamelessly downward, splashing his boots. A Forest Lord crying? Where was the pride in that? What pride, his conscious countered? What pride does a mohn dare claim when he canna protect the woman of his heart—twice? Twice, he’d been gifted her trust and her heart. She’d admired him, even lusted on occasion. Aye, he’d seen it with his own eyes, even though in this life cycle of hers, ‘twas forbidden for him to act upon it.

  But all he’d seen in her were the bodies of his slain clan, then and now.

  She’d wanted answers. Would they have saved her? How could he have forgotten about that damned sword? No, fool, how could you have not taken better note of her curiosity leading her to find the damn thing? Every mohn knew a woman’s curiosity was a force ta’ reckon with. Broc released his hold on the wall, and stormed away from his inner demon. His march brought him to the great hall. Ancient trestle tables . . . empty. Meals had become depressing. No one wanted to laugh, spin their yarns, or drink and wench all the while the wee lass was . . . where? Where, where, where?!

  But, he knew. Lugh’s blood, but he knew. The thought of it made him stagger like a drunkard. His mind had already crossed the threshold of madness once.

  Days and days, he’d scoured the secret tunnels. More days had found him probing every crag upon the twin mountains, every cave, every nuance of shadow met with his sword. She was gone. Dimness of memories, echoes of laughter, replays of anything he could have done differently became piled rubble against his soul. And then, the yelling had begun. He’d wondered who amongst them succumbed to grief. Animalist wailing. Keening that caused him to ache.

  It had been him.

  Until Maeve had been brave enough to approach with ancient Fey magicks, he had fallen to his knees, yelling out the torment of his soul, the male cry of unbearable failure and loss. Her sweet incantation had lulled him into a deep stupor, allowing them ease from his killing mood. Several days had passed with him stupefied by Maeve’s spells. Thinking she did him a favor, she’d actually sent him spiraling deeper into madness by way of dreams. Over and over, the black blood they’d found on Aunsgar’s walls played in his mind. Traces of red blood—human, Aunsgar regretfully informed—confirmed a battle transpired in the long, unused corridor high in the labyrinth of Elves’ towers. How could a wee lass, modern at that, even fall close to being associated with battle . . . against Lumynari? For that was their black blood splashed on the walls and floors.

  A worn bench, its scuffed corner, Emily’s favorite spot, snagged his attention. The ghost of her image shot up, grabbed another bottle of poison she’d coaxed Allen to supply, a noxious brew called tequila, while she raptly listened to their battle stories of auld. Broc grinned, watching her antics. She flipped a gold doubloon—how’d he’d roared with laughter, her expression of shock, when he’d shared his exploits as pirate—that plopped into a glass. He choked over her audacity. The lass had snatched the glass, downed its contents in one swig, and spit out the coin with as much gusto as a mohn. The laird shook his head, erasing the memory, though the roar of his men cheering lingered.

  The long table stood empty. Ghosts of memories dispelled into mists of muse. His booted feet dragged him from the hall of their own accord and out the front doors she forever admired. Even out here in the bailey, her laughter rang out, her gasps of surprise . . . she was everywhere in his head. She was nowhere in the flesh. Ragged breath expelled from him. Every sunrise and sunset found his men repeating their routine: alternating teams would remain behind to guard, switching with those leaving the castle compound in search groups. Even the Elves were unproductive in the hunt for shadowed paths leading down to the Lumynari realm.

  Broc knew what he must do. No other recourse offered an option. And he would seek this journey alone. They’d stopped him in the beginning . . . when his Emily had first been taken. They would lose their life, should they again attempt such a feat as to waylay his quest.

  She was a thorn he’d come to enjoy the pain of. Now, nothing remained but the wound.

  She’d been prisoner of the Lumynari for six weeks and three days. Mental images drafted their way into his soul. Lumynari were notorious for keeping their female prisoners unclothed. Nothing was more entertaining than complete degradation. For sport, they wagered their prisoners against other hapless victims in battle arenas where trolls tore the ill-fated limb from limb. Death was not release
from Lumynari imprisonment. Any Shadow Master worth his initiation tattoo cast dark evil spells against the wretched prisoner so that, in death, they were still enslaved, only now they were ghouls. Broc shook his head, forcing horrific images back to the shores of oblivion. Was Emily, even now, beyond his reach? Worse, if there could be such a thing, was she in the dreaded breeding camps? Child upon child begotten until her body, no longer able to heal from multiple birthings, finally gave out to be fed to the dark beasties crawling in the hellish chasms of Balkore. Broc grabbed fistfuls of his hair, the pain keeping him from screaming; the screaming gleefully pulling him back into the madness.

  It was time.

  The forbidden incantation would be uttered from his mouth tonight, forcing the earth to open, allowing him passage; Elvin law be damned!

  He halted, incredulously scanning his surroundings. When had he come up to his chambers? Emily’s vanilla scent still lingered. Broc stormed out onto the terrace, chill air clearing his senses—and stilled. Flicker of movement in the far distance. Quickening of his heart confirmed it was more than a mere winter fox foraging. And then, glittering in a warmless sun. Sentry-still, he watched. Eyes burned and teared from the intensity of his stare. He refused to look away, even for a second. Fumbling blindly through his waist satchel, he yanked free an overused pair of field glasses. “Great Danu!”

  A body, dark against pristine white landscape, scuttled. The face turned, lifted a bit, and gazed straight back at him before plunging a long deadly sword into the frozen ground. The sword’s illumination grew until blazing like a beacon upon a kill. Blade! He’d melt down the cursed weapon, hoping Danu heard his prayers to rush the spirit to the dark valleys of the damned—but not before confessing he’d lured Emily to her death!

  * * * * *

  “Three thousand years, we’ve sworn fealty to ye’,” Garreck grumbled, watching his laird prepare for his journey.

  “Aye.”

  “Three thousand six hundred years, give or take a couple of decades before the curse, we’ve followed ye’.”

  “ ‘Tis a long time.” Broc tightened the saddled strap, half listening. He didn’t have time for verbal chess.

  “Verra long.”

  Broc grunted his assent, tightening the baldric that strapped Elvish sword against his back. An aged silver and black hilt now protruded from over his left shoulder.

  “I would ask ye’ to return the loyalty to us.”

  Broc dropped his hands and stared at Garreck. “What loyalty would ye’ ask?”

  “That we follow ye’ yet again.”

  “Not this time.” Broc crouched down, inserting various length dirks into hidden pockets in his boots.

  Garreck sighed with exaggeration. “ ‘Tis most regrettable.”

  “Should I no’ return, you take command. I’ve spoken to the men. They’d already resigned ta’ follow ye’.” Broc patted his chest, visually searching the ground. Locating the dirk, he sheathed it within the saddle.

  “The men following my command isna’ an issue,” Garreck snorted. He lacked ability to hide his grin. Broc ignored the buffoon. Slipping his foot into the stirrup, he hoisted himself with the fluid motion of male power and grace. Tugging the reigns, he veered the horse away without a backward glance at his brother.

  Broc kept his head up, gaze locked upon an endless horizon. It pained him greatly to peripherally view faces of those he most likely would never again break bread with. They didn’t wave. They didn’t allow tears, though their heads remained bowed as he passed. Creaking saddle was the only noise in this depressing silence. Once he met up with Lumynari, his days would be numbered. Would he reach Emily in time before Lumynari annihilated her mind? Before they annihilated his mind? He’d seen the challenge offered by way of Blade being skewered into the ground, and he’d accepted. Crossing his drawbridge, he abruptly reigned in his mount.

  Dressed for battle, some in tartans he knew surely must reek of mothballs and cedar, at least a hundred men sat atop horses. Armed with their ancestors’ claymores, axes, and longbows, Broc could only gawk. These were moderns, from Emily’s realm. They were as inexperienced in the ways of battle as Emily had been.

  Reignsfeugh guided his horse to pull away from the armed regiment. “We follow. Ye’ try an’ stop us, you’ll fight each of us wi’ yer bare hands.” Grey eyes challenged obsidian. “Swallow yer’ tethers, laddie. We sleep as a clan, we eat as a clan, we marry, birth, and fight as a clan.”

  Aedan nudged his horse into the forefront. “We die as a clan!”

  Deafening cheers followed. Fists pumped air. Broc’s heart clenched. He gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to speak. Where he was going, he’d be a fool not to acquiesce their help. “What museums did ye’ rob for yer’ plaids?”

  Henry sat a little straighter in his saddle. “We’ve never had the chance fer’ glory and battle. Time ta’ no’ just tell the stories of our ancestors, beggin’ yer’ pardon, but time ta’ become a legend told to our wee ones when they come of age ta’ understand the pride o’ the tellin’.”

  “Still trying to woo Annabelle?” Broc asked, proud he was able to refrain from laughing.

  Henry’s chest swelled. “Aye. The lass swooned at the sight o’ me wearin’—“

  “She swooned ye’ looked a fool wi’ yer belly half hangin’ from yer’ plaid!”

  Broc lost his battle and guffawed.

  “As I was sayin’, lass gushed at the sight o’ me dressed as her da’ once had fer’ battle.”

  Broc’s severity returned. “We ride.”

  Aunsgar’s horse broke through a parting crowd, a retinue of Elves following upon magnificent white horses.

  “Nay, old friend. My quest is more than ever dangerous for you,” Broc warned.

  “You will need my eyes, and I am a better marksman than you.” Elvish eyes narrowed. “And you still make errors with magic.”

  “They’re not unfixable.”

  Aunsgar’s pale brow arched.

  Broc spied a few village men stealing cursory glances at one another and back to Aunsgar and his warriors.

  “We’ve yet to silence the cooking pot.”

  Chuckles muted under Broc’s glare.

  “Every time Maeve places it upon her flame, it screams.” Aunsgar shook his head. Mirth quirked his mouth.

  “I was tryin’ ta’ show the woman I could handle her kitchen.”

  “By using magic?” Garreck asked, cantering up behind his laird. Broc half turned in his saddle and glared at his first in command. “ ‘Tis not hard ta’ conquer the use of fire,” Garreck admonished. “Bad enough we ‘ave a ghost that never shuts up, now we ‘ave a fat cauldron bellyachin’ like a drunkard at O’Sullivans!”

  “I resent tha’!” someone shouted from the crowd of moderns.

  Broc remained sober. “I canna have history repeat itself.”

  Aunsgar’s expression turned grave. “I’ve left able guards to defend those who cannot defend themselves, but I will not be left behind like a feeble old woman.”

  “I think, at long last, we ‘ave tainted you,” Reignsfeugh stated, several clansmen nodding.

  Aunsgar glanced at him questioningly.

  “Next, ye’ll be roarin’ in ta’ battle naked as the wild men once did.”

  Horror flitted across the Elven prince’s face, a rare show of emotion. It was more than the Forest Lords could handle. Their mirth erupted, turning into loud cheers when Broc reached out, he and Aunsgar clasping forearms. The prince turned slightly, gazing over his shoulder, an almost imperceptible nod escaping him. Broc lifted his gaze, following Aunsgar’s. A dozen grizzled men, ragged black tunics covering their bodies, similar in fashion to what he’d seen worn in Jerusalem, inclined their heads. Mentally, Broc dismissed them. Who knew what the damned Elf was up to. If auld men chose to tag along, who was he to say nay to death in glory versus simply passing away with age?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dragged in, the prisoner was mercilessly dumped li
ke a heap of refuse. So still he remained, she wondered if this was their next form of torture: a rotting corpse.

  Emily assumed wrong.

  Guards kicked him several times and beat him with their clubs. Failing to elicit a reaction, they hauled him deeper into her cell. She remained as immobile as possible. Maybe, if she didn’t even blink, they’d forget her existence. Shoulder-hoisting their captive, they slammed him against the rocky wall. Emily winced, her own back heavily bruised from the same treatment four days earlier. Had it been four days? He grunted, the first sound Emily heard emitted from him. Keeping him propped up, two Lumynaries stretched his arms out on either side, tethering his wrists to the wall. They stood back, laughing when he sagged. Despondent, the only thing alive about him seemed to be his moon-bright hair.

  Hissing erupted above; hissing sounding much like what had delivered her to this horrific nightmare. The door opened wider. A shadow spilled across the threshold.

  The priestess. Breathtaking. White hair billowed, its length spilling to her waist and pulled off her face by way of a macabre crown of silver thorns. But Emily had learned the hard way, beyond the façade of the bitch’s beauty, a terror not even the scariest movie could depict sapped Emily’s inner light.

  The whip cracked. Emily flinched. Then tensed, waiting for the blaze of agony. Nothing. Her new cellmate, however, was not so fortunate. His head reared, knocking against jagged rock. Emily winced, knowing firsthand the wallop he’d just given himself. Repeatedly, the whip uncoiled. Triple whips. Ricocheting. Blood soaked. Prisoner’s chest, flayed.

  I’m next.

  Snatching a torch, a squat guard garbled in a guttural language too awful to exist. Thrusting flame closer to the face of the abused, he laughed while repeatedly slapping the prisoner.