First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  That, however, would be as likely as rain falling up.

  Her brow furrowed. She had never cast for someone over more than a league or so, but that didn't mean she shouldn't try. Bolin had already proven he could track her as easily as he drew breath. If she knew his whereabouts, she'd be able to avoid him -- she hoped.

  Trusting Fane to stay quiet beneath her, Ciara dropped the reins loose around his neck and took a deep, cleansing breath. Her gaze turned inward, and she reached into the well of her earth magic -- staying well away from the wilding -- focused a bit of it and sent it spreading out behind her like a fine net. The strands of her it, familiar and comforting, rose up from the core of her being and flowed across the countryside, gossamer thin but strong. They brought with them the memory of her mother’s warm embrace and her aunt’s gentle smile, and a pang of loss stabbed through her. Ciara bit her lip, concentrated on her working, and ignored the warm tear that slid down her cheek.

  The casting drew strength from the trees and rocks, the earth itself. Ciara went with it, amazed she recognized the feel of Meriol’s lands when she touched its edges. She made her net wide, not wanting to risk missing Bolin, though she didn't feel so much as a whisper of him. Perhaps he had gone to Guldarech after all.

  Better to think that than other thoughts.

  Satisfied the casting needed no further attention from her, Ciara drew in a deep breath of sun-warmed air and exhaled. She rolled her shoulders back to relieve the tension, gathered the reins and tugged Fane's head up. The gelding objected, long strands of grass hanging from his mouth, but he moved forward at her urging. She let him go at a steady walk, smoother and more comfortable to aching muscles than his ground covering trot. The casting followed behind, an ethereal net visible only to those who knew how to look for such a thing.

  They didn't go much further before the tall grass opened onto a road. Whether it proved to be the Eastern Road or not remained to be seen. Narrower than the road to Guldarech, and not as well traveled, it offered a level, well-packed, surface. Ciara groaned as she climbed stiffly out of the saddle and stretched the aches out of protesting muscles. It would do her and Fane both some good if she walked for a bit.

  The fact her casting remained undisturbed, gave Ciara surprisingly little relief. Still, knowing Bolin wouldn't happen upon her any time soon made her feel easier about answering the plaintive growl from her stomach. She perched on a rock near a narrow creek, while Fane dipped his head to drink his fill from the clear water. She dug into her pack for something to eat and frowned when she realized the contents weren't what they had been. Thanks to Fane's early morning rampage most of her food now lay strewn across the countryside. What remained wouldn't see her through the next two days. Perhaps instead of casting for Bolin she should've been casting for an inn.

  Cold water dribbled down her arm as Fane nudged her, smelling apple and wanting some. Ciara pushed him away. "Go eat grass. Thanks to you, that's what I'll be eating before too long."

  He snorted and wandered away to forage. Ciara should have given him the apple. It sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach, and she couldn't shake the growing sense of unease trailing across her nerves. She could think of only one reason Bolin wouldn't be following her. Goddess's light, she hadn't meant to hurt him any more than she'd meant to reach for the wilding in the first place. If she could undo it, she would. But the thought of being sequestered into the sisterhood . . . what had Meriol been thinking?

  Ciara sighed and gazed back the way she had come. She hadn't met a single soul on the road, no signposts directed her to a nearby inn, and it looked more and more as though she’d be spending the night under the stars. With the sun slanting deep into the west that likelihood became much less than the romanticized thing she had made it into.

  She stood, and gave Fane the last bit of her apple before she gathered up his reins and started off once more. She went on foot, to give Fane a rest. Besides, with the heavy shadows gathering around them as the road slid deeper into the forest, she didn't want to risk a repeat of his morning antics. Something scuttled into the underbrush on the heels of that thought, and Ciara jumped. Fane, on the other hand, plodded placidly along beside her, undisturbed by whatever it had been.

  Ciara glowered at him. She glanced back at her casting trailing behind them, glowing faintly in the growing dusk. Leaves rustled and this time Fane tossed his head, jerking the reins from her loose grasp. Ciara snatched after them as she darted a look around. Her hand brushed the hilt of the hunting knife at her waist, reassuring in its solidity and nearness. More reassuring than Fane. The gelding’s ears flicked back and forth and he shifted uneasily, his eyes showing white as he sidled sideways and craned his neck to get a look down the road. He sidestepped into Ciara as he shied, and she jumped out of the way.

  "Easy, Fane," she said, and her voice sounded like a shout in the stillness -- a stillness suddenly very noticeable and unsettling. Her breathing and the scuffing of Fane's hooves on the hard-packed earth were the only sounds. Not a bird song or a squirrel call. Even the breeze had stilled. Ciara’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife.

  Twigs snapped behind her and she whipped around, then chided herself for startling like a frightened child.

  "Probably just another fawn," she said under her breath.

  The two men who stood in the road in front of her when she turned back, however, were definitely not fawns. Fane snorted and flared his nostrils, the acrid smell of sweat and manure so strong even Ciara wrinkled her nose at it. The two were dirty, head to toe, their clothes old and in need of burning, having reached a point beyond washing and mending. One of the men wore a short sword in a beat up scabbard; the other, as far as Ciara could tell, went unarmed.

  "Well, well, what do we have here?" The unarmed man said in a drawling, midland accent. An old scar ran across his left cheek from the corner of his eye to just below his mouth, showing white against the dirt covering his face. "I’m thinking she’s a horse thief, Tryg. Wha’d’you think?"

  Tryg, grinned, a near toothless expression. "Could be. I heard there was one about, and that’s a fine bit a horse flesh. You steal that beast, girly?"

  Ciara tightened her hold on the reins. "No." Her voice sounded small to her ears.

  "No?" the toothless one mimicked, his accent not nearly as thick as his companion’s. "Squeaks like a mouse, don’t she, Gart?"

  The man with the scar took a step toward her. "I'll jest see how mousy she really is."

  Ciara backed. Making sure she had a good grip on the reins, she elbowed Fane hard behind the girth. He spun his rear end and sent the toothless man stumbling out of the way. Scar-face grinned and Ciara grabbed for the stirrup. She managed to get her foot in and hopped one-legged alongside Fane as he continued his circle. She hoisted herself off the ground by the saddle, but before she could swing her other leg over a hard hand closed around her calf.

  "Let go of me!"

  Ciara kicked backwards. Her short fingernails dug into the leather of the saddle as the man let go of her leg and caught her around the waist in an attempt to pull her from Fane's back. The gelding snorted and sidled over, pushing her more firmly into her attacker's grasp. He locked his arms around her stomach and yanked, and Ciara lost her grip. She flailed her arms, and grabbed desperately at any part of horse or saddle she could reach, but Scar-face swung her away from Fane. Ciara squirmed to get loose, and he laughed in her ear.

  "Keep that up, mouse," he said, his breath hot against her neck and reeking of stale ale. "I'll be good and ready by the time we get to it."

  He thrust his hips against her backside as though to prove his point, and trailed his tongue up the side of her neck. Ciara shivered in revulsion.

  "Yer a tasty one, ain't ya?"

  Ciara slammed the heel of her boot down hard onto the center of his foot and ground into it.

  "Little bitch!"

  He hopped backwards, dragging her along. Ciara threw her weight into him and Scar-face went down,
the air whooshing out of his lungs as she landed on top of him. He lost his hold as he fought for breath and Ciara rolled away. She scrambled to her feet, only to find herself face to face with his toothless companion.

  "Leave her for me," Scar-face said, coughing.

  "She might be too much for ya, Gart. Mebbe I gotta tame 'er a bit first."

  Ciara angled around so she could see both men. Scar-face had gotten to his feet. He rubbed his ribs, and pointed a grimy finger at her. "Yer gonna pay, mouse."

  She backed away, and looked for Fane. The gelding had wandered off to graze at the side of the road, and the two men were now between him and Ciara.

  Scar-face followed her gaze and grinned. "Try it. I'll even give ya a head start."

  Ciara couldn't even work up enough spit to wet her lips. She took another step back, her palms slick with sweat as she curled her fingers into fists. She reached inside for her earth magic, and wrapped it around the words she spoke, "Leave. Me. Alone."

  The toothless man cocked his head, and a look of calm settled over him. Ciara held her breath, but Scar-face just stood there, amusement playing across his face.

  "Go," Ciara said, with extra emphasis and another push of earth magic. She could see it as it left her and glided around the toothless man, but it skittered past his companion like water on ice, leaving him unaffected.

  The jagged, white scar twitched as he chuckled. "Now, you and me are gonna have some fun."

  Ciara jerked her knife out of its sheath. "Not as much fun as you think." But her voice wavered like the blade in her hand.

  The toothless man turned to move slowly away, a gentle blanket of earth magic guiding his steps. Scar-face paid him no heed. Instead, he reached down to his waist and slowly undid the wide belt, his hard stare locked on Ciara. He swung the belt, buckle down, next to his leg, and nodded toward her knife. "You thinkin' of usin' that thing, mouse?"

  Goddess's light, if he only knew she'd no clue how to use a knife to do anything more than skin a rabbit. "Try me and find out," she said, before she could stop her tongue. And find out what? That fear had just run rough shod over every ounce of common sense she'd ever had? Damn fool. She risked a glance at his companion. Go, go, go, she wished him silently, pushing with her earth magic to keep him walking away.

  Movement jerked her attention back to Scar-face too late to do anything other than stumble away as he rushed her. She brought up her knife in a desperate slice that found only air. Scar-face swung the belt at her, and she cried out as the heavy buckle struck the backside of her hand. Her fingers went instantly numb. The knife fell to the ground, and Ciara whirled to run, but Scar-face wielded the belt like a whip. Pain erupted in her leg as the buckle caught her below the knee, and she felt a warm trickle of blood slide down her shin. She managed another faltering step before he wrapped his arms around her waist, and drove her to the ground. Dirt filled her mouth, and stones cut into her palms as she thrust out her hands to break her fall. He sprawled across her back, pinning her, and slid the belt around her throat, tightening as he jerked her head back.

  "Tryg," he yelled. "Get over here."

  Ciara gasped for air and clawed at her neck, trying to get her fingers under the leather to loosen its hold. She couldn't keep the threads of her earth magic pushing at the other man, not when she couldn't even breathe. Scar-face put his head next to hers, the course hairs of his beard scratching her skin as he reached beneath her and grabbed her breast.

  "Keep fighting. Gets me stiff." He ground against her buttocks and grunted. "Feel that?"

  He shifted his weight back and rolled her, and Ciara lashed out. A frustrated snarl tore from her throat as the belt loosened, but he caught her wrists and held them until his partner joined him.

  "Keep a tight hold 'til I've had my go."

  Ciara clenched her jaw; her breath came hard and fast. Toothless Tryg pulled her arms up over her head, and leered down at her. His tongue flicked between broken and blackened nubs of teeth to lick spittle off his cracked lips. His partner still straddled her. A pungent smell assaulted her nostrils, an odd mix of wet sheep and hay. Scar-face jerked her tunic up to get at the laces on her britches, his fingers rough against her stomach.

  "Ya wear pants like a man," he said, and shoved a hand down between her legs. "But yer no man, are ya, mouse?"

  He started to undo his own britches then, and spit landed on her forehead as his partner cackled. Ciara twisted, and he gave her arms a yank, sending pain searing through her shoulder.

  "Stop it!" she yelled.

  "When I'm done," Scar-face said.

  He grabbed her cheeks, squeezed her mouth into a pucker, and covered her lips with his, drooling onto her face. When he pulled back, Ciara spit at him, and he laughed. Something stirred inside of her. As fear gave way to anger she reached past her earth magic, and grabbed hold of the wilding. The world around her went to black, split by shards of red and silver, like broken glass. Scar-face had both hands on the waist of her britches and had started to yank them down when he froze. His eyes locked on Ciara's, and she felt the corners of her mouth curl upwards in a wicked smile.

  "I told you to stop," she whispered, but it didn't sound like her voice.

  The sound Ciara made didn't resemble anything human as Scar-face started to climb off her. The force of it caught him full in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards through the air, limbs flailing. Ciara tipped her face back. The toothless man still held her wrists on the ground above her head. He gaped at his companion, and then turned that wide-eyed terror on her.

  "You're next," she said, in someone else's voice. Someone cold and deadly.

  He tried to let go of her wrists, but the wilding seeped from Ciara's fingers and tightened around his arms. Ciara yanked, and threw him in the direction of his partner. The force of the wilding propelled him into a tree with a sickening thud, and he landed on the ground, his neck twisted at an obscene angle. She stood slowly, and hitched at her pants as she walked toward Scar-face. Her earth magic begin to swirl around her, around the wilding, and Ciara watched as though from somewhere outside her body. Watched as she drew closer to Scar-face. He pushed himself to his feet, and glanced at his companion, then turned to look at her. His face contorted, the scar twitching noticeably. Ciara sniffed the air like an animal. The acrid scent of his fear hung between them, though he curled his lip and spat at her in feigned defiance. He edged back and reached down without taking his eyes off her; searching with his hand until he found his friend's sword, and pulled it from beneath the lifeless body.

  "I'm not afraid of you, witch," he said, the sword held ready as he took a fighting stance.

  "No?" She cocked her head. "I think you should be."

  Ciara reached a hand out to the side, and the belt he had used against her rose off the ground and snaked towards him through the air. He angled the sword that way, eyes flicking between her and the belt. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and sweat beaded his forehead. Ciara's earth magic became more insistent, buzzing around her like an errant fly.

  Her aunt's voice seeped into her head, magic should never be used to harm. Ciara hesitated. The belt wavered in its serpentine dance. Her glance shifted to the man lying on the ground and her breath caught. She had done that -- had killed him -- with no more remorse than swatting a fly. Ciara began to tremble, the rage fading as her earth magic drew the wilding down.

  Scar-face lunged forward and Ciara's hand snapped up without thought, palm out. The gesture rendered him motionless. An inner voice screamed at her to let him go and walk away, but the wilding pushed it aside. Ciara motioned, and the belt continued its journey. It twined itself around Scar-face's throat, slowly drawing tight with nothing but a gentle motion of Ciara's fingers through the air. Panic crept across his face, then fear, finally anger as his eyes bulged and his mouth worked silently; the scar showed brilliant white as blood forced into his face gradually darkened to a hideous shade of purple.

  Ciara turned away. She heard him hi
t the ground behind her a moment before she collapsed.

  * * *

  Donovan watched the events unfold from a secluded spot off the road. He could have stopped it at any time, but he needed to be certain this girl possessed what he had been searching for. The two ruffians definitely earned their coin, though it had taken a bit more than he suspected to push the girl into using her real power. The Goddess, bless her righteous hide, would rather allow the rape and murder of an innocent before she condoned killing in the name of self-defense. He would be able to use that fact to his advantage.

  For now, he needed to play the benevolent stranger. So he walked quietly to where she lay in the center of the road, stooping beside her, and touched her on the shoulder. She startled, and scrambled away on hands and knees, turning to face him only after she put distance between them. Her eyes were wide and her breathing hard. Donovan held his hands up, palms outward and stood. He did his best to hide his irritation and radiate only calm assurance.

  "I mean you no harm, I assure you."

  She blinked him into focus, and surveyed him closer as her panic visibly ebbed. Eyes of brown, tinged with inner fire, swept over and through him, as much as he would allow. He showed her only what he needed to gain her trust; that he commanded power similar to hers and wanted only to help her. She chewed at her bottom lip as she pondered that, and then reached for the hand Donovan offered and let him help her up.

  She broke the contact instantly, and backed a step. Not in fear, Donovan noted with a small bit of satisfaction, but wariness. Her eyes slipped past him, and her hand went to her mouth, a look of horror distorting her features. As the color drained from her face, a fresh bruise across her cheekbone stood out like blood on snow.

  Donovan turned to look over his shoulder, following her gaze. "Ah."

  "Are they . . . "

  "Dead?" he finished. "I do believe so. That was your intent, was it not?"

  "No! I didn’t mean to kill them," she said, her voice a whisper. "I tried to make them leave. It should have worked. I just wanted them to leave."