First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  "What have you done?" Ciara reached up to pry Donovan's fingers from her shoulder.

  "Only what I needed."

  Bolin staggered forward a step. His mouth worked as he tried to form words, sweat glistened on his forehead. He took another step before his eyes glazed over, and he dropped to his knees. He struggled to get back up, lost his balance and toppled over. Only then did Donovan release his hold on Ciara.

  "He’s not dead," Donovan said, and managed to make it sound boring. "Can you control that horse of his?"

  Ciara sprinted toward Bolin but two of the men stepped in front of her. She shoved them recklessly out of her way and dropped to her knees beside Bolin, rolling him carefully onto his back. Most of the blood covering him belonged to others. In fact, a long, thin cut across his forearm, just above the leather bracer proved to be the only wound Ciara could find. It did nothing to explain the ashy pallor of his skin, or the ragged cadence of his breathing.

  "What was on the blade?" she demanded over her shoulder to Donovan.

  He sighed. "The morning grows old and I would prefer to be within my walls before dark. Can you control his horse, or do I have my men kill the beast?"

  Ciara's eyes landed on Bolin's sword as she turned. She reached for it without thinking and clambered to her feet. Donovan's men shuffled back as she swung the weapon in a wild circle, holding it with both hands.

  "And what do you intend to do with that?" Donovan asked. "Accomplish what he could not?"

  "I have something Bolin doesn't," Ciara said.

  Donovan's eyes widened, and he laughed. "That you do. And you enjoyed embracing it, did you not? The thrill as it coursed through your veins; as you watched those men die by your hand. You want that feeling again."

  Ciara shook her head. "No." She darted a nervous look at Donovan's men, but though their swords were at the ready, they hadn't moved. "I want you and your men to leave."

  An eager light flickered in the depths of Donovan's eyes. "And if I refuse?"

  Ciara flexed her fingers around the sword’s hilt. Her palms were slick with sweat, and the muscles in her arms quivered. Sandeen still pranced in place within the confines of the shimmer, swinging his head in rhythm to his feet as though dancing.

  "Why are you doing this?" Ciara asked.

  "That will be made clear, in time. Something he is running out of by the way." Donovan nodded in Bolin's direction. "The longer you delay, the closer he moves to death."

  "I'm a healer."

  "The only suitable use for the Goddess's magic," Donovan replied, and wrinkled his nose, his face contorting as though he smelled something offensive. "It will do you as much good in your present circumstance as that weapon."

  His gaze slid to Ciara's right, and she followed it to find the man closest to her moving in. She swung toward him and her heel caught on Bolin's leg when she tried to back away, leaving her no place to go. Her vision clouded. When it cleared again the man had stopped, right along with Ciara's heart.

  A jagged scar twitched across the left side of his face when he grinned. "Hello, mouse."

  Ciara's mouth went dry. The sword fell out of her hands, and she scrambled to keep her feet as she tripped over Bolin. Someone caught her arms from behind and pinned them to her sides but she didn't fight it. Raw terror held her frozen. The wilding twisted in her gut, eager for blood. Ciara couldn't. Not again. Not ever again.

  But it had been so simple. She had only to think and the wilding would act. Together they were invincible.

  "No!" Ciara screamed, and twisted free of the man holding her.

  Donovan replaced Scar-face in her vision, his expression a mask of irritation. His fingers dug into her flesh as he grabbed her by the elbow and propelled her toward Sandeen. "Enough of this. See to the horse before I kill it."

  Ciara grit her teeth. Sandeen quivered, head to tail, ears flicking ceaselessly, nostrils flared. Without the shimmer to hold him, few would now be standing. When Ciara touched on his rage it formed a tight knot in her skull.

  "I'll try," she said, and her voice shook.

  "Do more than try. Calm him. Now. The longer you delay the less likelihood the General will survive."

  Ciara gave Bolin one last look to ensure he still breathed. The shimmer that held Sandeen crackled and hissed as she drew close. She put a hand up to it and her skin tingled as the magic rippled over her fingers and crawled up her arm. She jerked away but Donovan caught her eye, and gave a purposeful nod of his head. He watched her like a hawk watching its dinner. Ciara rubbed her palms on her thighs, took a deep breath, and stepped into the shimmer.

  She gasped as sharp, tiny prickles streamed through her from the inside out. Her earth magic shuddered so violently Ciara lost her balance and lurched forward into Sandeen's heaving, lathered chest. He pushed against her, and Ciara skipped out of his way to prevent her toes from getting smashed under his hooves. His eyes showed white, and he snaked his head out and snapped air.

  "Shh, shh, pretty one." Ciara hoped Findley hadn’t lied when he said she had a gift with animals. Sandeen’s anger and outrage pounded against the inside of her skull, the intensity of the barrage making her wince. It felt like the wilding, and that terrified her. Sandeen, like this, terrified her.

  Ciara swallowed -- hard -- and fought to calm her own nerves.

  "Steady, now." She kept her voice low, and drew the words out. His broad, muscled chest, quivered under her hand as she stroked it. "Steady, pretty one."

  She cooed to him, and whispered whatever came to mind, wished him peace and calmness. All the while she fought to feel those things herself. She kept her eyes averted, and drew on her earth magic, sending the quiet streams of it down her arms and out her palms. It flowed through her fingertips as she ran her hands over the explosive mass of muscle and sinew. Sandeen snorted, and tossed his head. He heard her now, and began to quiet, though the mobile ears did not stop flicking. Ciara didn't fail to notice that, as the battle lust left him, the shimmer weakened of its own accord.

  "Get him on his horse," Donovan ordered behind her, as the last of the shimmer faded like morning mist.

  She didn’t turn when Donovan’s men carried out his instructions. She held Sandeen steady as they slung Bolin over the saddle like a sack.

  "Reclaim your mount," Donovan said to her. "I should not need to tell you that running would be a foolhardy decision."

  He gathered Sandeen’s reins from her, and the stallion balked.

  "Relay to him it would be best for his rider if he cooperated."

  "Relay it yourself."

  Donovan's thin brows rose. "That was beneath you."

  Ciara felt her cheeks flush and looked away, the admonishment stinging far more than cared to admit.

  They mounted without further discourse. Two riders went ahead, Donovan next leading Sandeen, Ciara behind them with riders flanking her on either side. The rest of Donovan’s men, those who hadn’t stayed to tend the wounded and deal with their dead, were strung out behind.

  The late morning sun climbing into a brilliant, cloudless sky seemed wasted on this day. Donovan took them on a little used path through country that became progressively rough and rocky. If not for the narrow trail -- barely wide enough for one horse in some places -- it would have been impassable on horseback. Deep crevices fell away between jagged chunks of stone that jutted up out of the ground like shattered pieces of a great, broken mountain. It would have made even foot travel a risky venture. To one side the land stretched flat to the horizon. To the other it rose up in undulating hills of rock, dotted with scraggly growth that clung to its sides from sheer determination alone. Ciara wondered why anyone would want to make their home in such a desolate place.

  She looked past Fane's head. Bolin had not moved since being tossed across Sandeen’s back. Ciara closed her eyes and tried to reach him across the horse lengths separating them, but found darkness surrounding him. Not the darkness of the vale. This solid, impenetrable wall had Donovan’s feel about it.
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  Ciara chewed at her bottom lip. She didn't know much about wards -- protective spells meant to keep something hidden, or sound an alarm if someone drew too close. They hadn't been included in her healer training, though Meriol knew how to use them and had even warded the wilding for a time. Ciara didn’t know if she could slip around Donovan’s ward, but had little else to occupy herself with as Fane faithfully followed the tail in front of his nose. The terrain had forced the horses to a single-file walk, so Ciara settled as comfortably as she could into the saddle and turned her focus inward.

  The world around her faded; colors and shapes melted together until they were nothing more than a grey shroud. Ciara called up her earth magic, being as unobtrusive as she could, and reached out until she could feel the very edge of Donovan's wall of magic. If she pushed too hard he would know it. But if she kept her distance, kept herself quiet and moved with great care, she might be able to find a way past. There were chinks in even the most carefully constructed walls.

  She just needed to be patient and stay focused.

  A cool breeze that brought with it the scent of some distant body of water, kept the heat of the day from becoming intolerable. There were still riders around her, Fane remained a solid form beneath her, and scattered clouds raced before the sun, but all of it existed outside of the place where Donovan had imprisoned Bolin.

  The ward rose up to an unseen height, the smooth surface shimmering blackly. Not a black devoid of light and substance, but one which pulsed with power and an uncanny awareness. It stretched out of view in either direction, blending into the gloom that surrounded it. Ciara itched to touch it, but knew that doing so would alert Donovan, so she made her way along its base, and scoured the surface for imperfections. Her heart leapt when she spotted a narrow fissure barely above ground level.

  Ciara hunkered down and studied the opening for a long while. She didn't need to rush. Time here did not keep pace with the horses and the world passing by as they rode. Around her the terrain had changed, the jagged rock giving way to flat barren stretches of scrub with very little brush and no trees, but the sun still rode high.

  Ciara's resolve wavered. She would have to make herself as small as she could, and stay that way until she made it through to the other side. But if the fissure didn't go all the way through, if Donovan sensed her attempt, all would be lost.

  None of Meriol's training had prepared her for this. Ciara worked by feel and instinct alone. What she did now had nothing to do with healing. But her aunt had told her if she knew the words, knew the essence of something, she could control it. Ciara knew smallness. She held in her mind’s eye the tiniest things she had ever seen; imagined the hugeness of the world around her, how even a pebble would tower over her like a mountain if she were no more than a speck. She held her breath when the wall became all her sight could take in, and the fissure grew to become the size of a cave.

  What, by all the unholies, did she think she was doing? She could lose everything here. She could become trapped in the veil between worlds and live the rest of her life as nothing but a shell and a wisp of thought. She remembered the fireside tales of young mages getting lost in the realms between, when their curiosity overrode their lack of training.

  But Ciara couldn’t turn back now, not when she had the chance to help Bolin. He'd risked his life for her. She owed him the same. Not to mention, it was because of her they were in this predicament.

  Ciara held that thought as tight as she could and moved toward the gaping hole. She lingered just a moment at the edge, and wished for light of some sort. A glimmer of witch light would have been helpful, but she didn’t dare try to hold her spell and conjure light as well so she took a deep breath and stepped into the void.

  And it was black. She couldn't even see her hand when she held it in front of her face. Something slithered past her, trailed across her skin with the feather-light touch of a breeze and Ciara shivered. Voices reached past the sound of her pulse thudding in her ears. The language they spoke sounded vaguely familiar, and she strained to make out the words because they vibrated down her spine with the force of a hammer blow. They wanted something from her -- no, demanded something. A growing awareness surrounded her. The ward's, or more precisely, the magic that formed it.

  Ciara couldn't breath. She thrust her hands out, and clawed at the darkness around her, as she felt a scream well up inside her-

  -and then Fane's ears took solid shape in front of her. The waning sunlight scattered long shadows across the jagged landscape. Ciara couldn't even work up enough spit to swallow, and her heart beat fast and shallow. Donovan looked at her over his shoulder, and his eyes glittered brightly.

  Ciara shuddered and looked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bolin had been on this hillock before. It overlooked a battlefield littered with the bodies of horses and men. The morning sun streaked the sky blood red as it rose above the smoke, and a light breeze played with the stained and tattered standards of both sides. Figures moved on the field, looking to ease the suffering of some, or put a quick end to misery for others. And in the skies above, the Valkyrie circled, their voices calling to the dying.

  "They sing your praises, you know," Donovan said from beside him.

  But Donovan hadn’t been there, which made this a vision.

  "You are favored among the Valkyrie," he continued. "Where the General goes many souls are forfeit. How does it feel to have all that blood on your hands? However do you manage to sleep at night?"

  Bolin had no answer to give. He chose not to look at Donovan either. He watched the field as he had done that morning, sending a silent prayer to the Goddess to watch over the fallen.

  But Donovan refused to let him be. "How many mother’s sons have died at your hands? How many widows mourn the husband that will never return? And for what? What good and righteous cause was this battle for? What did you win?"

  "We won nothing this day," Bolin replied, a touch of bitterness in the words. "This day, we lost."

  "Ah. Then all these deaths," Donovan gestured at the field, "all were in vain."

  "No!" Bolin turned to him then, but Donovan had left; he stood alone, the stench of death creeping up the hill and filling his nostrils. The song of the Valkyrie echoing through his soul.

  * * *

  Bolin catapulted into consciousness against his will, gasping for air and instantly regretting it.

  "You nearly killed my healer." A simple statement of fact from Donovan from where he stood gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back.

  Bolin acknowledged him in the same instant he took in the rest of his surroundings, an instant before he sucked in another ragged breath and collapsed back onto the bed. He couldn’t bring himself to care overmuch about the healer.

  He closed his eyes, tried to force his racing pulse to quiet, and clear the fog in his head. Buckthorn was a nasty poison. It ravaged both mind and body, and there had been enough on that blade to fell a man three times Bolin’s size. He should have been dead. He could taste it, just as he could taste the magic that had saved him. He hated healing magic of that intensity. Forcing a body to knit and mend in such a short time span exacted a great cost not only from the healer, but from the patient as well. The stronger the magic, the higher the price, and Donovan had a very strong healer.

  "I find it interesting," Donovan mused, "as much as you proclaim your loyalty to the Goddess you have yet to call for her aid."

  "She wouldn't hear me within these walls." Bolin's voice cracked, his tongue thick in a dry mouth. Goddess’ light, he couldn’t focus. He needed another breath, then another as he slowly came back to himself. Far too slowly.

  "Come now, General. You, among all her creations, are her most favored. I doubt very much she is not acutely aware of every breath you take."

  At the moment, there wasn’t a breath Bolin took that he wasn’t acutely aware. Each one came through searing lungs and a raw throat. He forced his eyes open and stared at the beamed
ceiling and the play of light across its rough surface. The remnants of the Buckthorn moved like sludge through his veins.

  He rolled to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and the room spun around him as he slowly, very slowly, sat up. It might not have been the wisest thing he could have done, but he couldn’t tolerate lying helpless while Donovan prattled on. He closed his eyes again in an attempt to make the room stop, and held himself propped with his hands gripping the edge of the bed. Pain throbbed dully throughout his body.

  "I admit to some indecision regarding your future," Donovan said.

  Bolin winced as he swallowed and took another breath, this one deeper. The fog in his head began to clear. "If you were smart," his voice came out as little more than a hoarse whisper, "you'd kill me now."

  "That had been considered," Donovan admitted. "But I've tried that in the past, haven’t I? You have an uncanny ability to come back from the dead." The window no longer held his interest, and he turned to face Bolin, hands still clasped behind his back. "Tell me, when did you realize who the girl was? Or did you know right from the start?"

  The girl? Bolin sorted through jumbled memories. Ah, Ciara. His thoughts weren't following Donovan's words. That would be dangerous. He needed to be more careful, forget his discomfort, and pay attention to what Donovan said.

  "You cannot honestly expect me to believe it was mere chance that landed you on the healer woman's stoop after our last encounter. It would appear your precious mother Goddess doesn’t make a good example of practicing what she preaches. Non-interference is her dogma, is it not?"

  Bolin drew in another quivering breath and opened his eyes. He focused at a spot on the rug between his feet in an attempt to keep the room still. He had built a place inside himself where the pain and confusion had become a non-issue. Donovan had walled him in there, whether to keep Bolin in or others out made little difference. At one point Boling thought he had felt Ciara on the other side of that wall, trying to gain passage. It had been an incredibly brave, if reckless, attempt that could have killed them both.