First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  It took Donovan the better part of the day to reach the swamp and even that put it far too close to the fortress for his liking. It did have the benefit of providing a natural barrier from the north, its only saving grace. If few travelers dared the Nethers, even fewer risked crossing the vast, fetid marsh. Those who succeeded were never the same afterward. Donovan escaped unscathed only because of what he had to offer the crone in exchange for his freedom. He snorted. If an ever-shortening chain could be called freedom.

  Darkness settled in early beneath the thick canopy of interlaced boughs. Donovan sniffed, and wrinkled his nose at the dank, musky odors stirred up out of the muck by their passing. No wonder the crone wanted out of this place. Even for one such as her the cedar swamp had to be unbearable. How many centuries had she been confined here?

  But then, what other choice did she have?

  "Soon I will have many choices."

  Donovan's horse threw its weight back to its haunches, and jerked to a halt with a toss of its head in a move that would have unseated a lesser rider. The beast gave a wide, white-rimmed glare to the bent old woman who stood suddenly before it.

  Donovan made no effort to keep the distaste from his face. "Crone."

  Oddly flecked grey eyes, framed by eons of wrinkles and hooded by heavy brows, surveyed him with the sharp intensity of a hungry predator. "How goes your tutelage?"

  "This is hardly the place to discuss such things."

  "No?" The old woman waved a staff, as bent and twisted as her body, to indicate the whole of the swamp. "Do you think anything moves within these borders I'm not aware of?"

  "There are many ears in the world, Crone."

  "Something you'd do well to remember. Leave your horse. My door is there." She gestured with the staff, even as she turned and shuffled away.

  Donovan dismounted and followed her, stepping cautiously amid the gnarled roots and sucking mud that seemed not to slow her one bit. He saw no door where she indicated but that meant little. The crone always hid her doors in plain view. This time she had situated it between two trees. It opened on a corridor so low Donovan had to dip his head to keep from hitting the ceiling. By the time he reached the cavern at the corridor’s end, his neck ached from holding it at such an odd angle. This room, unlike the swamp in which it sat, seemed unchangeable.

  Like the crone herself.

  "So?" Growling, rasping, the creak of tree limbs bending in the wind, demand and question rolled into one syllable. "Tell me what you think to hide from me?"

  "What makes you think I am hiding anything from you?" Donovan knew the danger in playing games with this one, here, of all places. "Our bargain remains intact?"

  "You don't trust me?"

  Donovan strolled about the chamber, circumventing the central fire pit. He trailed a gloved finger through the dust on the edge of one of the many tables that lined the room. "As always." He paused by a collection of vials and earthenware jars with lids askew. They reeked of folk magic, and he wrinkled his nose. "Surely you don’t dabble in such mundane craft as this?"

  She shrugged. "It passes time. As you are wasting it now. Tell me what you've found? Or shall I guess?"

  He suppressed a shiver at the collection of bottled oddities, and wiped the dust from his gloves. "Time is something you have plenty of, thanks to your sister Goddess."

  The vehemence in her hissing spit almost caused him to turn and face her. Almost. But then she would have seen the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth as his barb hit home, and that would have gotten him more than spit.

  "Don't push me! Our bargain stands. You will turn your offspring, and the two of you will stand with me against my beloved sister. In exchange, this decrepit excuse for a world is yours to do with as you see fit. Or do you wish to alter our agreement?"

  "Not at all." He stood opposite her with the fire pit between them. The low flames licked hungrily upward if he drew too close, but they lacked heat. No normal fire, this. Nothing normal here, especially not the look in the crone's eyes, and the ease with which she stole into his thoughts and plucked out that one bit of information he had desperately wanted to keep from her.

  For a moment that stretched an eternity not a thing moved in the chamber. Not a breath or a whisper, even the candle flames froze in their erratic dance.

  Sciath na Duinne.

  The words slid through that moment like a blade drawn against stone, echoing across the chamber and down Donovan's spine. The crone’s eyes went wide, and her face twisted into a snarl. Flames roared from the fire pit and shattered that frozen moment with a force that sent Donovan sprawling back against a table. Jars and scrolls scattered across the floor. With speed no crone should posses, she had him by the throat. Donovan choked as her fingers constricted, and her nails dug into his flesh.

  "You thought to keep this from me."

  Donovan grabbed at her wrists, but her grip only tightened. The blood pounded behind his eyes as he strained against her.

  "Did you plan to use him against me?"

  "No," Donovan gasped.

  She leaned into him, her face a hairsbreadth from his. The only breath he could manage came tainted with the scent of decay. "You lie."

  I am no good to you dead.

  Her face contorted. She hissed at him, and spittle flecked his face. Her grip loosened but she didn't move away. Donovan gasped. At any other time -- when his life didn't hang in the balance -- the proximity of such power and darkness would have excited and enticed him, regardless of its outward form.

  "Who is it?" she demanded.

  Donovan rubbed his throat. "Your sister’s very own." His voice no more than a pained whisper. He kept very still -- as would be prudent when facing a coiled serpent.

  "Ah." So many things in one, stinking breath of a word. Hunger, triumph, a tinge of fear, because they were both fools if they had none. "What do you plan to do with him?"

  Donovan shrugged and fought the unsettling urge to run. She stood far too close, keeping him trapped against the table. He would die in an instant if he didn't choose his words with caution, or allowed a careless thought too close to the surface. "I am . . . undecided."

  "Then let me decide for you. You will bring him to me."

  Donovan bit back a retort that most certainly would have caused him more harm than good. He had no power here, he needed to remember that.

  "You would do otherwise?" And when he hesitated an instant too long her fingers wrapped once more around his throat. "You don't trust my judgment in this matter?"

  "Impeccable" he croaked. "As always."

  She picked through his thoughts, then released him and backed away. Donovan straightened, but stayed against the table, his legs too weak to trust. He licked his lips and fought to regain his composure.

  "I am sure," the crone said, "you've gone to considerable lengths to ensure the Sciath na Duinne is harmless?"

  "He is currently incapacitated."

  "Ha! I'd wager he could still kill you."

  "Then he is as much a threat to you as to me."

  "You liken your power to mine?" she asked scornfully, but it lacked venom.

  She shuffled to the edge of the fire pit, musing. The flames, which so closely mirrored her temper, had subsided. Donovan would have shoved her in if he thought it would kill her. With the girl and the General he would not need her.

  "Careful," she said. Undercurrents of age beyond reckoning weighted every word with a force that here, within this place, he had no power to stand against. He would be a fool to try. "Your thoughts are careless. I trust you tread more lightly around the Sciath na Duinne."

  "He is nearly broken." Donovan could not keep her out of his head. "At which point, he shall work only in our best interests. In your best interest."

  "Bring him to me."

  "And what will you do with him?"

  She awarded him a sharp look over one bony shoulder, the hint of a smile on her thin lips. "He'll protect me against you and your offspring, of course, a
nd serve as a tool against my pathetic sister."

  Donovan couldn't suppress a short, barking laugh. "Against his own mother Goddess? You’ve spent too much time in the swamp. Possible to break him? Yes. Possible to turn him? To an extent. To openly use him as a tool against her?" He shook his head. "Madness. He holds far too much fondness for her and her hags."

  This time the crone laughed. Not a sound Donovan cared to hear more than once. "All our ventures dwell on the edge of madness. A fine line: Madness or genius. Only the end result will decide which. Do you honestly think you can hold him?" Her ancient eyes glazed over as she drew her sight inward. "Do you know where he is now?"

  Instinct said the fortress, enjoying Haracht's hospitality, but something in her asking hinted otherwise. Donovan reached out, beyond the swamp, and touched the outer wards that surrounded the fortress. They remained strong and in tact, pulsing with a familiar rhythm only partially his. "Safely behind my walls."

  "Hmm. I wonder."

  "When I have broken him he will be yours."

  "You've lost him," she snapped. "He and your offspring have left your fortress by paths long hidden."

  "Impossible." But even as he said it, he knew she spoke the truth. He moved toward the chamber door without thought and came up short, rooted in place against all force of will. "Let me pass, Crone."

  "It's too late. They're well away." She seemed nonplussed. "Where do you think they will go, hmm?"

  Donovan strained against the force that held him, even knowing she would release him in her own good time. He grit his teeth. "The sisterhood, I would imagine."

  "They would never make it that far. He's not the fool you are. You have underestimated him greatly. Break him? Ha! You could sooner break the stone under the mountains than break this one."

  "Then let me go. I can do nothing held here."

  "And what could you do if I release you?" She spat into the fire, and the flames danced in glee, rising up as though her spit were fuel. "What will you do without knowing where he'll go?"

  He turned his head to look at her, the only bit of movement he could make. "I suppose you know where he will go?"

  "Without a doubt." The fire flickered under her outstretched hand. Her eyes widened as she saw within the element all she desired. Imprisoned within the swamp for eternity, her power to see beyond its borders had not diminished. "He has friends among those who dwell in the old woods. There is ancient magic there. Deep magic. As old as the swamp, but less dark. It will heal him as nothing else can, and all will be lost to us."

  "Then let. Me. Go." Donovan practically screamed it. Wrinkled, gnarled old bag of a woman, if woman she had ever truly been. He clenched his jaw, and struggled to keep his voice level. "I can do nothing here. He is weakened. I took him before, I can take him again."

  "Can you?"

  Donovan suppressed a growl. If he wanted to die, wanted to call an end to this game, he could make one quick, final draw of all power at his command and launch it directly into her. It might kill her. It would certainly kill him, if she didn't do it first. But he had no desire for death; other ambitions were far more enticing.

  She stared at him, her grey eyes bright with some secret. Or some challenge.

  Swallowing became an exercise in self control. It meant taking a steadying breath, forcing the bile collected in his mouth to slide down his throat, and then controlling the muscles to see it all the way down without gagging. Then another deep breath, in and out.

  "I can," he said firmly. "And I will."

  "And then?"

  "I will bring both of them here, of course."

  She smiled, though calling it that mutilated the word as much as her expression did. "And I should trust you will do just that?"

  He said nothing because she wanted him to.

  "You will bring me the girl," she said. "The Sciath na Duinne will follow."

  "And I will lure her away from him -- how? He will assuredly not allow her out of his sight again."

  The crone waved a hand in dismissal, and loosed Donovan from her grip. It provided him only minor relief. He rolled his shoulders back to ease the tension, and attempted to calm himself before frustration got the better of him.

  "I will send a distraction to occupy my nephew while we steal away your daughter." She moved around the fire, and put herself directly before him, so close he took a step back to better see her. "You will not cross me in this. My hounds hunt whom they are told. We'll work together, you and I, to spirit your child here. He'll know who has taken her. He will come."

  "You will see us both destroyed, crone."

  "It is you who has allowed this threat to live," she reminded him. "You, who have allowed him to slip through your fingers like so much sand, more than once. Your ambition clouds your judgment. The girl will join us to save his life, and he will sacrifice himself to save hers. And we'll use them, one against the other, to our own ends."

  Donovan drew in a deep breath, ripe with the mustiness of age and mold and, always, the enticing aroma of ancient power. Using the General, broken and disillusioned would have been hard enough. Attempting to turn him when he'd recovered some of his strength could prove to be their undoing.

  "You hesitate?"

  "I have no desire to see our plans thrown hastily into the fire," he replied. "Let me return to my fortress with the girl. I will turn her and then bring her here."

  "You've had your chance, and failed."

  Donovan took a step forward before he realized it and stopped himself, hands clenched at his sides. The crone still smiled, her eyes bright.

  "Do not forget," Donovan said, his voice soft as he made no attempt to disguise the threat, "it is you who needs me. Together we can bring the girl here, no doubt. The Sciath na Duinne will follow as you say, and you, Crone, without my aid, will fail. You. Will. Fail."

  The air between them crackled with energy, but the crone’s expression did not change. She laughed suddenly, breaking the tension. "We're the same, you and I, Lordling. I'm anxious to see which of us survives this alliance."

  She turned abruptly, and walked through an archway Donovan hadn’t noticed before. Her voice echoed back to him as though down some distant tunnel. "We've no time to waste. My hounds hunt with the moon."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ciara catapulted into complete darkness. She thrust her hands blindly out in front of her to stop her momentum, but Bolin's arm around her waist took care of that as he pulled her tightly back against him.

  "Quiet," he whispered.

  Muffled voices joined the baying of the hound behind them. Ciara could feel Bolin's heart beating calm and steady against her back, playing counterpoint to the frantic hammering of her own. Sandeen shifted beside them, and though less than an arm length separated them, Ciara couldn't make out even a ghost of his shape.

  "We can't risk a light yet," Bolin said, his voice so soft Ciara had to strain to hear him over the pounding of her pulse. He turned her, and guided her steps next to Sandeen. "Take hold of his tail and don't let go."

  He placed the coarse strands of the stallion's tail in her hands and curled her fingers around them.

  "Keep a tight hold," he repeated, and gave her hands a squeeze.

  The hound had stopped barking but the voices were still debating something. Sandeen started forward and Ciara lurched after him. She stumbled against his rump, and prayed his steady nature and years of training would keep him from kicking her back through the wall. Even the darkest, moonless night couldn't compare to the blackness that surrounded them -- so totally devoid of the hint of color or light. She couldn't even see Bolin’s carefully constructed working, though she could feel it around them. Soon the voices behind faded. Their own footsteps and the hollow clop of Sandeen's hooves became the only sounds -- deadening just as quickly as they were made.

  Ciara tightened her grip on the stallion's tail. Sweat trickled down her back despite the chill in the air, and the longer they remained encased in the nothingness the more her
panic threatened to overwhelm her.

  "Bolin?" Her whisper sounded like a shout and Ciara cringed. A witch light would have been really helpful about now. Any sort of light actually.

  "We're nearly through." His disembodied voice drifted back to her. "Hold tight."

  Ciara's eyes ached from straining to see, so she closed them, and concentrated on the strands of hair between her fingers. The tension had just started to leave her muscles when her leg jerked suddenly forward, and she fell backwards with a cry. Sandeen's tail ripped from her grasp as he snorted and hopped away. Ciara hit the ground hard. Her head smacked rock, and lights erupted behind her eyes.

  "Goddess light!" Bolin's low curse slipped past the ringing in her ears. "Ciara?"

  She groaned. The blue glow of a witch light cast wavering shadows above her, and she shielded her eyes from its relative brightness. Bolin knelt beside her, the light hovering nearby.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No," she said.

  "Can you stand?"

  She waved a hand at the witch light. "Can you get that thing out of my eyes?"

  Bolin took her hand, and pulled her up despite her mumbled objections. She wavered on her feet and fell into him, her forehead resting against his chest. Her moan turned into a hiss as he reached behind her head to feel for injury, and his fingers found the large bump there.

  "The ceiling's too low for you to ride," he said. "Can you walk? It's not much further."

  Ciara lifted her head to answer, and would have toppled over if Bolin hadn't grabbed her by the arms. She could feel his frown.

  "I didn't hit my head on purpose, you know," she said.

  "I didn't suggest you did, but we need to keep moving."

  The way he said it made Ciara forget her pain for a moment. "What's wrong?"

  "It's best not to linger too long within these passageways," he said. "They're not always . . . predictable."