First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  "Andrakaos," she whispered in desperation.

  He sprang from his cavern, and filled her with a rush of power, but before Ciara could bring him to her someone else called his name. In that moment of hesitation, the little man's voice came to her as though through water. "We go. Now."

  With a roar like a raging storm, the flame rushed around and through her. Ciara screamed. She felt herself hurtling upwards, her body dissolving into mist as blackness claimed her.

  * * *

  The crone had turned her anger on Donovan when her spy reappeared, screeching its way out of the fire pit and retreating to its perch high in the shadows of the chamber.

  "You." She spat at him. "You allowed the Sciath na Duinne to live."

  Donovan managed to keep his tongue still, letting her rail until her anger subsided. Now they waited. Donovan paced from one end of the chamber to the other, as the crone stood silent in the center of the fire pit, the dark flames lapping at her skirts like a fawning dog.

  The crone's plan had a high element of risk, as did most things born of necessity. She needed Donovan’s power to carry out this working. Across such a distance it would take their combined efforts to see it succeed. Her pet could carry with it the words and the fire but the power that drove them, that would bring Ciara to them, existed only within this chamber. If they failed, the girl would die.

  Neither success nor failure provided any guarantee Donovan would survive. And Ciara possessed power without knowledge. A very dangerous combination. No one, least of all the girl herself, knew the true depths of her power.

  And if she fought them?

  "You worry overmuch," the crone said, without looking at him.

  Donovan stopped moving long enough to fix her with a dark stare. "You had better pray your magic is as strong as you think."

  "Pray to whom, Lordling? My loving sister?" She snorted, and held out a hand to him. "Come, it's nearly time."

  Donovan took the offered hand reluctantly, and stepped gingerly across the rim of the fire pit. The crone caught up his other hand and held him fast as they faced each other. Outside of the fact this required him to relinquish use of his power to the crone, the reality of the working they were attempting excited him more than he cared to admit. As she used his power, Donovan would be immersed in hers. And her power bore many similarities to that of the Goddess. The smell of it, this close to her, intoxicated him.

  "The shimmer," she ordered.

  The simplest part of their plan, though the crone enhanced it with wards of her own making. It needed to hold only long enough for them to accomplish the real work of bringing Ciara to them.

  The crone’s magic rose up out of the dancing black flames around them -- out of the depths of the swamp. Like the magic of the Goddess, it had its roots deep within the earth. Unlike the magic of the Goddess, it went far beyond dirt and stone, drawing from the fires of creation, and calling up ancient powers whose names were known to very few.

  And now Donovan became one of them.

  That should have terrified him, had he the time to dwell on it.

  The crone took all the power at her disposal to the very edge of her prison. Donovan’s power would take them beyond that point. He had meant to retain some hold, to remain in control of all he possessed, but he underestimated the strength in the words the crone’s pet recited in its guttural chant. The working would be felt for hundreds of leagues by anyone of power, down to the lowliest mage. Few would understand its import, but none would remain unaffected. Only a century’s worth of discipline kept Donovan from losing himself to its call as the crone wrapped his power around hers, and stretched beyond the confines of the swamp, to their prize, standing immobile beside a grey horse.

  Donovan went with that power, racing across the land as no more than an errant wisp of wind. He dove deep into the ground, through dirt and rock, as easily as water. When he rose up out of the earth, fragmented and scattered, the chant solidified him enough to twine up the horse’s legs with the black flame. Firmly rooted by the crone’s physical hold on him, he would not loose himself, and so he gave over to the call. Shuddering, he became the flame, became the ancient words uttered in the grunts of the crone’s creature, whispered by the crone herself as she drove the incantation. He surrounded the girl, and quieted Andrakaos before he could answer her call. How simple and, yet, how utterly impossible it would have been, to snatch that power and strike the crone. Donovan felt it, for a brief instant, the crone’s fear he would do just that. But he had become so immersed in the ancient power of the working he could do nothing other than what it demanded.

  Donovan wove himself around the girl, separated her from the ground she stood on, from the air she breathed, from every physical aspect of her body. Her agony knotted in his skull as he wrapped her in his embrace. When she remained little more than a thought on the wind, he ripped through her, and raced back to the crone.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the excruciating pain involved in the abrupt return to his physical form. He imagined it similar to waking the moment before striking earth from an unimaginable height -- just in time to feel your bones crush on impact. He would have hurtled backwards out of the pit were it not for the crone's hold on him. Her nails drew blood with the strength of her grip, and Donovan sucked in a breath that seared his throat. He coughed, and blinked his eyes into clearer focus. The figure between them, in the circle of their arms, solidified. Ciara stood there -- face pale, eyes wide and unseeing, her face twisted in agony.

  The crone met his gaze, and gestured with a lift of her chin that he should back out of the fire pit. He complied though his legs shook, barely supporting him so that he staggered like a drunkard. Putting pride aside he made his way to the nearest table and rested his backside against it, his hands braced on the edge to keep himself upright. A trickle of sweat snaked down his back, and he wiped a hand across his face to catch the beads that formed there.

  The crone left the pit with somewhat more composure than Donovan exhibited. Ciara remained motionless.

  "Well done." The crone’s voice cracked.

  It gave Donovan some relief to know it had been a strain on them both.

  He looked at the girl, standing numbly in the center of the fire pit, and watched dispassionately as she blinked once before collapsing in a heap. He wished he had the luxury of doing the same as a shudder of unclenching muscles wracked his body. But the working had succeeded. He had become one with power he had only ever dreamed of. He had seen the ancient words the crone had pulled from deep in the earth, and he remembered them. As long as he lived he would have them. No telling when they would prove useful, if things here did not go as planned.

  * * *

  Damn, damn, thrice times be damned!

  Every muscle screamed in indignation as Bolin lurched to a halt. He had stayed on the trail long enough to see his trap prove successful before sprinting after Ciara and Sandeen. The exertion drove home the still lingering effects of his time with Haracht. Battling the hounds had done him no good either. He bent over, hands on his thighs, and struggled for breath as he peered through the pale moonlight to get his bearings.

  The stilling of the slight breeze would have gone unnoticed by most, but it slid across Bolin’s skin like a tepid caress. The silence that came with it brushed along his nerves and crashed through him with his heartbeat. Only a great working brought this kind of silence. The kind of working wrought by very old, very strong magic that smelled of stale earth and decrepit remains. It resonated up through the ground, and the soles of his boots, and made his bones and muscles tingle with a subtly familiar current. It gained strength as it rose up, rumbling across the currents of power and carrying an unmistakable challenge.

  Stop me if you dare.

  Bolin had barely enough time to brace himself before the working tore through the ethereal fabric between realms. It struck like a bolt of lightening, and he couldn't do anything to stop it from ripping through him.

  He hissed
through his teeth as it passed, and dropped to his knees, head bowed. Ciara had been taken, and he knew with certainty who had driven that working. When the night regained its natural rhythm and he could stand without fear of fainting, he wet his lips and whistled -- or tried to. His first attempt failed miserably. The second went better, one loud, drawn out tone. If Sandeen were within earshot, he would come with as much haste as he could muster.

  * * *

  Barren, uneven ground and elusive paths made traveling the Nethers a treacherous venture. An easier route would have been to follow the western border until it gave way to the great fen that stretched for leagues in every direction. But even with as much speed as Sandeen could manage, it would have added a good two days to his journey. Bolin lacked Donovan's knowledge of the Nethers, but they weren't altogether foreign to him. There were trails long forgotten by all but a few, and Bolin snatched them out of the recesses of his memory, necessity driving him to push Sandeen to his limits.

  There were other reasons besides haste that drove Bolin to go through the Nethers. A great deal of old magic lay here, forgotten amidst the rocks, and under the ground in dark holes and crevices -- the wispy remains of those who had held this land ages ago. When they had fallen and perished, the magic they possessed remained. And throughout history many of such power had fallen here in great battles that changed the face of the land forever. The Nethers hadn't always looked as it did now.

  Wild, stray magic lurked everywhere, though most people couldn’t have found it if they landed in it face first. Bolin not only could find it, he could use it. But not all magic suited all purposes, and what Bolin needed was twofold. He needed enough bits and pieces of the oldest, strongest magic he could find to hold in store for what awaited him in the swamp because he refused to walk into a trap unprepared.

  Second, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed some for himself. Ciara's healing spell had helped, but it had also begun to fade. Without it there wasn't a part of him that didn't hurt. And the wound in his shoulder, courtesy of the hounds, refused to give him peace. It throbbed incessantly, the heat of the poison from the hound’s fangs seeping slowly through him. It wouldn't kill him, or he'd be dead already. She wanted him alive, for now. That might be a different story if her plans went awry, and what those plans were Bolin could only guess.

  His other wounds -- those not physical -- he pushed into the depths of his soul and ignored. Donovan had proven very effective at finding and exploiting Bolin’s weaknesses. He had systematically broken down a lifetime of carefully nurtured discipline and self control, planting the seeds of self doubt in their place.

  Sandeen stumbled and jerked Bolin from his reverie. The sun sat directly overhead, its stark light accentuating the bleakness of the landscape. Bolin reined in, and slid to the ground. He leaned against Sandeen, his arms draped across the stallion's back, as he rested his forehead against the saddle.

  He would have stood there all day if Sandeen hadn't swung his head around and nudged him. Bolin sighed and straightened. "All right, old man." He rubbed the stallion's thick neck. "Let's find some water."

  Bolin shaded his eyes and scanned the landscape until he spotted a small grouping of shrubs. He'd find no better indication of water in this land. He gathered the reins and lead Sandeen toward the splash of green. It took longer than he'd hoped, but the uneven ground coupled with his own exhaustion made the walk hell. He thanked the Goddess when he finally reached the cluster of vegetation, and found not only a pool of clear water, but a patch of grass as well.

  An underground spring burbled into a hollow where the rocks were pushed up. Sandeen slurped noisily from it as Bolin pulled the saddle from him and gave him a rub down with twisted bits of grass. When Sandeen had his fill and turned to nibble at whatever forage he could find, Bolin dipped his hand into the cool water and drank, then stretched out beside the pool and plunged his head under the water's surface. The cold shocked his senses and took the edge off his fatigue.

  He rolled over and sat up, running a hand through his wet hair. He grimaced as he flexed his shoulder. That wound needed a true healer’s touch. Bolin swore under his breath. Whether he wanted to or not, he needed to spend some of the pendant's magic to deal with his injuries, or he'd not last very long against Donovan.

  With the sun warm on his face, Bolin leaned back against the flat of a rock and closed his eyes. Donovan's ambitions were subtle and long reaching, but it surprised Bolin he'd form an alliance with anyone, let alone the crone. In truth, Bolin had thought the crone long dead. Bound in her swamp and held there by the Goddess, she had never posed a threat. Now, if she managed to break free-

  Better to deal with what was and not what might be. The crone would know as soon as Bolin crossed into the swamp. He'd find no unguarded magic there to lay claim to, none he could trust at least. Her power, inside those borders, would be immense. Centuries of refining it, fueled by anger and bitterness, made her a threat of untold strength. Unlike Ciara, this one knew exactly how to handle all the power at her command.

  Success in this venture only meant removing Ciara from their hands. Alive wasn't a given, but a faint prayer tossed to the Goddess.

  No one Bolin knew of, living or dead, possessed what that girl did. Two forms of magic, each extremely powerful in their own right, and each so totally different than the other. He marveled they hadn't pulled her apart -- though that possibility still existed, especially as Andrakaos gained strength. Donovan could have been right. It may have been a mistake allowing her to live.

  Bolin sighed and forced relaxation through his body. The warmth of the sun helped ease his stiff muscles. He traced the lines of the sigils on the pendant in his mind's eye. The magic there held the nurturing, tender touch of the healers who had created it. Bolin didn't know any healing spells, but he could direct the magic to the greatest of his aches and numb the pain. That would have to suffice.

  An image swam unbidden into the orange sunglow behind his closed eyelids as he dozed: A carefree, happy Ciara, with the sunlight glinting off the copper highlights in her wild, tangle of hair. Her eyes were bright with laughter as she helped Findley with the yearlings.

  A much different image shattered the first. The spark and glimmer gone, Ciara stood in the center of a darkened ring of stone. Her arms hung limply at her sides and black flames danced around her. As Bolin watched, her knees gave out and she collapsed into a heap.

  Bolin opened his eyes. That vision had been sent, not conjured by the wanderings of his mind. Donovan no doubt meant to shock and anger him into hasty action by taunting him. The man's arrogance would one day be his undoing.

  The sun had edged past its height, and angled toward the horizon where the barren rock at last gave way to moss-covered ground. Bolin had slept longer than he intended. He climbed to his feet, roused Sandeen, and struck off.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "It's dangerous to toy with that one."

  The crone’s voice grated along Donovan’s nerves in a whole new way now, as though she were inside him, clawing to get out. As though she were still a part of him. The hoarse laughter following that thought made his blood run colder still.

  "I will always be a part of you, Lordling." She caught his gaze across the dimly lit chamber, and her ancient eyes glimmered with unnatural fire. "There is no corner of you I cannot see. Every stray thought. Every plan. Every betrayal. You're as naked to me now as you were to my sister at your birth."

  "Then there is no further need for discourse with you." Donovan turned and paced to the far edge of the chamber. By allowing himself to be used to carry out her working, he had laid himself bare to her. Putting the breadth of the chamber between them would not change that fact. It only made it easier to ignore her, or at least pretend to ignore her. Another illusion.

  Though it tasted sour to admit it, the working had nearly done him in -- as it had the crone, even if she refused to acknowledge the fact. Donovan could feel her exhaustion twisting in the back of his skull.
They were very much a part of one another now. Donovan doubted he could see as deeply into the crone as she could into him, but he would forever sense her mood. Only death would separate them now.

  That proved to be the most annoying and unexpected side affect of what they had done. More precisely, what he had done. He had brought Ciara to them over leagues of land, blending the crone’s power with his own, using the ancient magic of this place to extend his power far beyond what he had thought possible. The feat exhilarated him. The depths of the power the crone wielded were unlike anything he had ever imagined, and he had just touched the surface. The Goddess would be wise to fear this one loose in her world.

  Just as Donovan feared losing himself out of something as base as lust. What he had tasted of the crone’s power had enticed him beyond anything else he could name. He wanted more. Even if it cost whatever he had left for a soul.

  "Go and rest. I'll need you at your very best when the Sciathe na Duinne arrives."

  Donovan nodded uncharacteristic acquiescence and moved with detached obedience toward the doorway the crone indicated. Almost there he stopped, and looked back at the crumpled figure lying in the midst of the fire pit. "What of her?" His voice cracked and for once he couldn't find it in himself to care.

  "She is beyond us at the moment," the crone replied. "I don’t believe your offspring appreciated the manner of her journey. She'll not wake in a pleasant mood. You'll need to ensure she knows who her allies are."

  He snorted, and swung his attention back to her. "There are no allies in this room. We are all enemies."