First Of Her Kind (Book 1)

by K. L. Schwengel

  "Common purpose and necessity have formed the basis of more alliances than any other factor. Take your rest and ponder on how your fortunes will alter should you align yourself with someone not currently within these walls."

  "My choice has been made, hag," he snarled. "As you well know. I will play our game out to its end."

  "And then?"

  He bared his teeth in all he could muster of a smile. "And then we shall see who is left standing."

  He turned and took his leave. Yes, he still possessed enough of himself to hold onto some semblance of the pride and arrogance that defined his life. Rest would do him good. He would be facing three enemies in that chamber when events played out. A fool would think otherwise. The crone would come for him as quickly as the General if she thought it would benefit her. Games within games, and only time and the fates knew what the outcome would be.

  * * *

  The squat figure, no taller than a child, climbed onto a boulder and sat. He passed a wriggling toad from one hand to the other. Every now and again he raised his gnarled face and sniffed the air like a questing hound.

  Bolin left Sandeen hidden among the trees and approached from downwind, moving quietly. He covered the last two strides swiftly, and slid his arm around the man's thick neck, cutting off his air as he hoisted him off the boulder. The man let out a garbled cry, followed by a sickening squish from the toad as his hands tightened reflexively. He kicked his feet, and clawed at Bolin's arm with gore covered fingers.

  "Let go! Let go!"

  "Be still or die, Grumnlin," Bolin said, his mouth close to the man's ear. "Who're you waiting for?"

  "No wait!" Grumnlin kicked harder and Bolin squeezed until the man could only gasp. When he stopped thrashing, Bolin lowered him back to the boulder and loosened his grip. "Watch." Grumnlin sobbed loudly. "Lady say watch."

  "For me?"

  Grumnlin twisted his head to get a look at Bolin's face. His own, dirt smeared face -- the bits not covered by hair -- showed streaks of tears, and flecks of toad innards.

  "You," he said.

  "And what were you to do when you saw me?"

  Grumnlin folded his arms across his chest. Bolin spun him around and wrapped his fingers around the man's throat to keep him there. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."

  Grumnlin's eyes bulged and he pushed at Bolin's fingers. "Need me."

  Bolin curled his lip. "For?"

  "Can't . . . talk."

  "If you try to run, I'll kill you," Bolin warned. He took his hands off the man and wiped the grime from them. "Well?"

  "Where you go?" he asked. "You know way?"

  "I'll find it."

  "You no find." Grumnlin shook his head. "Way always hidden. But I know."

  Bolin glared at him. Unfortunately, Grumnlin probably spoke the truth. Bolin could spend days looking for the crone's hideaway and never come close; or walk right past it and not even know.

  Grumnlin looked at his hands. "Aw, toady," he murmured, and licked the gore off his palms.

  Bolin's stomach turned. "Grumnlin."

  He looked up, his tongue extended. "I lead." He nodded and hopped off the boulder. "We go."

  * * *

  Rest came easily, though not peacefully. Donovan had not bothered with eating. A glass of brandy and the comfort of an over-stuffed chair before an actual fire held more appeal than food. He had no idea how long he slept, dreams and visions riddled his slumber. Some no more than that. Some sent by the crone herself. Reminders he no longer enjoyed solitude, no matter how much he wished otherwise. She allowed him to see the General through Grumnlin's eyes, and Donovan wondered at the crone’s attachment to such creatures.

  "They serve their purposes."

  Donovan jerked upright, hastily putting his thoughts in order.

  "As do you." The crone shuffled across the room without looking at him. "And when they cease to serve, they cease to live."

  Donovan glared at her, clearing mental cobwebs and the frayed remnants of his slumber. "As do I?"

  She chuckled, a low, throaty noise. "As do you, Lordling. I expect, however, you'll last longer than some. Your appetites are much stronger. You'll need all your resources in the time to come. The Sciath na Duinne is nearly here, and he's gathered a great deal of magic. Your wards are in tact?"

  "If you doubt me, Crone, check them yourself." Somewhere along the way Donovan had lost all pretense with the hag.

  "You have grown in wisdom. I wouldn't have believed it possible for someone of your character."

  "I suppose I should take that as a compliment?"

  She shrugged. "Take it how you will. The girl is rousing." She turned and strode toward the doorway. "It's time to begin."

  * * *

  Ciara felt as though every part of her had been ripped apart, and then smashed back together before being slammed into the ground. Repeatedly. She sat up slowly, and waited until the room stopped spinning before she slid her feet under her and attempted to stand. Her legs wobbled, but she got herself upright, swaying, and staring at the ground until her balance steadied.

  A low ring of blackened stones surrounded her. The corners of the huge chamber it occupied were lost in shadow. Tables overflowing with dust-covered scrolls and jars cluttered the room, and Ciara wrinkled her nose at the overpowering smell of must and damp decay.

  "I've been waiting to meet you, child," came a creaking, scratchy voice, as two figures emerged from the depth of the shadows.

  It shouldn't have surprised her that Donovan walked beside the old woman whose shuffling step, and bent back, belied the power that radiated from her. Her eyes were bright, an eager light in them that put Ciara in mind of a hungry cat watching a mouse. A mouse with no hole to run to.

  "There are more polite ways to go about meeting someone," Ciara said. She turned slowly to keep the woman in sight as she shuffled around the chamber, Donovan at her heel.

  "I suppose there are. But I doubt you would have accepted even the most courteous invitation. Nor would your father have allowed you to come to me."

  Ciara shot a dark look at Donovan, but he conveniently avoided her gaze. "What did you do to me?"

  "Something you could do yourself if you were so inclined."

  The thought terrified her. "What do you want?"

  The old woman’s smile deepened. "The same thing your father wants, my dear. The reason you were created in the first place. I want your power. Nothing more. Nothing less."

  Ciara shook her head. "I won’t give it to you."

  "I expect not." The woman stopped at the rim of the stone ring. She faced Ciara. "Tell me, girl, how much do you love the Goddess?"

  Ciara snorted. Donovan had asked her that same question not long ago. Her answer then had been the same as now, but she stopped before saying it as a silent warning reached her.

  Careful, daughter.

  Ciara darted a look over the old woman’s shoulder where Donovan stood.

  "Would it delight you," the old woman went on, "to see the blessed mother Goddess destroyed?"

  "On some days?" Ciara shrugged. "More than anything. Most days it doesn't matter at all. I think very little of the Goddess."

  "And I think of nothing else." The old woman took a step in Ciara's direction, and Ciara instinctively backed up. "Do you believe in destiny, child?"

  Another step.

  "Yours was set long before you came to be. So little in this world depends on chance, and you're no exception." She lifted her skirts and stepped over the stones. Flames licked at her hems. "Would you be surprised to know that once your father adored the Goddess? That he wanted nothing more than to be one of her chosen? One of those special few she showered her favors upon? You doubt me, I know, but ask him to deny it."

  Ciara spared another glance past the old woman. Donovan’s brow furrowed, and his lips formed a thin, tight line.

  "He longed for the Goddess," the old woman continued. "Honored her even. And she refused him. She disdains the darkness above all e
lse, you see, and he is dark. Almost as dark as me. As you are."

  Ciara’s heel caught against a stone at the edge of the pit as the woman came to stand directly in front of her. The scent of wet earth assaulted Ciara’s nostrils, along with the tickle of strong, ancient power. The old woman's skin may have been weathered and creased like the bark of some twisted cedar, but her eyes were young and bright.

  "Does it bother you to know you weren't created out of love? That your entire purpose in being born was part of some grand plan? His plan, child," a finger, as thin and twisted as a twig, jutted in Donovan’s direction, "is the same as mine, but with different purpose."

  Ciara flinched back when the old woman raised her hands, and though the gnarled fingers didn’t touch Ciara’s skin she could feel them as surely as if they had. She swallowed hard against the lump lodged in her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears. The woman smiled, and her hands stilled but did not drop.

  "Truly, I marvel the Goddess has allowed you to live. There's no doubt she knew what you were at the moment of your conception. What you were to become. It's why, I suppose, she kept you hidden. I wonder at her plans from time to time. To allow you to live, and then take from you the two women who could have sheltered you, and kept you from the truth of yourself? But then again, she gave you a much more powerful protector in their place, didn't she? One who would give his life for yours?"

  Ciara couldn’t back any further, the low ring of stones acted like a wall. Fingers closed around her upper arms from behind, and she startled. Donovan stepped into the blackened ring and guided Ciara back into the center, closer to the old woman.

  "Do not fight us," he said. "It is as it should be."

  Black flame leapt suddenly off the embers around them and Ciara gave a yelp, but this fire, like the one that had held Sandeen and brought her here, gave off no heat.

  "It's almost time," the old woman said. "The Sciath na Duinne will soon be here, and we must be prepared."

  Ciara shook her head and tried to twist out of Donovan’s grip. "Let go of me."

  "Or what?" The old woman laughed, a sound like dry leaves in the wind. "Do you think to stand against me in my own home? By yourself?"

  Her bright eyes peered at Ciara, and sliced through her defenses. She chuckled. "Ah, that’s the way of it, then? You hold out hope the great Sciath na Duinne will come to your rescue? You place your hope in folly, child. This is my place. My domain. You cannot stand against me here. You will bend to me or die."

  "That was not our bargain, Crone." Donovan’s fingers bit into Ciara’s arms; she could feel the heat of his anger rising.

  "I have opted to alter our bargain, Lordling. But never fear, you may still have what remains of your daughter when I'm finished with her. I may even let you keep this paltry excuse for a world."

  "You cannot hope to do this without me," he warned.

  "And you have no choice but to aid me." The old woman’s bright eyes fixed on Ciara once again. "It would be best, child, if you were to remain open and quiet."

  Ciara choked. She'd heard those words many times but they’d never tasted so bitter, or filled her with terror like they did now. She squirmed in Donovan’s grip. On a sudden impulse she brought her heel down on top of his foot with as much force as she could muster, and shoved backwards. Donovan swore and stumbled backwards, losing his grip on her as he tripped on the stones. Ciara spun away from him, still within the ring of stone and cold black flame.

  The old woman smiled. Her lips moved, and Ciara shuddered as the words reached her ears like a distant whisper on the wind, in a language she'd heard before. The chant dove deep into the earth and pulled up power so old even the rocks seemed young. Ciara recoiled as the air became crowded with wispy sigils that danced and swayed around her.

  The wards Bolin had wrapped around the wilding wavered and withered into nothingness. Ciara cried out as sudden, blinding recognition flared through her. Andrakaos knew these words, understood them, and ached to answer their call.

  The words formed and reformed as they swirled about, swooping and weaving in a mesmerizing dance, keeping cadence with the woman’s scratchy chant. Ciara hissed at the shivers of pain as the sigils slid through her like icy knives. The woman lifted her hand and Andrakaos leaned into the caress.

  "No!" Ciara willed him back but he lingered, watching the dancing sigils. Her earth magic -- shattered by the working -- lay scattered about her in glimmering bits that she scooped up and tried desperately to mold into something more substantial.

  Too little, too late. The old woman’s chant carved past Ciara’s tattered earth magic, and left her with nothing but the wild, tumultuous power of her birthright. She could embrace it or die. She knew that now -- saw it clearly in the old woman’s eyes.

  For the love of the Goddess! Ciara grit her teeth and braced against the gale of words buffeting her.

  The old woman’s harsh, wicked laughter shocked her, and interrupted the rhythm of the chant. "The love of the Goddess? You fool! The Goddess doesn't love you. She fears you. And rightly so. Love you?" Again the laughter. "Had she more brains than compassion she would have killed us all. Her compassion stayed her hand, and it will be her destruction. I will be goddess then, child, and you shall serve me."

  Ciara’s lip curled in a snarl. "I do not serve her, and I won't serve you."

  She renewed her efforts to spin her earth magic into something formidable. She drew it out and flung it toward the woman, instinct overriding conscious thought. The black flame around her leapt to intercept it, and the magic ricocheted back. Ciara ducked, almost too late, and it shattered behind her, scattering around the edges of the stone ring, sizzling as it died, like lightning gone wildly astray.

  "Daughter."

  Ciara whirled to face Donovan where he stood, just outside the ring of stone. "Don't call me that! I am not your daughter."

  "We are blood-bound, nothing can change that."

  "You are nothing to me."

  He held out a hand. "Give me Andrakaos. Let him come to me."

  "So you can give him to her?" Ciara flung a gesture at the old woman.

  Silence -- a moment too long. A moment Ciara read almost as quickly as the old woman. "You think to betray me," the old woman said, more accusation than question.

  Donovan didn’t move. "Do not be foolish, Crone. You cannot face the Goddess without me, and we will not win against the Goddess without the girl's power. Would you rather she continue to fight us? I can control the power and her. They are part of me."

  The old woman hesitated, her wizened face a frozen snarl.

  In the next instant her body contorted violently, and she hurtled backwards across the chamber, her screech an inhuman sound full of fury and hatred. Donovan whipped around, and dropped to a crouch as the flames around Ciara roared upwards. The air in the chamber swelled, pushing outward. Donovan raised a hand, and Ciara felt the force of his magic zip past her ear. She turned with its passage and gasped when she saw the intended target. Bolin! He dove out of the way, rolled, and regained his feet in one smooth motion.

  "Nephew." The old woman pushed herself away from the table that had broken her momentum, dusting herself off as though she had nothing more important to do. "How sweet of you to join us. Restrain him, Lordling, and don't fail me this time."

  "No!" The black flames shot up as Ciara tried to leave the fire pit. They crackled when she ran into them but didn't give, and she bounced off and landed hard on her backside.

  "You're done here, old woman," Bolin said.

  She scoffed. "Done? I haven't even begun. You are the last bit of the plan, nephew. Your mother's demise at your hands, poetic justice, don't you think?"

  "You underestimate me. You and your lackey both."

  "Do we? Or is it you who underestimate us? Do you think I would set a trap without careful thought and planning? Do you think I'm powerless here?" She spread her arms, a gesture meant to encompass everything around them. "In this place I have ultimate power
. Centuries confined here, an afterthought, another oversight of your blessed mother. She couldn't bring herself to kill me any more than she could kill the girl. Murder's not in her blood. I, on the other hand, have no such compulsions."

  The shield of magic Bolin spun wavered under her attack but didn't fail. He laughed, cold and hard. The kind of cold you paid heed to or died because of. "Neither do I."

  Donovan edged cautiously around the outside of the stone ring, angling for position. Ciara felt the surge of power rise in Bolin, and in that instant everything slowed. She watched as he gathered the assorted strands of magic he had collected, pulled them deep into himself, effortlessly formed them into something stronger, and directed it all at Donovan in a force with one purpose. Kill.

  Andrakaos screamed in defiance.

  Time spun out. Bolin's hand came up. Nothing stood between him and Donovan save the dancing flames and Ciara.

  In an instinctual mimicry of Bolin's moves Ciara snatched at the bits of her shattered earth magic and formed a shield of her own. She flung it at Donovan a moment before Bolin released his magic. Donovan threw up his arms, and disappeared in a haze of color and smoke. Ciara held her breath, watching. The breath escaped in a sigh of relief as the smoke cleared and revealed Donovan pushing himself off the ground.

  The old woman crowed in victory, and clapped her hands. "You see! Blood is a strong bond. She won't allow you to kill him."

  "Well, there's always you then." Bolin turned. "I doubt she feels the same misguided loyalty where you’re concerned."

  But the old woman hadn't been idle. Bolin lurched backwards, unable to absorb the warded force that struck him like a raging bull. He staggered, and dropped to one knee. As he regained his feet he flicked a gesture outwards. The old woman twisted and writhed then straightened, her lips pulled back over her teeth in a snarl. She should have died. Ciara felt it. All that power -- it should have destroyed her.

  Go, Ciara. Leave. Now.

  She couldn't be sure where the suggestion came from any more than she could comply, and she had no time to brace herself before Bolin jumped the circle of stone. He crashed into Ciara, and sent her flying out of the fire pit, limbs flailing. The flames seared her skin as she catapulted through them and landed on the ground. Hard. Someone grunted, followed by the sound of bodies colliding behind her. Before she could get to her feet she went sprawling again as Bolin and Donovan tumbled over the top of her in a tangle of limbs.