“Yes, I know.” He cleared his throat and looked over her head. “But if Trensler’s men catch us, I don’t want to go to the next world without you knowing that I would have loved you all the years of my life, until our Larnkins tired of this world. I would have walked with you until the plains end and the stars fell. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were forever trapped in these bodies—it wouldn’t have lessened my love.”
She threaded her arms around his neck and leaned into him. Darting in, she nipped at his lips. When she was satisfied he couldn’t mistake her feelings for him, she pulled back. “I think I’ve mentioned this a time or two before, but I love you. If you need to hear it a hundred more times to believe it, I’m happy to oblige.” Under her hand, Shadowdancer’s body trembled ever so slightly.
“I might hold you to your promise, but for now we need to see where that light leads.” He gestured on down the corridor. Sorsha nodded in agreement but was less than energetic in following his lead. Exhaustion burned deep in the muscles of her legs.
Arrayed before her was the wide open dawn-tinted sky. A few steel grey clouds reflected the pinks and mauves of dawn. Morning was coming again, the long night almost over. She looked down to find a steep slope swooping down and away from the tunnel’s exit. Wisps of fog-like magic twirled away between their hooves, before tumbling away over the edge and on down the rocky slope. There looked to be a thick layer of loose shale part way down, and no way around it. The descent would be difficult, but hopefully not impossible.
“What do you think of the slope? Passable?” Sorsha gestured to the area in question that caused her the greatest worry. “That one patch doesn’t look promising.”
Shadowdancer joined her at the edge. “We don’t have a choice. We’ll have to make our way down.” He leaned out over the ledge and craned his neck. “You’re correct. That part looks treacherous. We’ll have to take it slow, be careful not to knock loose too much of the shale or we risk bringing the whole tricky slope down with us.”
Sorsha shivered, not liking the idea of getting entombed by loose gravel. It would be like being caught in an avalanche, only worse.
Making a slight disgruntled sound deep in his throat, Shadowdancer grimaced. “And it’s too exposed. Those spindly shrubs are useless as cover.”
He studied the slope for a few moments more, and then suddenly his gaze jerked up to watch something on the opposite mountain slope. Alarmed, she followed the direction of his gaze. Pre-dawn gloom blanketed the area in shadow. Sorsha squinted, but couldn’t see what held his interest.
A single eerie call sliced through the crisp air, rising and falling in a complex pattern, a hauntingly beautiful sound. It was like a wolf’s lonely howl, but resonated longer and louder than that mortal forest dweller.
Before the eerie song had even faded into silence, a grin of pure relief brightened her companion’s face.
“Shadowdancer?”
“If I’m not mistaken, that sounds very much like Marsolwyn, Queen of the Lupwyns.”
A surge of hope spiraled out from the pit of her stomach. “She’s here?” But even as she said the words, her hope dwindled. “You saw what Trensler’s men are capable of. Even an Elder as powerful as the Lupwyn Queen won’t be able to stand against them.”
“Queen Marsolwyn will have brought friends.”
Before Shadowdancer’s words had faded, the Lupwyn raised her voice in song again. Others joined in. First two, then four. Then many more voices joined in chorus. Bright spots of light burst to life all along the opposite slope until hundreds of mage globes floated upon the air, their light chasing away night’s shadows. Sorsha shielded her eyes with one hand. Even though she couldn’t see, her ears told her hundreds of Lupwyns now raised their voices to the fading night. Chills raced down her back and the hair on her arms rose to attention.
So many, her ears rang with the loud racket. Blinking rapidly to clear her vision from the spots of all those mage globes, she turned her head down to the foot of the slope. Movement deeper in the valley drew her attention. “Look. Down there.” She pointed even as she tried to focus her blurry eyes. “I can see Lupwyns running in the valley below.”
“And never has a herbivore been so happy to see a pack of predators. Let’s join our friends,” Shadowdancer started forward, in his awkward, limping stride, “for I am heartily tired of this journey, and we need to get the Staff to the Elders. They’ll know what to do with her.” He paused and whispered half under his breath, “I hope.”
But she heard his doubt, and briefly wondered what they’d do if the Elders had no wise council.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re almost home.”
Relieved, Sorsha grinned, and equally slowly, picked her way down the slope in his wake.
Shadowdancer was correct. The descent made her feel entirely too nervous. A twitch had taken up residence square between her shoulder blades, and her stomach tied itself in knots imagining the disaster a simple misplaced hoof could cause. The absence of cover on the exposed slope had her glancing back every few strides. They were so close to the end of their journey, and they couldn’t get caught now—not with the Falcon Staff in their possession. Sorsha didn’t know exactly how near an Acolyte had to be to harvest magic, but she thought she was feeling a slight drain even now.
On the slope below them, the first Lupwyns to arrive—probably advanced scouts—were making their way up. And having as much difficulty as she and Shadowdancer were with the footing.
One of the wolf-like Lupwyn had almost made it to their location when he suddenly stumbled. He yelped and lost his balance, his feet going out from underneath him. He tumbled back down the slope, dislodging bits of shale and a cloud of dust as he skidded. Twenty strides down the slope, a scraggly bush stopped his descent.
He lay there, unmoving. Sorsha stared in stunned silence until she made out the grey metal of a crossbow bolt jutting from between his ribs. Her mind snapped into survival mode. She faced up slope, her bow grasped firmly in one hand as she pulled one of the few remaining fire arrows from her quiver.
In one smooth motion, she fit her arrow to bowstring. Before she could find a target, something with the force of a mule’s kick slammed into her shoulder with a grisly sound. The impact rocked her back on her hind legs. Looking down, she saw a crossbow’s bolt had suddenly blossomed out of her shoulder.
Sorsha sucked in a breath to shout warning to Shadowdancer, but a second pain exploded in her chest, and a third lower in her belly. Two more metal bolts bristled from her torso. She stared at them, one part of her mind refusing to comprehend what she was seeing. She couldn’t seem to draw in enough air to fill her lungs. Blood welled from the wounds, startlingly hot against her skin. Shadowdancer was shouting, and then his arms were suddenly around her waist. He dragged her down the slope in a vain attempt to save her from further harm. His lips moved, his eyes were frantic. She felt the pounding of his heart in his chest, saw the anguish in his face, but his words were fuzzy, distorted by something beyond her understanding.
An overwhelming need to comfort him overrode the pain in her chest. Her mind snapped into sharp focus; her ears sharpening to an unnatural quality. Over the pounding of her heart, she could hear the wind whistling through the mountains, here the baying of the two other wolf-like Lupwyns as they bolted past her and dashed farther up the slope. Snarls filled the air, and then she heard the wails of men. Ah, the Lupwyns were attacking the Acolytes. That was good, wasn’t it?
But there was something else. What was this cold, cold power seeping across her body? It reminded her of the Wild Path’s magic, strangely comforting in its familiarity. However, where the refreshing magic of the Path gave her strength, this new power seduced her into a frosty trance, beckoning her to rest her eyes, to sleep.
Her mind flailed for a few moments, still not understanding why she couldn’t move, or why all her senses were dulling until all that remained was her sense of hearing.
Then under
standing came.
She was dying. It wasn’t fair. Not after all they’d gone through to get the Talisman. Shadowdancer would be alone, with no one to understand and share his grief at being trapped in his new form.
She wanted to tell him everything would be all right, that if there was an afterlife, she’d wait for him—that dying wasn’t so bad. Her body shut down protecting itself from the intense pain of the wounds. And dying really wouldn’t be so bad if she could just draw air into her lungs and tell Shadowdancer all the things she wanted.
Her vision blurred around the edges, and Shadowdancer’s features became indistinct. She thought he touched her face. His tears were warm against her skin.
Not such a bad sensation to take with her into the afterlife.
No. Not after everything they had endured. The gods couldn’t be so unjust. Not Sorsha. Not his Herd Mistress, his little mane ornament. She couldn’t die. “Sorsha.” His voice broke as an agony unlike anything he’d ever dreamed washed across his heart, mind, and soul.
She didn’t respond. With a growing sense of horror, he realized she was limp in his arms, her chest no longer rising and falling with life. A scream burrowed up out of his chest, long and full of anguish. In his desperation, he called out to his sire and dam, to Neveyah the Herd Mistress, to any healer close enough to hear and feel his anguish. But even as he screamed for help, another rational part of his mind said that death could not be healed.
As his legs folded under him, he allowed Sorsha’s weight to pull him to the ground until he slumped next to her body. He held her, rocking back and forth with great gentleness. Her skin was cold under his hands.
How could she be so cold already?
His benumbed mind was trying to understand when nearby shadows spat out a smallish figure, his tattered, blood spattered robes swirling around him. The Acolyte looked upon Shadowdancer unblinkingly. They stared at each other, neither making a sound, but he felt the soft tug deep inside as the Acolyte started to feed.
Slowly, Shadowdancer lowered Sorsha’s head and shoulders to rest upon the ground, her hair arrayed around her like a dark shadow. He staggered to regain his footing, swaying under the combination of physical and emotional weakness. With slow, jerking motions, the Acolyte wordlessly raised his crossbow.
Screaming a challenge, Shadowdancer charged, uncaring if he died as long as the Acolyte died with him.
Pain ripped through his arm as blood sprayed in an arch behind him, wetting one flank with a hot, damp heat. The wound didn’t slow him though, and he ploughed onward, into the surprised Acolyte. This one was young, not much more than a boy. He slammed into the human, pinning him to a tree, and then closed his fingers around the human’s fragile neck. Muscles flexed, veins corded with the strength of his rage. He’d failed Sorsha. Killing this Acolyte wouldn’t bring her back, but mindless rage engulfed him and demanded retribution.
At first he didn’t feel it—then he noticed the chill where his hands wrapped around the Acolyte’s neck.
Even as Shadowdancer strangled the life out of the poor creature, the slave still tried to feed his master magic. With a savage motion full of disgust and revulsion, Shadowdancer tossed the small body on the ground.
The boy looked back with a blank look, still siphoning Shadowdancer’s power. With a snort of absolute rage, Shadowdancer reared up and brought his hooves down upon that unblinking stare. Again and again, Shadowdancer battered the body until gore and blood slicked the ground. Copper scent coiled in his nose and throat, nausea swirled through his belly.
“Shadowdancer?”
A vaguely familiar female voice encroached upon his private moment of madness.
The muscles in his haunches tensed. He pawed the ground. Sorsha was gone—dead by this Acolyte’s hand. His eyes flicked over the body, now so much bloody meat. He raised a hoof and struck out again.
“Shadowdancer, stop.”
But he couldn’t. The pain was too great; no one and nothing else mattered.
“Come away. Sorsha would not want to see you like this.” Queen Marsolwyn edged up beside him, her calm expression taking in his new form with minimal shock. “Let one of the healers see to your wounds.”
“No.” He barely recognized his own voice, broken as it was from his screams. He hobbled over to Sorsha, and stood with his hooves planted on either side of her broken body. Instinct demanded it. His befogged mind didn’t understand why, but he would stand over her until he bled out from his wounds if he had to.
Marsolwyn edged closer. “We’ve routed the rest of the Acolytes. No one can hurt Sorsha now. Let my people take care of her body.”
“No.” He shook his head in denial. His entire body quaked, and he locked his legs to keep himself upright. No one would touch Sorsha. He had to protect her. Keep her safe so she…so she…
When a commotion came up behind him, Shadowdancer whirled to face the new threat. A jet black Santhyrian galloped up the slope, halting in shock at the scene before him.
“My son?” Darkmoon took a hesitant stride forward.
Shadowdancer lashed his tail in warning, and Darkmoon skidded to a halt again.
“She’s beyond our help now, my son. The gods have her. Come away and let us take care of her body.”
Another denial was on his lips when the fiery glow of magic flared outward from underneath him, where Sorsha lay. His grief numbed mind didn’t understand what he was seeing until the first tendril of magic—far older and stronger than anything he had at his call—touched him and flooded its thoughts across his senses. The Falcon Staff, his grief numbed mind realized—it was still tucked away in Sorsha’s pack.
“Harbinger, you have served The Twelve well. Your duty is fulfilled.”
The strange voice seemed to talk straight to his soul. Shadowdancer stood rooted to the ground, not backing down even when the Staff’s magic spun into a small tornado-like funnel.
“You protected me when I was unable to protect myself. Thank you. Rest with the knowledge you and Sorsha have honored all the Twelve.”
It was far too late to take comfort in words. What was honor compared to the pain of Sorsha’s death?
“What boon would you ask of me, Harbinger?”
At its words, the wisps of cloud-like magic intensified. Flashes of power glimmered deep in the funnel’s depths.
Shadowdancer collapsed to his knees next to Sorsha in a deep bow, though, not really sure if he was paying homage to his fallen love or the broken Staff. Tears flowed down his cheeks when he looked upon Sorsha, lying so still and cold next to him.
Above him, the Staff’s magic swirled more violently, wind accompanied its magic, driving down upon Shadowdancer mercilessly. Pain burned along his body and mind.
“What boon?”
The Staff sounded impatient, almost eager to hear his answer. Closing his eyes, he turned his head up to the swirling power. He had fulfilled his duty to the Twelve. Broken in both body and soul, he deserved peace, to find the same eternal peace as Sorsha.
“If you would grant me a boon, let me walk with Sorsha once again at my side and know no more pain.”
“Very well.”
Raw power blasted down upon him. He couldn’t scream. All his muscles were locked, even his jaw. Power twisted through him, seeking his Larnkin, and then deeper to his soul. Something ripped into his chest. Blackness encroached upon his vision, invading from the sides. He slumped forward. His thoughts blanked out.
Chapter Thirty
Murmuring voices invaded Shadowdancer’s quiet, disturbing his much deserved peace. He felt a frown settle over his features. Merciful gods—was there no peace even in the afterlife?
“Grumpy as ever, I see,” a vaguely familiar voice said with a dry chuckle. “I still don’t know what my little sister sees in you. You’re far too surly.”
“Ashayna, be nice.”
“Mmm. Sorry. I guess.”
Shadowdancer’s eyes snapped open.
“I still can’t believe he’s
one of the Twelve—I’ve known him almost all my life.” A dark skinned Phoenix with indigo plumage leaned over him, his crest raised, and a curious expression in his onyx eyes.
“And how is the fact you’ve known him most of your life even relevant? You’re the Judge, exalted Leader of the Twelve, and you were oblivious to your own heritage.” The droll female voice pulled Shadowdancer further out of his stupor.
The Crown Prince of the Phoenix moved away and sat down on a small wooden bench, next to a woman who shared Sorsha’s coloring. Shadowdancer’s mind scrambled for her name a moment—Ashayna Stonemantle, Sorsha’s older sister, and bondmate to Sorntar. It felt like a lifetime ago since he’d laid eyes upon these two. Both sat and watched him with curious looks.
If they were here in the afterlife, where was Sorsha? He lifted his head. And why was he human and not back to his normal Santhyrian self? A large blanket covered his body. With a sinking feeling in his middle, he surveyed himself and moved his legs—all four of them. He wasn’t human either—he still wore the Oracle’s Mark.
Prince Sorntar cleared his throat. “I imagine we both have interesting stories…”
“This isn’t how I envisioned the afterlife,” Shadowdancer said, slowly looking over the Phoenix’s shoulder. The afterlife suspiciously looked like one of his people’s tents. A healer’s tent.
No.
He was supposed to be dead.
Dead like his beloved Sorsha. The Falcon Staff had promised him a boon.
Pain stabbed through the numbness protecting his mind and body. Why was he alive? When Sorsha was not.
“Afterlife?” Ashayna snorted without humor. “If we were in the afterlife, we wouldn’t have to worry about Dakdamon or Trensler’s master. No, we’re not so lucky.”
They were not dead, then. Shadowdancer mulled that over. Why was the human woman so unemotional? How could she feel nothing? Sorsha had been her sister. Fresh grief threatened to crush his heart.
“Shadowdancer, calm. We’ll explain everything.”
Herd Mistress (In Deception's Shadow Book 2) Page 25
