“Surprise is for lesser warriors,” Lormac declared. “Elves fear no foe!” With that, Lormac let out a war cry and the warriors of Tingu hurtled down the hill toward the doja. Despite their clamor they did surprise the demons, lazy in their role as torturers. Only four stood watch, and the flashing elfin swords quickly cut them down. The elves leapt from their horses as they flowed inside the doja.
“This way!” Asherah yelled as she ran toward the rear of the structure, looking for the mordeth’s chamber. A door crashed open and Asherah saw the mordeth’s arm behind the door. She raised her sword to strike, then the monster stepped out from behind the door. Standing before her was the largest demon she’d ever seen.
The mordeth roared, and Asherah ran.
“Out of my way,” she shrieked, and elf and demon alike leapt from her path. She found the main corridor and saw an open cell door. Asherah darted to the side once she reached it; the much larger mordeth did not. Asherah slammed the heavy door shut and slid the bolt into place, panting as she leaned against the rough wood.
“My lady,” Balthus yelled as he ran into the corridor.
“Get Lormac,” she gasped. “The mordeth is in the cell!”
“You captured him alone?” Balthus asked incredulously.
“Me alone,” Asherah replied, then the beast roared. “Go!”
Balthus ordered three soldiers to guard her while he fetched Lormac. The mordeth threw himself against the door, rattling the walls.
“Let us,” said one of the elves. Asherah stepped aside and they pressed their shoulders against the door; as soon as they did, a lesser demon launched itself down the hall.
One of the soldiers leapt in front of Asherah, but didn’t land a blow before the beast tore out his guts. Two more demons appeared in the blink of an eye, these nearly as large as the mordeth in the cell. One of the soldiers attacked the demons, chasing them from Asherah, while the other soldier was flung into the wall and landed unconscious at Asherah’s feet.
More demons entered the corridor and Asherah raised her sword. Before she could another entered, whether elf or fae she couldn’t tell. Then she saw a blade flash as Caol’nir killed all three of the demons. When the last dropped he strode toward her, heedless of the bodies around him.
“Only five demons?” Caol’nir smirked. “I’ve killed seven myself.”
“I said maybe as few as five,” Asherah clarified. “Did you find the magic handler?”
“Harek is searching for him now.” Caol’nir eyed Asherah’s sword hand, and frowned.
“Here,” he said, grabbing Asherah’s arm and adjusting her grasp. “Grip it like so, your swing will have more force.” He stepped aside so she could take a test swing. “Get a heavier blade as well, that way even if you don’t kill your opponent you can maim it.”
“And all this time I thought I had a talent for swordplay,” she said.
“You do,” Caol’nir replied, “but even the best needs practice.”
She took another swing. “Lormac wouldn’t let me carry a true warrior’s sword,” she said with a rueful smile. “I don’t think he found it ladylike.”
Caol’nir laughed, then Lormac burst into the corridor, closely followed by Balthus. His gaze swept over the scene: a disemboweled soldier, another two unconscious, three dead demons and his would-be mate smiling at the Prelate’s son while a mordeth bellowed from a cell.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, ignoring Caol’nir as he strode to Asherah’s side.
“I’m not,” she replied. “Caol’nir killed them.”
“Many thanks,” Lormac said to Caol’nir.
“You should get her a real sword,” Caol’nir added. “The one she’s holding won’t protect her from a frightened rabbit.” Lormac frowned, and the mordeth picked that moment to throw himself against the door.
“Brace the door,” shouted Caol’nir.
“Don’t bother,” Lormac said. “I’ll seal him in.”
“How?” demanded Asherah, dust falling from the rafters.
“Remember the power I told you of?” Lormac asked, and Asherah nodded. He strode to the door, held by four elfin warriors but still looking like it could give way at any moment. “I will require the Sala,” Lormac looked at Asherah almost apologetically. “I must have access to all of my power if I’m to encase the beast.”
Asherah immediately slipped the sacred object from her arm and returned it to the elf king. Lormac touched the Sala with one hand and Asherah with the other, and Asherah gasped as the power of the Seat coursed through the both of them.
“I also require my mate at my side,” he murmured, so that no one but Asherah heard him over the beast’s wailing. “Later, I’ll return it to you properly.” Asherah nodded, and placed her hand over his.
Lormac knelt and placed his hand over the metal bolt—raw iron, good—then placed his other hand into the earth. Those assembled felt the room waver. The earth crawled up the wooden door until it met the metal hinge, the two substances becoming a swirling gray pool. When Lormac finished, he stood back to reveal a layer of earth and iron that covered not only the door but the surrounding walls as well. They could still hear the mordeth raging within, but Lormac’s mound didn’t budge.
“You expect a pile of dirt to hold a mordeth?” Caol’nir asked.
“It will hold until I release it,” Lormac proclaimed as he dusted off his hands. “Leave him to rot while we see to the others.”
The soldiers followed Caol’nir and Balthus from the corridor, and began breaking apart the wooden cells that held the slaves. As they did so, Lormac stayed Asherah with a hand on her elbow.
“When I touched the earth, it spoke to me,” he began. “It told me the story behind every drop of blood, every broken body that touched it.” Asherah looked away, and walked toward a room at the end of the corridor. Lormac followed and found a windowless room, slightly larger than the cells. A rough-hewn wooden table occupied most of it. At first, Lormac thought the heavy manacles bolted to the table were rusty; he looked closer, and saw that they were caked with blood.
“What does the earth tell you here?” Asherah asked, tracing a manacle. Lormac knelt and touched the ground. He saw women dragged across the dirt and thrown onto the table, broken and bloody and some barely alive. Then Lormac saw demons ravaging them until they were nearly dead, and he snatched his hand from the earth.
“This…this is what is done in all of them?” he asked hoarsely, and Asherah nodded.
“All these places are the same,” she said, staring at the manacles. “If they’re in a mood to play they cut themselves, bleeding all over you. I remember it pooling under the chains, burning like fire…”
Lormac had known she was a slave, but he never imagined anything like what the earth had shown him. “Were these things done to all the women? To you?”
“When you’re first taken, it’s every day,” she said quietly. “To break your spirit. When you’re nearly dead, they leave you for a time. Then, if you aren’t carrying a whelp, it starts up again.”
Lormac put the manacle against her palm, then he placed his hand atop hers. “Never again,” he declared, the room wavering as the metal crumbled under his influence, “not here, not anywhere, and never to my mate.” He wrapped his arms around Asherah’s waist, but she remained distant. Lormac turned her around and cupped her face with his hands.
“My star...” he began.
“I understand if you want me to leave,” she said.
“What?” Lormac asked. Before he could continue, they heard Torim shouting for Asherah. They left the torture chamber and found Torim among the healers, tending to the freed women.
“Asherah,” Torim said as she rushed forward, “only four can be saved.”
“How many to be killed?” Asherah asked.
“Killed?” Tor roared. “We’ll kill no one; we will get them healers.”
“They don’t want to be healed. Death is their only solace.” She noted Tor’s appalled face, and adde
d, “Why do you think they call me Asherah the Ruthless?”
###
Torim had been mistaken; out of the twelve women the healers saved nine, and all ten of the guards were loosed from the thrall. Asherah dispatched the three who needed it quickly, holding Torim’s hand all the while. After seeing the inside of a doja even Tor didn’t argue against Asherah’s methods, and offered his sharpest dagger.
The elves and fae established camp far too close to the doja, and the bellowing cries of the mordeth, than any cared for. The mood at the camp was somber, for while they had been victorious, none but Asherah, Harek, and Torim had been prepared for the wretched conditions. The death of the three women and the elf soldier hung over the survivors like a damp fog, chilling them to the bone. Adding to the pall was that three of the women had been elves, which neither Lormac nor his warriors had expected.
Once Lormac’s grand tent was erected he, Balthus, Tor, and Caol’nir sat inside for nearly half the night, discussing how the mordeth was to be questioned and eventually disposed of. Ultimately, the decision was made to leave the mordeth be for the night in the hopes that he would be willing to bargain for his freedom come morning.
Lormac emerged from the meeting to find Asherah sitting before the fire. She leaned heavily against Torim, her arms wrapped around her waist. Harek, still acting as their guard, stood behind the two while the newly freed slaves fanned out about the three, as if they were a beacon of safety.
He studied the two women, noting how peaceful Asherah seemed in Torim’s arms. Why doesn’t she relax like that when I hold her? Asherah’s behavior both confused and frustrated him; when he had placed the Sala on Asherah he had assumed she would be overjoyed by the honor of being the king’s mate. Instead she had acted like a cornered animal. And her face, when he’d told her that she was free to deny him…
But she hadn’t denied him; she’d remained in his chamber and had let him hold her. She’d admitted that she was scared. Lormac understood Asherah’s hesitation, more so now that he had seen a doja, and he was enraged that his mate had been subjected to such torment. He even understood why Torim’s touch calmed her so; he just wished his calmed her as well.
She thought I wouldn’t want her once I knew. Lormac admitted that he was both disgusted and disturbed by what the women suffered, but he didn’t hold those acts against Asherah. In fact, as he imagined his star rallying her fellow slaves and turning on their captors, he smiled. Asherah truly was the warrior he thought she was, and her triumphs only strengthened his love.
Lormac approached the fire and learned the true reason for Asherah’s peaceful state: she was fast asleep. He sat beside the two and met Torim’s soft doe eyes above Asherah’s head.
“Have you noticed that no matter where she is, the scent of her hair is cool and green like a meadow?” Torim asked quietly. Lormac was irritated that Torim would say such a thing, mostly because he had no idea what Asherah’s hair smelled like.
“She does not like being close to me,” Lormac confessed.
“She does,” Torim reassured. “You must be patient with her, for as terrible as the wounds upon her skin are, her soul was cut much more deeply.”
Lormac remembered the images shown from the doja, of what the earth told him, of what was done on that table. “Let me take her.”
Torim released her friend into the king’s arms. Lormac carried Asherah into his tent and gently laid her on his bed, then pulled off her boots and unbuckled her sword belt. He tucked a blanket about her, and kissed her forehead before dragging a chair next to the bed.
“You’re mine, and I’ll see all the fae gods in hell before I allow anything to harm you.”
###
Asherah woke soon after Lormac had placed her on the bed. She heard the mordeth wail and flinched, but relaxed when she saw Lormac beside her.
“How did I get here?”
“I carried you,” Lormac replied. Asherah’s eyes widened, and he explained, “You fell asleep before the fire. I couldn’t let you catch a chill.” Asherah nodded, so Lormac took the opportunity to lean forward and grasp her wrist. When Asherah saw the Sala in his hand, she pulled away.
“You still want me to wear it?” she asked.
“Did you think I would hold your captivity against you?” he asked. “I don’t.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He again tried placing the Sala on her arm, but still she evaded him.
“Shouldn’t it be replaced when I become your mate?” Asherah asked, refusing to meet his eyes. His initial thought had been to tell her that they could take care of that immediately, but Lormac remembered the images from the doja.
“I won’t lie with you until you’re ready,” Lormac promised. Asherah nodded but wouldn’t look at him, and Lormac worried that there was another reason for her hesitation.
“If your answer is no, just tell me. I swear to you, you’ll have my aid regardless. I will not renege on my words.”
Asherah shook her head and took his hand, lightly stroking the heartstone. “It’s not that,” she insisted, “I just don’t want it to be here, in the shadow of a doja, with that creature wailing away.”
Lormac smoothed back her hair. “I understand, love.” He kissed her forehead, and then stood. “Rest now.”
“But where will you sleep?” Asherah asked. “This is your bed.”
“I had a second made up,” he had replied, indicating a curtained-off area at the rear of the tent. “I thought you’d want your privacy. I’ll sleep there.” Asherah smiled at him, the first time he had seen her smile since they arrived at this accursed spot.
“Lormac, you’re as wonderful a man as you are a king.”
He went to the second bed, which, in accordance with his instruction, was just as sumptuous as his, and lay on top of the blankets. He stared at the roof of the tent; whenever he closed his eyes he was met by images of Asherah telling him no. After a time he heard the curtain rustle, then felt a tug at the bedclothes.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Asherah murmured as she slid underneath the blanket. “I missed you.”
“Did you?” Lormac asked. “I worry that you haven’t yet found a way to gently refuse me.”
“I don’t want you to think that,” Asherah said. “This morning, when you told me you don’t know how to do this… Neither do I. I’ve never before been a former slave who caught the king’s eye… never before…” Her voice trailed off, and when she continued, Lormac heard a lilt to her words. “But if you’d like to get under this blanket with me, I’m willing to try.”
Lormac kicked off his boots and did as she requested, his bare feet finding hers beneath the bedclothes. “What has made my little star so bold tonight?”
“The darkness,” she replied. “It’s less scary in the dark.”
“Are you scared of me?”
“Not you,” she replied softly.
“Then I’ll order every lamp in Tingu extinguished, and we’ll bump around in the dark until you say otherwise,” he proclaimed. Asherah laughed, and he wrapped his arms around her. “Come here, you,” he murmured as he tucked her against him; he buried his face in her hair, and yes, she did smell like a meadow in the first flush of spring.
“Tell me, my star, what will happen tonight?” Lormac asked.
“Tonight, I’d like to pretend we’re a thousand leagues away,” Asherah replied. “A thousand leagues, and a thousand winters. I want to pretend we’ve been mated so long we know everything about one another.” She propped herself up on an elbow, her black eyes searching his. “I want to sleep in your arms like it’s the safest place in all the nine realms.”
Lormac pulled her down and tucked her head underneath his chin. “For you, it always will be.”
Chapter Twenty
The following morning they began the arduous task of questioning, or rather torturing, the mordeth. Tor and Caol’nir took on the brunt of it, being that they both spoke the demon tongue, and they used fire, since demons seemed
to hate it.
“Why fire?” Torim asked. Tor had ordered fires set around the perimeter of the doja, slowly encroaching on where the mordeth was held. “Why not use water, or something else?”
“Long ago, Olluhm banished demons to the burning underworld,” Tor replied. “I imagine they’re tired of it.”
When only the cell around the mordeth remained, Lormac stepped forward collapsed the walls, then restrained him with manacles of earth and stone. When Lormac was done he saw Asherah chewing her lip. She said nothing as she laced her fingers tightly with his, and Lormac tried not to smile; he liked that she worried over him.
After much bellowing, blood, and screams that made everyone’s spine cold as ice, Tor stepped aside and shared what the mordeth had revealed. It was indeed Ehkron’s plan to get as many whelps by fae women as possible, however (and to no one’s surprise) the mordeth-gall had reneged on his agreement with Sahlgren and keep these half-fae warriors for himself. Only a few moons past, the faerie king had sweetened their deal.
“But why only pureblooded fae?” demanded Lormac. “That is what makes no sense, since demons have taken whatever female they could in the past.”
“Ehkron’s whelp, Asgeloth, is born of a pureblood fae,” Caol’nir replied. “It’s said that he ripped himself from his mother’s womb. Since then, Ehkron believes that a fae and demon are the ideal mix to produce warriors.” Caol’nir rubbed his eyes, and continued. “The mordeth claims that Sahlgren has put aside a woman, supposedly Olluhm’s daughter, as an offering to Ehkron, but claims he doesn’t know where she is.”
“That old rumor?” Lormac asked. “Two, perhaps three centuries ago there was talk of Olluhm siring a daughter. They said that her mother was so beautiful Olluhm descended from the skies for the first time in millennia to know a woman who wasn’t already in his service. Once the girl was born, he took her mother to the skies with him and left the babe to be raised by priestesses in the east.”
Heir to the Sun Page 20
