“It certainly is,” she snapped, her tone biting.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook, boy,” Malik snarled, over her head, pointing his finger at Flynn’s nose. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”
Flynn lifted his shoulders in a sparse shrug, his eyes narrowed. His bloody lip curled in disdain. I knew a deliberate provocation when I saw one, and Flynn stroked his finger down Malik’s last nerve. “I’ve a few coins in my pocket,” he drawled. “That enough?”
When Malik tried to throw himself at Flynn, Ba’al’amawer hip-shot Princess Iyumi out of the fight line, and caught Malik’s descending fist. With his massive frame between them, the Clan Chief effortlessly halted Malik’s attack. Muljier seized Flynn’s arm and dragged him backward so hard the young prince fought to keep his footing.
“I honor you, my Lord Commander,” Ba’al’amawer rumbled, his hand locked around Malik’s wrist and its stained dagger. “You are my good friend. But She Who Hears has spoken. I pray you, turn your wrath aside this day.”
Malik stared into Ba’al’amawer’s brown eyes, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment I thought Malik might rear back and strike out with his deadly front hooves, and thus take the Minotaur Chieftain out of the equation. A Centaur of Malik’s high caliber was more than equal to a Minotaur when it came to a fight.
He proved me wrong. Drawing in a deep breath, he nodded, lowering his hand with the deadly blade. Ba’al’amawer let him go, but put his huge hand on Malik’s shoulder. He tossed his chin over his shoulder, and smiled. Heavy lips pulled back from broad teeth, it appeared more a grimace than a smile, but there was much warmth in it.
“He’s not worth it, my friend,” he said. “Never kill a helpless creature, you have told me time and again, unless ‘tis from mercy and kindness. Remember? Pray don’t stain your soul over one such as he.”
Malik drew a ragged breath and managed a smile. Placing his own strong hand on Ba’al’amawer’s burly shoulder, he nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ba’al’amawer answered, dipping his huge horns in respect.
“Are you through now?” Iyumi asked, her tone dripping acid.
The two dropped their arms and stiffened their spines. In unison, they offered her quick dips of their chins, their fists pressed against their chests. Her angry eyes flashed across me, as though daring me to speak. I grinned impudently in return as she slowly turned to face her would-be kidnapper. She stepped toward him, into his personal airspace, gazing up into his eyes. Flynn’s defiant expression softened with pain, yet his back remained as proudly erect as ever. Iyumi’s lips parted as though to speak to him. I’d no idea what she might say – ‘you bloody bugger’ or ‘kiss my royal ass’ were both at the top of my list.
She said nothing. She stared only into his dark blue eyes, intent, her expression tightly closed, shut. I swear she gazed deep into his soul, but perhaps that was only my fanciful notion. Both Flynn and I suspected she meant to speak, for she drew in breath, words ready. But he turned his lacerated cheek toward her. Don’t. His eyes dropped. Please.
My regard for him rose a notch. He stood firm, bound and bleeding, surrounded by his enemies, yet he showed no weakness, nor any fear. At that same time, he offered Iyumi her opportunity for vengeance and calmly accepted her sentence, whatever punishment that may be. Though he may never admit such, I knew Flynn knew he’d done her wrong.
Iyumi nodded. Blood drying to black on her left cheek, Iyumi turned toward the crowd of Atani soldiers and royal prisoners. Her upward glance took in the Griffins circling low overhead and she set her hands on her black, leather-bound hips. Her scarlet-lined grey cloak fell from her shoulders to her boots. That incredible wealth of silver-gilt hair covered her from head to knees, a waving shroud. As though chiseled from marble, her cold face and haughty expression brought none to their knees in adoration. Instead all, including Malik, Ba’al’amawer, Flynn and me, listened with awe. We listened to She Who Hears, our Bryn’Cairdhan High Priestess and the gods’ voice.
“Hear me,” she said, speaking well below a shout.
The outer cavalry soldiers melted inward, unwilling to miss a word. Minotaurs, Shifters, Centaurs and those Griffins watching the forest and the river, crept closer. Shifters crept in on hooves, bellies, spindly legs or whatever means they used to convey their bodies into the inner circle. Several Faeries, unseen and unheard till then, buzzed over the heads of the watching crowd of savage Atani warriors. Her voice magnified via magic, it reached all and halted every activity.
“Flynn and his idiots will be escorted to the border,” Iyumi said, turning about, her arms crossed over her chest. “Immediately. No further harm shall come to them.”
Malik glowered. “They are terrorists and prisoners. After trial, they’ll be sent to Braigh’Mhar.”
“Kill him,” shrieked a swift-winged Faery, hovering over my shoulder. She peered down at Flynn with a very un-Faery like mien of anger. Her buzzing set of eight wings permitted her to hover like a kestrel, before darting like a hummingbird to another spot. In turn, Flynn’s bloody jaw dropped as she dove toward his eyes. The Faeries were difficult to comprehend at first sight. Witnessing a brightly colored nymph with an elfin face and tiny pointed ears the size of your large butterfly tended to think one’s mind had come adrift.
“Are you for real?” Flynn asked, under his breath.
For answer, the Faery, whose name I didn’t know as she never paused to introduce herself, smacked Flynn across his nose for his impudence. He blinked.
“Chill now, dear,” I murmured, raising my knuckles in invitation.
Faeries liked to sit on one’s fingers or hands, alighting like tiny angels to sing, giggle, and make a jest at one’s expense before fluttering away upon their high-voiced laughter. The most non-violent folk upon the world, our Faery sisters lived for love, took nothing serious, and sent forth a plague of sweet innocence upon the cruel, cold world. I personally swore that had not the Faeries lived and loved, our life in our dreadful lands might easily turn black. Anger a Faery? One had to work very hard to accomplish it.
“Chill now, dear,” the Faery piped, imitating my voice. Laughing in high – C, the Faery buzzed my nose before joining three of her sisters in an aerial dance over Iyumi’s silver head.
The object of their adoration glanced up at them, once, before returning her icy gaze upon her would-be kidnapper. “Ze’ana’ta,” she murmured. “Be a love and find me a nice flower. I need one for my hair. Take the others with you, please.”
“Flower,” Ze’ana’ta repeated. “I like purple.”
She flicked across Iyumi’s whitish skin to plant a swift kiss upon her cheek before flying away, a tiny bright spark against the sullen grey sky. Her sisters chased her, screaming laughter. Those among us, long-used to their flighty and spastic behavior, ignored them. Only those unfamiliar with their skittish habits watched until she vanished, gaping like fishes. Flynn’s expression changed from panic to awe within a heartbeat.
Iyumi turned slowly, ever so slowly, to face Malik. Her dark brows lowered, and her fair lips thinned in severe annoyance. No wonder few dared cross her. Angry, fearless, with enough clout to behead each and every one of us, Princess Iyumi paced forward until she stood nose to nose with Malik. She had to tilt her head back to accomplish it, however. He dropped his chin to his chest in order to see her at all.
“If Flynn dies,” Iyumi grated through tightly clenched teeth. Her finger poked him just north of his sword belt and south of his navel. “His devil sire has the right to declare war. And war, my brainless, testosterone-laden Commander, is that last thing our country needs.”
“He wouldn’t –”
“He would.”
Iyumi’s voice lowered at the same moment it rose. “Pick your brains out of your muscles, boys and girls,” she growled, turning round to face us all. “This isn’t the fight we want. We must find that child, or not a one of us shall be spared. Put your big boy pants on,
send these maggots home, and help me find her. In that order.”
“You heard our Princess,” Chief Ba’al’amawer bellowed, shaking his broadsword. “Put them on their horses. I want five Griffins, five Minotaurs, five Centaurs and ten cavalry to escort His Royal Highness back to the cesspit they swam from. Commander Lightning Fork.”
“My lord.”
“You’re in charge. Escort His Highness to his border.”
“My lord.”
Wind Warrior turned Flynn around, breaking the interested stare he flashed Iyumi, and, with two Minotaurs, escorted him toward the milling Atani, terrorists, horses, hissing Griffins and assorted Minotaurs. I jogged to catch up. As Ba’al’amawer sorted out each unit, Malik shouted for those not attending the prisoners to form up. A horn sounded, echoing through the caves and the river.
From the forest into the massing Atani bounded a swift doe. I recognized her immediately: Aderyn, my father’s brother’s daughter. I hadn’t seen her since before Dalziel, and had no idea how she felt about me now. Close as children, we both joined the Weksan’Atan at a young age, and shared our experiences, laughter and kinship. My breath caught as she changed into her raven-haired, pale-complexioned beautiful form.
She didn’t see me. She strode into the mix surrounding the prisoners, asking questions, offering suggestions, her hand on her sword’s hilt. Her cloak of hunter’s green covered her from throat to heel, her black hair falling to her waist in a thick, heavy braid.
Another Shifter, Valcan, flew in on swift raven’s wings and changed forms before he hit the ground. Tall, flaxen haired with a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, he joined Muljier in settling Flynn’s cohorts aboard their skittish horses. With their hands still bound behind them, mounting on their own might be a dubious affair.
When Windy, I and a Minotaur named Raga sought to lift Flynn to the roan stallion, Iyumi called out, her voice ringing across the tumult. “The blue is mine. I claim him.”
“She does have taste,” Flynn murmured. He glanced at me, his eyes amused. “That’s an awfully nice horse.”
I itched to do something for him. I waved my hand at Windy and Raga to wait. They backed off, granting me both privilege and respect due to my rank and authority. “Flynn.”
“Van?”
I called on my pedestrian magic. Running my hand down his cheek, I urged healing into the gaping slash. Under my limited power, the wound’s lips joined, ran together, smoothed out. Blood vessels rejoined and nerve endings melded, flesh knitted. While not exactly a healer, my powers could only start the healing process, not heal Flynn fully. At least, I thought, he wasn’t in such pain.
Taken aback, Flynn jerked away from me. He stumbled backwards and only Raga’s firm stance kept him from a humiliating tumble to his butt. “What have you done?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. For the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes.
“All magic has healing elements,” I replied simply. “I’m not an adept, but I can heal a scratch now and then. Malik now,” I jerked my head over my shoulder, smiling. “He’ll bring you back from the grave. You’ll still ache a bit, boyo, but within a few days you’ll be as good as new.”
I grinned into his stunned expression. “Can’t do much about the scar, though. Don’t the ladies love scarred warriors?”
Flynn offered me a wry grin. He straightened his back and tossed his damp hair from his eyes. Despite the blood on his face, his bound hands, he reminded me of a hero from the ancient tales. A warrior who refused both the mercy and clemency offered by his enemies. A man who feared not death, but life.
“I wouldn’t know, First Captain Vanyar. When you get yours, be sure to let me know?”
I laughed. “I never kiss and tell.”
“Kill joy.”
Windy and Raga boosted him up onto the dead Raithin Mawrn’s mount. As a cavalry lieutenant took the reins of the horse and pulled it behind his own, Flynn cast his chin over his shoulder. “Look after yourself – all right? And wish me luck.”
“I will, brother,” I answered. “Go in peace. Live at peace.”
“I will if I can.” His grin widened, even if it was lopsided. “Not so sure I’m permitted.”
Before I answered, the lieutenant kicked his horse into the milling group of cavalry and mounted prisoners, each led by an Atani officer. Ba’al’amawer’s Minotaurs strode beside each Raithin Mawrn, as two Griffins circled low overhead and Commander Lightning Fork rose high on swift wings and shouted down orders. The remaining trio rose higher, above the trees and the rushing river, spotting trouble before it arrived. Those mounted Atani flanked the group as they trotted upstream, and vanished under the trees.
“No, no, and finally, NO!”
Princess Iyumi glared at Malik, bristling with anger, her irate heel striking the ground with finality. “There is no highway option, here, Commander. It’s my way or get out of my way.”
“Your father instructed me to bring you home.”
Iyumi’s voice rose to emulate a furious fishwife. “My father isn’t here, you bone-headed donkey! I am! And I’m telling you, I’m going after that child.”
Malik crossed his arms over his chest and tried to appear imperious. “Not while I’m in charge here, Princess.”
I stifled a grin as Iyumi puffed up and grew three inches in height. “You are not in command, dumb-ass. I am.”
Malik raised his fist in a futile gesture. He half-turned away, scowling, his elbow raised to hide his mouth as he feigned a neck scratch. “I’m really not liking her,” he muttered to me.
“A liege doesn’t require her subjects to like her,” Iyumi replied tartly. “Only demands his obedience.”
“She heard that,” I said, under my breath.
“You think?” Malik snapped, under his.
“Grow up, boys. Like now.”
Iyumi’s hands on her tiny hips made her look like a child in a tantrum, rather than a princess in a snit. Yet, her eyes sparked blue fire, and her witch’s hair cascaded down her back and across her thighs, molten silver. She looked like a goddess of old, made of fire and steel, bearing a thunderbolt poised to strike one dead. Mortal men fell at her feet as the Old Ones worshipped at her altar.
I almost loved her in that instant.
But her next words dispelled my brief infatuation rather quickly.
“I lead,” she snapped, turning around to include us all in her glare at. “You brainless twits follow. Is this clear or must I pound it into your thick skulls with a pole-axe?”
“Bitch.”
The word floated on the light breeze, coming from the distant rear. A cavalry soldier possibly, or a Shifter. Not likely spoken from a Griffin’s beak, nor from a Minotaur, as their voices were unmistakable. There were several Centaurs back there, and none smiled as they gazed at her. If I heard the hated title, no doubt Iyumi did as well. Malik scowled as his dark eyes scanned the crowd of Atani soldiers. If he found out who spoke, that soldier’s punishment wouldn’t be light.
Iyumi nodded. “Such you call me. And worse, I know. I’ve heard them all.”
Iyumi turned in a circle, fury radiating off her like heat baking off a bonfire. Her right hand rose, palm up. “I’m a bitch, and you all despise me. I don’t much care. I was born speaking the languages of the gods. All thirty of them.”
Say what? I exchanged a swift glance with Malik. As surprised as I by this comment, he shrugged slightly. As She Who Hears, the speaker of the gods, Princess Iyumi interpreted the gods’ will. But – born to this position, the gods’ mouthpiece listening to what the gods had to say while still diddling her diapers?
“I’ve been the High Priestess since I was four years old. My will isn’t my own. Nor is my voice.
“If any of you want this responsibility, please step forward.” Her hand dropped to slap her thigh, her scowl dangerous. “If you think you can do a better job, then knock yourself out. I’ll head home, put on a nice dress and drink wine in the garden. You, back there, who just call
ed me that vile title, by all means, put on the mantle, speak for the gods as their will slams into your soul. I’m quite certain your shoulders are broader than mine.”
Only the small crowd of giggling Faeries moved, fluttering over the heads of the crowd. If the silence thickened any more, I swear it might shatter like a dry twig. In the massed Atani force, no one spoke, coughed nor scratched a nose. But many eyes glanced toward their neighbors, or studied the ground at their feet. The shame I felt I glimpsed on many a face whether it had a nose, a muzzle or a beak. If I were in Iyumi’s boots, my shoulders would crumble under the weight of all that responsibility.
Iyumi nodded, pacing in her circle. “I didn’t think so. Only a merciless bitch can save this child of prophecy and keep our beloved nation safe from her enemies.”
“Your Highness –”
“Don’t ‘Your Highness’ me, Commander. Your own tongue has betrayed you.”
Iyumi’s eyes hardened into twin blue jewels. Beautiful and cold sapphires glowed within her pale features, her slender brows all but met over her nose. Her right fore-finger rose to shoulder level and pointed to his face.
“I know how often you and Van drank ale in your rooms and cursed my name. How you jested at my expense.”
That same finger drifted across me, Ba’al’amawer, Padraig, Raga, Windy, Muljier, Swift Wing, Aderyn, Valcan and every other soldier massed in the loose circle around her. I know my gut lurched when that menacing finger and chilly gaze marked me as guilty as sin. Indeed, yes, not a one of us stood innocent of the slanderous charge we lay at her door. Many armpits sprang in a sudden flush of heat as her eyes condemned us. Griffins flared wings and dropped their beaks as Minotaur horns dipped low. Human soldiers and mounted cavalry rapidly saluted, as though that alone might assuage her anger. Heads might literally roll should she demand revenge or justice in return for our insults.
Malik lowered his brow in both respect and homage, as his arm crossed his chest. “My liege.”
The Unforgiven Page 15
