Maiden's Wolf (In Deception's Shadow Book 3)

by Lisa Blackwood

  The river was near.

  They were never going to make it. Silverblade knew it. Likely his mother knew it as well, but still they ran, the underbrush snatching at them. Neither of them tried to hide their trail. It would not matter if they had. The predators tracking them had senses beyond the physical.

  Some unknown distance behind, the remaining acolytes still followed them.

  Silverblade darted around a tree in his path. His mother stumbled and slammed into it. He doubled back for her just as she righted herself. Together they continued their desperate run toward the river.

  A phoenix might be faster than a human, but they were still awkward on the ground. If he could only shapeshift, he could outrun the acolytes. He’d even be able to carry the phoenix on his back as he fled. But his Larnkin was still stunned and reeling from whatever the acolytes had tossed at them.

  He could still feel the cold numbing chill from the acolytes’ strange net traps as if he was still trapped underneath them. From what his Larnkin had gathered before it was crippled, it looked like the elders and their guards had walked right into the nets as if they hadn’t seen them. Or perhaps, couldn’t see them.

  Not that Silverblade had fared any better. Even with the screams giving him a few moments’ warning, he hadn’t sensed those deceptively delicate nets about to drop down onto his shoulders. Maybe had he not been idly chatting with his mother, he might have seen what was coming, somehow prevented the tragedy from unfolding. If he’d been doing his duty and actively scouting for dangers…?

  Looking back, he wasn’t sure if it would have made a difference. He’d never run across something that had no scent, taste, or hum of power to it before. All life—all magic had an essence, some form of taste or smell. But not these power-sapping traps the acolytes had created. They were nothing—a void neither he nor his Larnkin had sensed.

  Cymael stumbled a second time, but continued toward the river. A crossbow bolt still poked out of her back, high up near her shoulder blade. Another had shattered her one wing bone and the soft, cream-colored feathers were now drenched in bright blood, her useless wing dragging behind. They didn’t even have time to secure it to her back. If they slowed for even a moment, they were both dead.

  Had their physical ailments been the only factor working against them, he might hold more hope of escape, but even though they were free of the nets, their magic continued to bleed out as if they were even now caught in those deadly, gossamer threads.

  Cymael was the most powerful elder in the group. Her fire magic seemed the only thing able to kill the acolytes and burn through the net traps. But even she’d been too late to save the first group caught in the nets—their screams still echoed in his mind.

  Ahead of him, Cymael stumbled a third time and fell heavily onto her knees.

  “Mother!” Silverblade didn’t bite back the instinctive call, worry for his mother overcoming centuries of training in a moment.

  Again he sought his lupwyn form even as he reached for her.

  Not even a drop of magic answered his call. Only a deathless cold emanated from that spot in his chest, next to his heart, where his Larnkin used to dwell. His own injuries ached and burned and bled. Rage was the only thing keeping him moving.

  He gripped his mother’s arm and dragged her back to her feet. “Mother, you must come. The river is only a little ways farther. If we reach it first, we may be able to lose the acolytes.”

  Silverblade didn’t actually believe that, but the hope might be enough to keep his mother on her feet a little while longer. Her normally rich, brown skin was ashen, a fine dew of sweat covered her skin, and she coughed, blood splattering her lower lip. Shock and exhaustion were clear in her trembling limbs, but she staggered in the direction he indicated.

  They managed another quarter candlemark of desperate, painful travel before he heard the sound of horses coming up behind them. He continued to half-carry, half-drag his mother towards the river. For all her height, she was slightly built, like all of her species. She topped him by more than a head, but weighed only half his mass. If she fell again, he’d carry her to the river, his own injuries be damned.

  Better they die in the river’s embrace than feed whatever dark power these acolytes served.

  Cymael lost her footing again, the force dragging her from his side. She lay on the ground, grey-skinned and panting with exhaustion. She no longer struggled to get back up. Silverblade stood over her protectively. He just needed a moment to catch his breath, gather his remaining strength, and then he’d carry her to the river. The slow drip of his blood, tiny plops hitting the dirt and leaf litter at too-frequent intervals alerted him that he didn’t have much time left if he intended to make it to the river. His worst wound was the crossbow bolt still embedded in his shoulder. Tearing it out would only make the wound bleed faster, draining him even more—so he left it even though his fingers twitched with the need to just rip it from his flesh.

  “Silverblade.” Cymael’s voice shook. He knelt beside her and she reached out to touch his face. “Go. Go now. There’s nothing you can do. My Larnkin is dead. I will follow it into the afterlife within heartbeats. Please, go. I must know that you survived. Go to Grey Spires. Your father is there, tell him and the others what we found here. I need to know that you live on in the world.”

  “Mother, no.” Silverblade begged. He hadn’t been a child in centuries, but his mother was an elder—powerful, old, a part of his existence. She couldn’t die. It was not possible.

  Cymael reached for him with trembling, blood spattered hands and cupped his face. “A child is always a mother’s baby. Always, my beautiful boy. Promise me you’ll escape our pursuers and live for me.”

  He doubted that was possible, but sometimes lies served the greater good. “Mother, I won’t let the acolytes have me. I promise.”

  She sighed softly and then her fingers went lax against his cheeks and only his own hands kept them cupped against his face.

  “Mother?”

  Her eyes were still open, looking up at the sky, at the bright orange and pink clouds high up, reflecting the sinking sun. Her spirit would already be flying up toward that light, to sit up among the stars until he one day joined her there.

  With a soft whine of pain, he placed his fingers over her eyes and gently closed their lids. With a prayer to speed her soul to the next life, he bent and gave his mother one last kiss upon her forehead.

  “Such a waste.”

  The cold voice came from somewhere behind him.

  “The Divine Speaker wanted to study her power. It had such a rich essence to it. Fortunately, we still have you.”

  Silverblade stood slowly—it was all he could manage. Already he felt the acolytes beginning to feed upon his critically weakened Larnkin. Even just standing would be beyond him soon, but pride kept him on his feet. He wouldn’t tarnish his mother’s memory by being weak, either in mind or body.

  He would do whatever he had to in order to keep his word, to not let the acolytes have him.

  They still hadn’t completely surrounded him. At his back, the fast-flowing spring-fattened river offered an escape. It wasn’t one he’d take if he was given a choice, but he was dead either way. The river just might allow his soul to escape to the afterlife. But if the acolytes got to him first, he wasn’t sure if he’d long have a soul at all.

  He eased back toward the river, casting one more look at his mother’s body. Pain lanced through him. He wouldn’t break his last promise to her. The acolytes wouldn’t have the satisfaction of draining him dry. Another step carried him that much closer to the river. Than another. Almost there.

  The acolyte spurred his horse forward and suddenly, three more were flanking Silverblade on both sides. He hadn’t even known they were there.

  Knowing he was out of time, he turned and willed his body into a run. He managed a dozen paces before a horse’s shoulder slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and into a patch of underbrush.

  He la
nded hard. A stout branch to the midriff drove the breath from his lungs.

  Grunting in pain, he rolled to his side, all his other wounds screaming with the movement.

  Nothing was broken, thankfully. Yet neither did he have the strength to move as more of his magic was devoured by the surrounding acolytes.

  One of the enemy grabbed his ankle and dragged him out into the open. The second one to arrive captured his opposite ankle and together they hauled him toward where their leader still sat his horse and patiently waited for them to bring him his trophy. Silverblade now knew what a felled deer felt when the huntsmen approached to finish it.

  This one wasn’t Trensler. He wasn’t old enough. Two days ago, Silverblade had seen Lord Master Trensler from a distance as the leader of the human priests was disembarking from a ship in the harbor.

  The leader of this particular group might not be Trensler, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Silverblade didn’t know this one’s name and he wasn’t likely to live long enough to learn it. Not that it really mattered. Without his Larnkin’s power, he had no way to communicate with his people over a distance.

  He didn’t have any hope of winning a fight against these acolytes either, not in his present state. At best, he’d consider it a mercy if he escaped to the river and died well away from the priests. But he was beginning to doubt his ability to accomplish even that. He was also beginning to doubt if death was an escape from ones such as these.

  Of the two priests dragging him from the underbrush, the one on the right clearly had his neck snapped, while the priest on his left had an Elemental’s blade run through his belly. The wounds were mortal, but didn’t seem to bother the priests. They were already dead.

  And still they served their dark master.

  If death could not defeat them, what hope did his people have?

  But fire could destroy them. His mother had proved that.

  He didn’t share his mother’s strength of fire magic, taking after his lupwyn father. But even so, had he, or the other Elementals, had some advanced warning about the acolytes’ specific powers, he or others of his kind might have been able to strike more efficiently at this new enemy. Perhaps even landing a crippling blow before the acolytes could bring to bear whatever dark power they wielded.

  There was one ray of light in this defeat. At least none of his pack were close enough to attempt a rescue and get enslaved themselves. Unfortunately, the great distance also meant he had no way to pass the critical information about the acolytes on to his people or any other Elemental before he died. Or worse, was enslaved.

  While Silverblade was mentally running through alternate scenarios, the leader stepped down from his horse and approached.

  “Ah, I see I won’t have long to study you, either. I hadn’t thought the Elementals were so fragile. Alas, I’ll remember that for next time my master wishes to fill his ranks with stronger servants.”

  Silverblade’s enemy knelt next to him and studied him for a moment. “You look human, but obviously are not one of our short-lived kind.” He pointed to Cymael’s body next. “I heard you call this one mother. You are a mixed breed?”

  Silverblade didn’t know why his enemies cared and just wanted to say to get on with it. Closing his eyes, he willed his body to remain relaxed and conserve what strength he had left.

  The acolyte walked a half-circle around him. “Come now, what species was your father? My master thinks there might be promise in breeding hybrids. Hybrids are often stronger than either parent if you pick the bloodlines well.” The acolyte chuckled. “Personally, I think the Divine Speaker may also have an eye for beauty. Your mother was certainly a stunning specimen.”

  Rage ignited in his soul, rushing to fill the numb void that had been growing in his chest. With the new heat of rage chasing away the chill for a few brief seconds, he snarled in wrath at the acolyte. But that was about all he could do, his body too weakened by blood loss and the acolytes’ feeding to do more than quiver.

  Silverblade’s attention shifted from what the acolyte was saying to a new, strange sensation crawling along his body, sending nerve endings dancing and flaring in pain.

  Now what?

  His rage was hard to hold onto as more of the unknown power flooded his body, distracting him.

  At first he assumed this was some new power of the acolyte’s, but strangely, the feel of being fed upon diminished, masked by the new power.

  Or he was growing numb to the sickening sensation of the feeding and this new power was just some other trick in the priest’s arsenal. Without his Larnkin to interpret this new strangeness, he didn’t trust himself or his senses, not with them fading in and out, like he’d drunk the heady wine of the spring rite festival.

  “Strange,” the acolyte said as he leaned down. “You just vanished from my mind. What is it you do, Elemental?”

  Silverblade didn’t know what the acolyte was referring to but he felt a stirring in the air and ground around him. He didn’t have enough power left to light a candle or make the grass shiver in a conjured breeze. He certainly couldn’t make the ground shake. If he still had power over that element, he’d have ordered the earth to open below their feet and entomb them all.

  The tingling sensation changed to a warmth, as a new power kindled in his chest. At first Silverblade mistook it as the last of his flaring rage. But no, this wasn’t emotion, this was magic, and not the cold, sucking power of the acolytes.

  He didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be worse than what the acolytes were about to do to him. It almost felt like another Elemental was trying to help him. But it didn’t feel like one of the other lupwyn scouts, and he knew of no other Elemental in the area. Opening himself to that power, he embraced it, studying it.

  If he had the power, he would have warned away the other from trying to help. Surely the acolytes would now be able to track another meal.

  Silverblade decided he wasn’t going to let that happen. Whoever was trying to help him didn’t deserve to have the acolytes sniff out his or her back trail simply for trying to help. With a savage twist and the last of his lupwyn agility, he reared up and snapped the neck of the acolyte on the right, and then kicked out to shatter his nearest knee. The injury wouldn’t kill the acolytes, since this Divine Speaker seemed able to reanimate his servants. But from what Silverblade had already noted, the same monstrous magic couldn’t heal, couldn’t unmake damage to its servants.

  Let it see how well it would command servants with no useable joints. He kicked out at a third acolyte, catching this one in the hip. The wet sound of snapping bone and cartilage was his reward. He rolled to his feet and staggered toward a tree, balancing there for a moment while he gathered his bearings. Ah, there was the river.

  And directly in his path to a likely watery grave stood the leader of the acolytes.

  Silverblade’s hands closed into fists and he wished for a lupwyn’s lethal claws. Instead, all that answered his desperation was that other foreign power. It continued to flow into him even as the acolytes fed.

  “You cannot escape, and even the river will not free you,” the acolyte said. “Come, stop fighting. Surrender. You will lose in the end anyway. If you give in now, you may join us and preserve your soul.”

  Silverblade knew a lie when one was spoken. If he surrendered to this acolyte, he wouldn’t have either life or soul. Death he didn’t fear, but to have his soul tainted or changed or destroyed—that inspired true dreaded.

  He shook his head to try to clear the ringing and the noise. The burning in his breast intensified as the foreign power continued to flow into him.

  Before there was only despair, but now, with that other power gathering in his bones, hope rekindled in his heart. That other power was a healer’s magic. Now that he was marginally stronger, he could sense its soothing, green essence even over the taint of the acolytes’ chilled magic.

  There was a powerful healer nearby and the fool was trying to help him.

 
Unfortunately, he only knew of one healer within a moon cycle’s travel of his present location, and there was no way he wanted that young, untrained female anywhere near these monsters. He wouldn’t be responsible for Beatrice’s death.

  If he could only shapeshift back into his lupwyn form, he’d be able to outrun these acolytes. He just needed to stall them a little longer for his Larnkin to gather power and change.

  After dismounting from his horse, the acolyte’s leader came to stand at Silverblade’s side and looked down at him.

  The creature that had once been human held out his hand. “Come, my master prefers living servants. Death has the unfortunate consequence of dulling the mind.”

  Silverblade supposed it would. He glanced at the acolyte’s outstretched hand, wondering if he could shapeshift yet. Whatever the young healer was doing, his Larnkin was growing in strength. He could even sense some of its emotions. The clearest was terror. More advanced communications were still beyond them.

  But Silverblade didn’t need words. He knew that it was his doom offering a helping hand up without needing his Larnkin to confirm it.

  “Will you not serve? My master’s offer is for a limited time.”

  “Serve or be consumed?” Silverblade challenged. “Someone needs to tell your master he doesn’t inspire confidence.”

  The acolyte flashed a smile. “No, I don’t suppose he does. I wasn’t even offered a choice, you know.” Again, the hint of a smile. He crouched down next to him. “I’m called Acolyte Brennan Ironsmith, by the way. And you are?”

  “Not your friend, comrade. Or servant,” Silverblade said, his voice raising with each word. “You killed my mother. I will never serve your master!”

  He lunged for the acolyte’s throat. The power which usually made his shift fast and painless was sluggish to respond, but claws sprang from his fingers and fangs lengthened in his mouth as his body began its change. He would gut his enemy, his mother’s murderer.

  Rage and the need for vengeance fueled his strike, giving his weakened body strength once more. Warm blood coated his fingers, but he’d barely registered the sticky substance before two acolytes were dragging him from his prey.