by Debra Dunbar
Famine’s Feast
The Templar, Book IV
Debra Dunbar
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Debra Dunbar
Chapter 1
Saint Dominigue—1677
The rain had been a light mist all day, but as night fell it grew brash and insistent, like the beat of a drum. Teleola heard it against the ground outside and the leaves overhead, marching in time with the pangs of her labor.
Smart child to have waited until nightfall to awaken, even if it meant taking his first breath in the damp air. If he had arrived during the day when she was in the fields he would have most likely died, and quite possibly her too.
Her little boy who walks in the night. She was sure the baby was a boy. She’d been sure since the first movement in her womb. And he was going to live. Teleola looked off through the rain at the black smoke winding its way around the trees and ground. He’d survive. Against all that gods and fate might throw against him, he’d survive. She’d make sure of that.
The pain came again, quick fast waves pounding against her. She was alone except for the rain and the smoke—alone in a makeshift shelter under a thick canopy of leaves giving birth to a baby she had no time to care for or food to feed. She would rise at dawn and return to the fields carrying this boy of hers, sheltering him from the sun with what rags she could find and her own shadow. For the first time in months, she saw the bleak future for both herself and her boy. He’d been the hope she’d clung to these months, the one thing that brought her out of this nightmare to dream of a life where people had full bellies, where people laughed and loved. But now, with the storm coming on and the pain increasing, she wondered if it had all been a foolish illusion. Again she looked to the smoke, thicker and darker than before. To lose hope was to lose everything, and Teleola wasn’t ready to lose everything.
The wind picked up, howling as it beat the rain sideways into her shelter, dotting her face with warm, wet drops. She felt a sharp pinch, then the flow of waters. The waves of pain merged into one long deluge of agony. If she hadn’t seen so many children awaken at her home across the waters, she would have believed her death was at hand.
“I’m here, my friend. I’m here to help you in this foolishness.”
Teleola looked up into the eyes of Yala. The woman stood over her, hands soothing her sides and lower back.
“It is time,” she whispered, easing her hands down the tree trunk for balance as she hunched deep into a squat to push.
“This is a bad place for a child.” Yala’s voice was sorrowful, but her hands continued their pressure on Teleola’s back.
“He’s a fighter,” she gasped in reply. “He will live. I will not let him die.”
Most women lost their babies early and Teleola had been certain she would too. But by the time the moon had swollen four times she knew this child would breathe the air. At that point she could no sooner tear the baby from her belly then she could take her own life.
Although taking her own life was something she’d considered over and over since arriving in this terrible place. Perhaps death could bring her home to the grasses and fields of her family. Death would surely be better than being marched across the land bound and chained to others and pushed into a small box that jolted and bounced for what seemed like a lifetime. Death would surely be better than slowly starving, sleeping on the hard ground, unwashed like an animal, getting up at dawn to work in the fields only to return at night with a belly that was trying to eat itself. The brave took their own lives. She was not brave. And now she had a reason to live—now she had hope.
A tied bunch of fronds blew off the roof and rain beat through onto the dirt floor. Teleola shouted, feeling herself stretch and burn, the weight between her legs unbearable. The smoke rolled across the ground, coming closer.
“Your child has arrived,” Yala said, reaching between Teleola’s legs
She tore, the burning sensation almost as painful as when she’d been branded for trying to run away. Then as quickly as it had begun, the sensation went away and she felt something slip from her, wet and long.
“You were right,” Yala told her, her voice betraying her excitement. “It is a boy.”
Maybe this child of hers would be Yala’s hope too. Maybe he’d be a hope for all. Teleola glanced again at the smoke so close to her shelter. But if he were to be their hope, first he must survive in a place where no one survived.
When she’d finished the end of the birth journey and cleaned up her shelter as best she could, securing the torn branches that served as her roof, Teleola finally took a moment to admire her son. He was ridiculously chubby compared to the adults here on the island. And he was brown, his skin quite a bit lighter than hers. Not brown like the bark of the trees, not brown like the dirt on the floor of her shelter. He was brown like the ground of the cane fields after a hard rain. His eyes were a cloudy gray that she knew would deepen and change. His fists waved with impatience as he rooted for his first milk.
She chuckled, a finger stroking his cheek as she fed him. “May you never go hungry, my son. May your belly and your heart always be full.”
Lightning lit the sky. In the brief moment of flashing light, she saw strength and determination in those cloudy eyes and she knew what she had to do. He was a fighter, but even fighters needed help. As his mother she would give him that. She would ensure that her son would live a full life, that he would outlive her.
“Give him a long life,” she asked, turning to the smoke that had moved near to curl around her feet. “Let him grow straight and strong, let him be happy with food in his belly, let him grow old to hold his grandchildren and tell them tales of his mother.”
The smoke took on the shape of a man, inky black with eyes as red as coals. “You ask too much of me. Your soul is not so clean that such a thing would be an even trade.”
Her soul was most definitely not clean by the pale man’s standards, but who were they to judge such a thing? Teleola lifted her chin, meeting those red eyes with the confidence of one whose ancestors spent their lives conversing with spirits. Sometimes a person had to bargain, and this spirit knew she was desperate.
“Let him live. Do not let him die. Let him live and I will serve you in life as in death.”
The smoky being bowed. “So be it.”
And with that he was gone, leaving Teleola to shiver in the mist that filtered through her leafy roof. She clutched her child tight, knowing in her heart that she’d done the only thing she could. This baby needed to live.
“I will call you Adeyemi.” Teleola smoothed a hand over the baby’s
black fuzz watching his eyes drift shut as he continued to feed. It was a good name. It was a strong name. It meant worthy of kingdoms, worthy of the crown. There was little chance for a crown in this child’s future, but at least there would be a future.
She held the baby to her skin feeling his round curves against her sharpness, letting him nurse until she was sure she was empty. Tomorrow she would need to go into the field to work with this baby strapped to her chest. He would survive the heat and the sun and the insects. He would somehow find nourishment in a world where everyone starved. He would live.
She’d made sure of that. He would live. He would not die.
Chapter 2
The smell of chicken wafted from the tents that were lined up along the side of the battlefield. Men and women sweated over propane stoves and wood-fires, the unseasonably warm October weather as well as their heavy medievalesque attire contributing to their discomfort. I was just as uncomfortable, in full plate mail with no tent to shelter me from the broiling sun.
The cook manning the chicken went back into the tent to pull seasoning out of a box while another man took his place. I wrinkled my nose. The guy had the requisite old-timey outfit on, but unlike the others he was greasy, his skin a sickly yellow hue. Flies buzzed around his head. Ew. Maybe I wouldn’t eat the chicken after all. My stomach growled in protest. It was cooked. The guy was just flipping it with a set of tongs. Wasn’t like he was licking it or something gross like that.
But there was something about him that made my skin crawl, something that raised the hair on the back of my neck. I’m sure they were grateful for any volunteer they got, but maybe they should have put this guy somewhere besides the kitchen.
“When does this thing start?” I muttered to Zac. My stomach grumbled again, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten more than a cannoli since waking up. That chicken was like a siren song. And it was one of two reasons I was here, in full armor, waiting to bash some heads in so I could eat the marvelous meal Zac had paid for.
“Any minute now. The marshal says he got hung up in roadwork on the beltway.”
The “marshal” was the red-bearded man hastily buckling a white belt around his tunic as he hurried onto the field. I was pretty sure he had on sweat pants under the tunic. Yep. That was clearly elastic at the bottom where his socks met a pair of brown loafers.
“Lords and Ladies! Welcome to the Kingdom of Aurora Crown Tourney.”
There were no Lords and Ladies. We were in the good old US of A, in Maryland, in a field outside of the city of Baltimore, surrounded people wearing an odd combination of home-spun potato sacks and yoga pants. Zac had signed me for up this tourney which was put on by the SPCA. At least I think it was the SPCA, although I didn’t see any puppies or kittens anywhere. I’d assumed it was a fundraiser.
Which was reason two why I was here. Free food on Zac’s dime. Money to help homeless dogs and cats. I was a sucker for both. Besides, I had nothing else to do today. The chicken dinner would cut into the evening time I usually reserved for Dario, but I’d needed to cancel tonight anyway. This was the first night of my police-mandated community service from firing a gun in a public place last week. The only reason I wasn’t in jail was that I had been defending myself from the murderous Boo Hag who’d already killed half a dozen city residents.
It was why I was a bit grumpy today. I wasn’t looking forward to five hours helping set up a cold-weather shelter for the homeless. It wasn’t the volunteer work that had me snarling, it was that once more something was cutting into my time with Dario.
I couldn’t see him during the day, since that’s when the vampire was literally dead and hidden away from the sun. We’d had scant time together the last week due to my Boo Hag chasing and his need to deal with rogue vampires north of the city. I missed him. His Renfield, Aaron, might be bringing me pastries, but it was being with the vampire that was the highlight of my evenings. Tomorrow night. I’d see him tomorrow night. In the meantime, I’d take all my aggression and frustration out on the tourney field, then feast it up knowing that I’d put on a good show for the attendees. It was all for the dogs and cats, right?
I wondered if I could write this in as community service too.
The first two combatants stepped onto the field, listening to last-minute instruction from the marshal before bowing to each other. There was a beautiful hand-calligraphy chart in one of the tents outlining the order for the double-elimination tourney. It was pretty straight forward stuff. Same sort of thing I’d been doing all my life, except these people weren’t Templars. I side-eyed Zac, wondering if I should hold back out there. I definitely had the unfair advantage in terms of training and practice, and didn’t want to be that jerk who pummeled everyone at a charity fundraiser.
The two on the field began to fight and I winced, watching their awkward footwork and clumsy swordplay.
“This your ‘ringer,’ Zachary? When you said you had a champion fighting for you today, I figured you were going to go gay on us and hook up with Conan.”
A well-muscled blond man buffed Zac on the shoulder. He was going for the Thor look and succeeding. My eyebrows shot up and I took in his nicely made armor. Hopefully I’d get to fight this guy. He looked like he might actually be a challenge. Although from what I could see happening on the field, bulk and expensive armor wasn’t indicative of any real skill.
“Aria, meet Wolfram. Aria is a Templar.” Zac’s voice was smug, as if he was solely responsible for my birthright.
The man shook my hand and I admired his grip. Was his name really Wolfram? Did anyone name their kids that nowadays? Of course, given that my name was Solaria Angelique Ainsworth, I could hardly cast stones.
“A Templar?” Wolfram smirked as if he didn’t believe it. “Maybe I’ll ask her to be one of my handmaidens once I’m king. Bet she looks hot in a dress.”
Wolfram was an ass. And I was thinking of adding delusional to that descriptive.
“Wrong country,” I told him. “You fighting today, or just prancing around in your armor swinging your plastic Mjolnir?”
Zac snorted at my joke, but I wasn’t sure Wolfram got the reference to Thor’s mighty hammer.
“I’m going to win today. And I fight sword and shield. Pansies fight with hammers.”
I’d like to hear him say that to Thor’s face. This guy was annoying me. Worse, he was clearly discounting my ability to fight. Templars fought—all of them—men, women, young, old, disabled. We all respected each other’s strengths and abilities, but at the end of the day we all learned to fight. If the worst ever happened and the Temple was attacked, it would be all hands on deck. Even the weakest among us would be called upon to defend mankind. It was our way. And any Templar child who mocked the slight or less skilled among us was firmly reminded of the tale of David and Goliath. A slim young boy armed with only a slingshot could take down the mightiest of warriors as long as God was on his, or her, side.
“I too fight with sword and shield,” I told him, trying for that doe-eyed Maid Marian look. “How about a little side bet. You win, and I’ll sit at your feet in my underwear, Slave Princess Leia style while you eat your chicken. I win, and you don a dress and do the same.”
He laughed, once again nailing the Thor imitation. “Deal, Templar Aria. See you on the field.”
Wolfram strode off, me glaring holes into his rather fine backside.
“You’ll beat him,” Zac reassured me. Actually I got the feeling he was trying to reassure himself. I had no doubt that I’d beat Copycat Thor. And if not… Well, thankfully I wore some decent underwear today.
The marshal shooed the two fighters off the field, having declared one the winner. Next up was me, battling some guy named William the Red. We both walked forward to meet the marshal in the middle of the field.
“William,” he greeted my opponent with a nod. “And… Aria. You’ve received your authorization to fight in Aurora?”
“Yes, Sir. I have an authorization card on file.”
/> Zac had made me read two handbooks and suit up to fight him in front of a portly drunk man who declared me “good enough.” We’d checked in with a Minister of the Lists upon arrival to make sure she had me down for the tourney as well as the paperwork regarding my authorization. I’d been rather impressed at the care they were taking to make sure some bozo didn’t just walk off the street with a rattan sword and plastic chain mail and get himself seriously injured. We Templars weren’t as thorough, but we pretty much knew everyone and I’m sure our insurance liability issues weren’t the same as an SPCA fundraiser.
The marshal then proceeded to check our weapons and armor, nodding his head in approval. Then he backed out of the way. We separated, each of us falling into a defensive stance as we eyed up our opponent for obvious weakness.
I found one. In fact, I found a dozen.
William approached me with an odd sideways hopping step, his massive shield held in front and his sword extended back and up above his head. I stared for a second, not sure what type of fighting technique he was attempting. About three feet from me William stopped his forward progress and began hopping back and forth, and sideways. It reminded me of steps to an aerobics class I once took. Finally, he swung. And since his sword was all the way behind his head, I had plenty of time to see it coming and easily deflect it with my shield.
Deflect. The two earlier fighters had been blocking the sword strikes head-on with their shields, letting the impact of the blow run through their arms. I was about fifty pounds lighter than William, and as a woman I didn’t have his upper body strength, so I did what I’d been doing since I was eight years old—I redirected the momentum of his blow, pushing his sword across the front of his body where his arm pinned against the edge of his gigantic shield.
No one wants to slam their arm between the edges of two shields, even if that arm is covered with painted plastic, so William pulled the shield out of the way of his sword arm, and pivoted.
