by Cindy Dees
“Du’shaak!” the orc snarled as Will scrambled frantically to his feet. Adrick had told Will time and time again, never go down. To do so in a fight was to die. Desperation coursed through him, as the bigger, stronger, obviously trained, obviously angry beast shook the spear, jerking him around like a rag doll.
The orc swung his axe in a short, sharp arc, splintering the metal head entirely off the tough hickory spear. The beast tossed the spearhead away in disgust.
Realization broke over Will that he was going to die. The orc would pound him to death against the tree soon if the monster didn’t cleave him in half with that cursed axe. Already he felt beaten to a pulp and was losing strength.
Without real thought, Will’s desperation changed forms. Shifted from fear to thought, thought to intent, intent to action. Golden light crackled down the remaining length of the broken weapon, exploding off the jagged tip like chain lightning in a burst of force magic.
The spear nearly flew out of his hands as the magic discharged violently. His opponent was thrown backward even more violently, flying across the small clearing and slamming hard against a tree. The orc roared, his ugly face contorted in rage, and charged, seriously intent on killing Will now.
What was that?
It was one thing to dabble with his secret talent for magic alone in the woods. To push flexible limbs away from him and create tiny glowing points of light. But that massive bolt of damaging energy? Where did that come from? If anyone found out he could do something like that—
—the thought did not bear finishing. If someone from the village had spotted that distinctive flash of magic and reported him to the authorities, orcs would be the least of his problems. If he was lucky, he would be reported to the Mage’s Guild as an unlicensed magic user. He could end up forcibly drafted into the guild to serve it. If he was unlucky, he would be reported to Governor Anton’s men. Then Will could expect to be arrested and sold into slavery to wield magic for his master until death.
The orc scrambled to his feet with a roar of rage and Will concentrated with all his power upon maintaining his grip on the broken spear. It was the only thing separating him from death at the hands of the enraged beast.
Hastily he called more magic to himself, blasting it down the length of the mangled weapon. The bolt of force damage wasn’t nearly as powerful as the last one, and the orc was prepared for it this time. The beast absorbed the magic with a painful grunt and only staggered back momentarily.
Will stumbled back as well, doubtful that he could throw magic at his foe a third time. The spear was now effectively a wooden staff. This was a weapon with which he was much more familiar. He’d threshed more wheat than he cared to think about with just such a stave over the years. Ty had shown him a dozen different ways to swing a threshing pole to prevent muscle fatigue, too. He waited for the orc grimly as the beast gathered himself one more time in the scant moonlight.
The orc charged with a wordless shout, axe high over his head. Will ducked and dived left, sweeping the staff with all his strength into the orc’s shins. It wasn’t an elegant move by any means, but effective. The beast tripped awkwardly. Staggered. Fell. Almost as if something or someone pushed him. And the momentum of his fall threw him headfirst into the stacked rock wall.
Will stared as the orc lifted his head in a daze. A strange, reddish, mark in the shape of a barbed seed was on the beast’s forehead. Adrick had spoken of orcs marked by irregular red scars. Boki. The Lords of the Boar. The fabled orcs of the Forest of Thorns who nearly laid Dupree to waste when Will was but a babe. What was one doing here so far from his home?
It dawned on Will belatedly that this was his chance to leap forward and drive the broken end of the spear through the beast’s neck. But the idea of having to look that creature in the eye and kill him in cold blood froze Will in place. He was no murderer. Some might argue that yon orc was no better than a boar or a stag, but Will could not deny the orc was intelligent and had demonstrated a rough honor in giving him the spear to defend himself. He owed the orc no less respect. He would not cut the defenseless creature down in cold blood.
A faint smell, as of rotting meat, caught Will’s attention. He lifted his head sharply, scanning the valley below. All was quiet. Too quiet. The entire wood around the hollow had gone dead silent. And creatures of the forest never lied. Furthermore, it made no sense for an orc to travel alone. This one must be a scout of some kind. Which meant—
Will fell to his knees beside Adrick’s corpse and tore open the woodsman’s belt pouch. He fished around frantically, fumbling through the bits and baubles jumbled within. His fingertips encountered a smooth, curving surface, and he grasped it firmly. In a single swift movement he pulled the ox horn forth and stared in dismay. Its entire small end, the blowing end, was smashed. Useless.
Swearing, he scrambled to find Adrick’s whistling arrows and bows. The scream of one of them would warn at least some of the villagers. But the arrows, too, were broken into worthless matchsticks. The orc scout had done his work well.
Hoarse shouts—dozens of them—erupted behind Will, an unintelligible gibberish of harsh grunts and growls. Great stars above. That was no simple raiding party. It sounded like a small army erupting from the forest behind him. Tree branches splintered and leaves flew every which way as orcs, goblins, and even ogres burst out of the woods almost on top of him.
Great Lady, grant me speed, he whispered in his mind as he turned and ran as if the Lord of the North Wind himself blew Will forward. A roar went up behind him as the creatures spotted him and gave chase. He could only pray to reach the village and rouse its inhabitants before everyone was slaughtered in their beds.
He headed straight down the hill, leaping over fallen logs, dodging low-hanging boughs, and tearing recklessly through brambles that snatched at his clothes. He hoped his knowledge of the slope would lend him speed while the rough terrain slowed his pursuers.
His heart lodged in his throat and flailed there like a dying sparrow. His thighs pumped up and down, heavy with panic. Sweat popped out on his forehead. A stitch stabbed at his side. His lungs caught on fire. And still he ran as if a reaper from the Void were after him. Which wasn’t so very far from the truth. An arrow schwinged past his ear.
As he burst into the valley from the north, he spotted a second wave of orcs and goblins charging the village from the west in a coordinated flanking attack.
He drew within shouting distance of the cluster of huts. “Orcs! Ogres! Goblins!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “To arms! The hollow is under attack!”
* * *
Charlotte of Tyrel was as nervous as a maiden as she waited impatiently for her guests to freshen up, Pacing in agitation, she flung her hands up in disgust as it dawned on her she was wringing them. Bah. This would not do. She was the Lady of Tyrel, now. Not that sixteen-year-old girl from long ago.
She glanced at the paper-wrapped package sitting on her desk and wondered yet again at its contents. It had arrived the previous week with a note saying that it was for the elder of her two guests. What was Kadir up to, the sly old dog?
A knock on her office door had her whirling toward it. She forced herself to take a steadying breath, then called out imperiously, “Enter!”
She nodded formally at the older of her two guests. “Kadir. Welcome.” Awareness of him shivered through her like the magic of his caresses all those seasons past.
“Lady Charlotte,” he murmured, emphasizing her title with faint irony. He remembered, too, did he? “How do you fare?”
“Very well, thank you. And you? I trust your journey was pleasant.”
Kadir grunted, “It was long. The roads between Jena and here are dismal.” Jena, largest city in the Midlands, was at the exact opposite corner of the region from Tyrel.
They traded a few pleasantries before he brought up the reason he was here and the one subject she most dreaded discussing with him. Kadir asked soberly, “Does she know yet?”
Charl
otte was taken aback at his directness. He had to know full well this was a subject she much preferred to talk circles around. She had hoped their old liaison would count for something, that he might find a gentler way of breaking the news to her daughter than he ultimately had to her all those years ago. But apparently not. Her back stiffened and she moved behind her desk to sit. If his desire was for this conversation to be purely business, so be it.
She moved around her desk and sat down. “I believe this package is for you.”
“Ahh, yes. I was expecting that. I am relieved to see it arrived in a timely manner.” He leaned forward to pick it up.
She watched curiously as Kadir unwrapped the package to reveal a rather ugly stick, no longer than her forearm and no thicker than her finger, covered with bumps. “What is that?”
“It’s just a dousing rod.”
She was scholar enough to know that it was not just any dousing rod. Rather, it was a magic-imbued rod and, given who was holding it, likely a powerful one. “Where does it come from?” she ventured to ask.
“The Council of Beasts. It is made from wood of the treant Whisper.”
“The progeny of Spirit? That Whisper?” she blurted, startled.
Kadir shrugged disinterestedly. “I believe the council said something like that. I have no interest in their totems and nature mysticism. All that concerns me is that this rod aids in finding and transporting objects and people. If my companion and I had this a month ago, our journey to Tyrel would have taken a fraction of the time and misery.”
She eyed the rod askance. So much power in such an unassuming little twig? It was hard to credit. Almost as hard to credit as the mythic Council of Beasts itself having touched an object that now rested in her study.
“And why do you have need of such a thing here?” Charlotte asked.
Kadir smiled, a false politician’s smile over an inscrutable gaze, and she needed no further answer. It was a contingency in case her daughter gave him problems. Charlotte almost wished Raina would. Almost.
“With the accidental death of the young man you were planning to overtly pledge Raina to, we have had to move up the schedule for her,” Kadir announced.
Charlotte stared, stunned. “I beg your pardon?”
“We cannot risk something happening to her before she can do her duty to us.”
“And how do you plan to explain her offspring if she is not safely married off to some local boy?”
“That is not my problem.”
“Well, it is mine!” she snapped. “The tradition is that the daughters of Tyrel become engaged in their sixteenth year. They marry soon thereafter, and then you get your babes on them. After they marry. By law, bastard daughters do not inherit landholdings, which would give both of us headaches in training the girls and trying to explain why they do get to become the Ladies of Tyrel.”
Kadir shrugged. “The decision is made. How you explain Raina’s sudden offspring is up to you. But this happens now.”
Dismay poured through her. Kadir did not understand. The shame of it … the logistic problems … and then there was Raina herself. She would never agree to bear children outside of marriage—
Justin. He and Raina had been inseparable forever. He was common born, but educated enough and a good-looking lad. Charlotte’s husband said he showed promise as a swordsman, and she herself had sensed a latent talent for magic in the youth. He was not ideal, but he was close at hand, and Raina would likely agree to a betrothal to him. Yes. Justin could work.
“It will take some time to arrange, but I think I can salvage the situation here,” she said slowly, her mind racing.
“No,” Kadir replied firmly. “Now.”
Impossible! She opened her mouth to say so, but the younger mage of Alchizzadon, the one to whom she had yet to be introduced—an omission she was intrigued by from Kadir—spoke up first. “Does the girl know aught, yet?”
“The girl” was her daughter. And had a name. An impertinent question, that. But then, she supposed he might be somewhat impatient to meet his future lover. A little resistance overcome by a love poison and, stars willing, Raina’s experience would leave behind the same sorts of pleasant memories that it had for her.
Why then the sudden rage bubbling within her breast? It took her wholly by surprise. Memory came pouring back; she’d nearly revolted against this long tradition of her family’s when she’d been Raina’s age, and a remnant of that rebellion flared in her now.
Her adult reason took control once more. In spite of the wrinkle Kadir had thrown at them with his insistence on proceeding immediately, all would turn out right. Justin would cooperate. He was obviously sweet on Raina, and who would say no to marrying into a title and wealth? As for Raina, she would not fight a betrothal to Justin. Regarding the other part, the one involving the mages, she would be upset at first, stubborn even. But after the love elixir … yes, everything would be fine.
It had been Kadir’s eyes that turned aside the crisis for Charlotte all those years ago. They’d had been dark and soulful, brimming with sympathy for her, and had softened her heart just enough that logic and cajolery—and a love draught—had won the day. Something similar, some tiny thing, would soften her own stubborn daughter’s heart. Eyeing the young man speculatively, she allowed that he was handsome enough to capture her daughter’s fancy.
“Your husband? Does he remember anything?” Kadir asked.
She pulled her attention back to the conversation at hand. “No. The spell of forgetting has held.”
“Bring her to us, Char,” Kadir said gently. “It is time she knew the truth. Do you wish me to be with you for the telling?”
She gasped at the old endearment, her lingering doubts punctured by it. The moment of rebellion drained away, leaving her empty. Sad. “No. It will be best if I tell her in private.”
Kadir nodded in understanding. “As you wish.”
She rose from her desk to fetch Raina, personally. She needed the time to compose herself after Kadir’s bombshell revelation that everything must happen right away. She had no doubt there was more to the decision than simple concern that Raina might have an unfortunate accident. Which alarmed her mightily. What information was he keeping secret? A prophecy of some kind? A vague notion of warning her daughter nagged at Charlotte. But how could any young girl truly prepare for the revelations to come? How was she supposed to prepare herself for it as a mother?
She had dreaded this moment her entire adult life. But, inevitably, sickeningly, it had arrived. The moment of betrayal was upon her.
CHAPTER
3
Raina was surprised that her mother had yet to make an appearance at her birthday feast. Charlotte was nothing if not a fine hostess. Arianna had, of course, stepped in and taken over welcoming the guests and ordering the meal served. Raina suspected, though, that most here were more interested in the ale than the food.
The great hall had been transformed by streamers of white gauze and cascades of spring wildflowers into a magical bower for the night. As she looked out across the assemblage, warmth filled her at the collection of familiar faces. Neighbors and servitors alike, this was her family, and she felt safe and loved surrounded by them like this.
Interestingly enough, the visitors from Alchizzadon had not put in an appearance. It was almost as if they knew themselves to be intruders to this gathering.
The hour grew late and the assemblage was well into its cups, and still there was no sign of her mother. Raina spied Justin seated near the back of the hall with a brace of manor lads. He grinned and hoisted a brimming mug of ale at her. She smiled fondly as he broke into a bawdy song that was taken up immediately by the other feasters.
“Daughter.” She started at her mother’s voice behind her on the dais. She had not seen Charlotte arrive.
“Oh, Mother, my party is wonderful—” she began.
“Come.” Charlotte cut her off; her voice was as hard and cold as diamond under the raucous singing.
Her mother’s agitation was such that Raina did not ask what was wrong, but merely followed, worried, to her mother’s office. Charlotte held the door and Raina stepped past her into the chamber.
Raina ought not have been surprised that the Mages of Alchizzadon were behind her mother’s disquiet, not to mention the untimely interruption of her birthday feast. She studied the men closely, not bothering to disguise her interest. Both were tall, the older one thick and powerful under his cloak. The younger one was leaner, enveloped in restless energy.
Her mother closed the door, then sat down stiffly behind her desk. This was to be a formal meeting, then. Her mother gestured her to a chair by the corner of the desk, and she perched on the edge of it obediently.
Raina glanced sidelong at the mages and then looked again. From this angle, with the lamplight striking him just so, faint tattoos had become visible all over the older man’s face. The slashing lines and curlicues were reminiscent of the runes upon his cloak and had the effect of obscuring his face until all she really noticed was his eyes. They were black and penetrating, with power that stripped a spirit bare.
The older man’s gaze thankfully slid away from hers and locked with Charlotte’s. They traded a long, intense look that Raina could not make heads or tails of. There was most certainly a history between the two of them, but she could not fathom its nature.
The younger man had a single runic mark on his neck, climbing the left side of his jaw. If she looked at him straight on, it was barely noticeable. He was handsome in a bland sort of way. In a crowd, her gaze would slide off of him without ever really lighting upon him. Although self-disciplined, he betrayed faint discomfort in the hunch of his shoulders. He met her gaze for the briefest moment. And in that instant she could swear she glimpsed pity.
