by Anthea Sharp
The light grew stronger, until she stepped out of the woods into a meadow filled with tall, silvery grasses. The little golden glow she’d been following swooped back to circle three times around her head, then flew straight up into the sky.
“Wait!” Mara cried.
She stared up at the night until her eyes watered, but the mote had settled itself in among the stars. Now she was alone, and the wind suddenly blew cooler, bringing with it a dank whiff of something rotten.
Where did she go, now that her guide had abandoned her? She turned a slow circle, wrinkling her nose at the stench. It seemed to be coming from her right. Moving quickly, she headed away from the smell and into the meadow. The grasses were almost as high as her chest, but parted easily as she passed.
No matter how fast she went, though, she could not get away from nasty smell. In fact, it was growing stronger. There was a noise, too, a chittering sound that made the back of her neck prickle with fear.
She broke into a run, pushing through the grasses. The sound grew louder. Breath coming fast, Mara risked a glanced over shoulder, then wished she had not.
A hideous creature scuttled out of the forest. It looked like an enormous spider—if spiders had hard shells and pincer claws. It had at least six red eyes that swiveled to fix upon her. Quicker than she thought possible, it hurtled into the meadow, clicking and emitting a high-pitched screech.
Mara dug her feet into the earth, praying she could outrun the monster. A noxious shadow passed over her, and then the creature landed ahead of her, pincers raised.
A moan of fear curdled in her throat. Though it was hopeless, she drew the kitchen knife. It trembled in her hand. It seemed her adventure this night was going to be very short-lived, indeed.
The monster opened its mouth, and the stench that emitted nearly brought her to her knees. Then it jumped again, directly for her.
Mara dodged and went to her knees, slashing out blindly with her knife. Miraculously, it connected with one of the creature’s legs, sending out a spatter of green ichor that burned her arm. She let out a cry of pain and dropped the blade. Her forearm felt seared to the bone.
The monster screeched and pivoted, raising its pincers, and despair washed over her. Goodbye, my family, she thought. I wish I’d had the chance to tell you all I love you.
Then, from out of the blackness of the night, a new creature arrived. With a deep battle cry, it launched itself at the spider monster. Blinking away her tears of pain, Mara saw that it looked somewhat like a human man. His eyes were slitted like a cat’s and glowed with violet light, his bone-white features contorted in a fierce grimace.
He wielded a long, curved sword in one hand. As she watched, stunned, he cleaved through one of the monster’s legs, nimbly dodging the acidic spray of green blood.
“Vende!” he shouted, pointing at her.
Get away, she heard, echoing in her mind.
Cradling her injured arm across her chest, she scrambled back, but could not take her eyes from the fight.
The spider monster hissed, swiping at the man with its claws. He dodged the attack and raised his free hand. A ball of purple fire flew from his palm, hitting the creature in the head. The smell of scorched flesh joined the rank odor of the monster, and Mara swallowed back bile.
With a shout, her rescuer leaped gracefully forward and plunged his sword into the creature’s body. It let out a screech that rasped the air, then collapsed, legs and pincers twitching. One claw rose feebly and he set it ablaze with another gout of fire. After a few seconds, the monster stopped moving altogether.
“Rhanc na,” her rescuer said. It is dead.
He pulled his blade from the carcass and wiped it clean on the silvery grasses. While he was thus occupied, Mara scanned the battle-trampled ground for her kitchen knife. It lay near the dead monster, nearly buried by the churned-up soil. She scrambled forward, gritting her teeth against the pain in her arm, and grabbed the blade. It was a poor weapon, but better than nothing.
Gasping, she rose to her feet, knife awkwardly raised in her left hand.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What are you?”
“Nahtadh!” he exclaimed. You are hurt.
With two quick strides he stood before her, ignoring the feeble waving of her knife. He was tall and lithe, and wore dark leather armor. Pointed ears poked up through the midnight-black hair framing his pale face. Even without the battle grimace his features were forbiddingly alien—the sharp planes of his cheeks too angular, the set of his mouth too harsh.
Worst of all were his eyes, the irises contracting to thin slits as he studied her. She glanced away from the sight, trying to calm her galloping heartbeat.
She was not sure if she was in any less danger from this manlike creature than from the spider monster. Although he had come to her rescue, he was nonetheless quite terrifying.
With a shaky breath, she steeled herself and looked up into his glowing violet eyes.
The unfamiliar stars spun above his head, and the world seemed to tilt.
He reached to steady her. She flinched, and was surprised to feel his hands were warm on her shoulders, not corpse cold. A strange sensation coursed through her, a buzzing that centered on her injured arm. He dropped one hand and gently took her arm, and she let him straighten it, though the movement made her hiss with agony.
Thin lips turned down in a frown, he passed his hand over her arm. The pain lessened somewhat, and she let out a relieved breath, though she could not help noticing that his fingertips ended in hard ebony claws. He truly seemed more monster than man.
“Naresta,” he said. Help is nearby.
“I don’t trust you,” she said. “What kind of being are you? Do you even understand what I’m saying?”
He gave her a look she could not interpret. “Tolo.” Come.
She could not gaze overlong on his frightful features, but he was offering to help, and she didn’t have any other options. Mara took a step, then nearly collapsed. The adrenaline that had carried her through pursuit and attack had gone, leaving her shaky and filled with pulsing pain.
With a muttered curse, he swept her up in his arms. She barely had the presence of mind to keep hold of her knife as he bore her through the silvery grasses.
His stride was smooth, and it seemed to take no effort to carry her. Some of his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed her face, and she smelled the dusty scent of hawthorn blossoms. She was too afraid of him to struggle in his arms.
“Gartong,” he said. Hold tight.
He was a being of few words—but at least she was able to understand them. Though it seemed their communication was only one-way.
He shifted her in his arms, then lunged up. It took a moment for her stomach to settle, and then she realized they were on a horse. A very large black horse that seemed to have neither saddle nor bridle. He resettled her across his lap, holding her securely yet carefully. Her head rested against his chest, where she was relieved to hear a heartbeat. Her legs draped over his, and had he been a human man it would have been embarrassingly intimate.
But this strange, stern creature, despite seeming somewhat human, was certainly not a mortal man. If she were to guess, she would name him one of the fearsome Dark Elves out of legend. And she had fallen firmly into his clutches.
The horse moved into a walk, then a faster gait that was smooth as water. Mara listened to the Dark Elf’s heart beneath her ear and wondered what her fate was to be, and how she might escape it.
Chapter 9
By the seven bright stars! Bran could not believe he’d found the human woman he’d seen in his vision—and nearly lost her to a creature of the Void.
He didn’t know how the abomination had penetrated the barrier undetected, but it was a very bad sign. As was the appearance of the girl, if the prophecy was to be believed. Elfhame’s darkest hour must be nearly upon them.
She was a brave thing, he had to admit, even armed with that laughable blade. The fact she’d manage
d to cut the monster was impressive. But how strange she looked, with her soft, blunt features and small, clawless hands. She’d said she didn’t trust him—as if she had any choice in the matter.
His first impulse had been to take her back to the Hawthorne Court, so they might be married immediately. But she was injured, and the camp at the border was much closer than his father’s court. After they tended her wounded arm, and made sure she was well enough to travel, then the prophecy could be fulfilled.
Cautiously, he glanced down, to see that she was sleeping in his arms. The determination that had filled her face was smoothed away, and she looked vulnerable and young. His muscles tensed again at the thought of the Void creature attacking her, and a strange possessiveness welled up in him. He made a swift vow to the absent moon to do whatever he must to keep her safe.
In less than a half-turn, he crested a rise and saw the soft glow of the border camp ahead. The woman in his arms made a quiet moan of pain. Without thinking, he gently smoothed her mud-colored hair away from her face.
With his knee he nudged Fuin, his faithful steed, into a canter. The guards at the perimeter lifted their hands in silent greeting as he passed. On the horizon, the first light of the brightmoon washed out the stars.
When he reached the center of camp, he slid off his horse. Though he landed as lightly as he could, the girl’s eyes flew open and she stiffened in his arms.
“Hush,” he said to her. “All is well.”
Whatever magic lay between them, she seemed to understand. Her body relaxed, though she raised her head, surveying the tents and warriors.
“Are you at war?” she asked.
He made no reply. There would be time enough, later, to explain the dire situation the Dark Elves were faced with, and her part in saving them.
The healer’s tent was lit inside with golden everflame lanterns. Avantor, leader of the healing hands, hurried over when Bran strode in. He glanced at the human, and his eyes flared with questions.
“Void ichor burn,” Bran said. “Her right arm.”
“Lay her there,” the healer said, gesturing to an unoccupied cot.
Bran gently deposited the woman, then stood back while Avantor peeled the sleeve of her gown away from her blistered skin. She let out a hiss of pain, then looked up at Bran.
“Will it leave a scar?” she asked.
He did not know, and only pressed his lips together in reply.
She let out a low breath. “I don’t know why I bother asking. You don’t understand me, and all you do is give me that hideous glare.”
Bran opened his mouth to answer that he was not glaring at her, let alone considered hideous, but Avantor waved him back.
“Give me room to work,” the healer said.
Bran nodded and took a step away. He had some rudimentary ability to heal, but Avantor was far more skilled, and had spent years honing his abilities.
Humming a song of soothing, the healer passed his hands over the mortal’s burned flesh. She closed her eyes, a look of blessed relief crossing her face. It had been brave of her, to bear the pain so long without protest.
As Bran watched, Avantor made a second pass, golden light radiating from his palms. The reddened skin turned to pink, the blisters faded, but the ichor would leave its mark, a faint etching of lines on her skin. Thank the distant moon it had not burned her down to the bone.
“Her forearm will be weak and the skin tender for a quarter moon,” Avantor said. “And it will leave a scar. I’m sorry. The injury was not serious enough to call forth my deepest healing songs.”
“I understand.” Though Bran wanted his bride whole and unscarred, Avantor must conserve his power to tend more grievous wounds. There were few enough Dark Elf warriors standing whole upon the field as it was.
“Rest now,” Bran said to the woman, who seemed already half asleep.
She opened her eyes fully at the sound of his voice.
“Wait,” she said. “What is your name?”
He hesitated a moment. His full, formal name might be too difficult for her. Should he introduce himself as the Hawthorne Prince, or would that make him even more intimidating in her eyes?
She clearly took his silence for incomprehension. With an exaggerated movement, she pointed to herself.
“I am Mara.” She tapped her chest with her uninjured hand. “Mara. You?” She pointed back to him.
It was a simple name, and he decided to return it in kind.
“Bran,” he said, putting his own hand on his chest.
Her gaze followed the motion, and he saw her shiver at the sight of his partially sheathed claws. Then her gaze darted back to his face. Her eyes held more gold than mud, illuminated by the everflame, and he stared, caught by that brightness.
“Bran,” she said.
The sound of his name in her mouth sent a jolt through him, as though the prophecy had been waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce. He suppressed the feeling, and made her a slight bow.
“Mara.” It was not displeasing, as far as mortal names went.
Her lips bent into a slight smile and she closed her eyes.
Bran stared at her a long moment, studying the curves of her face—so different from the angular planes of his own people. Avantor cleared his throat.
“Are you in need of anything else, my lord?” the healer asked.
“No.” Bran gave himself a mental shake. “I’ll be consulting with Hestil. Summon me if there’s any change.”
“There should not be. She’ll sleep for several turns, and be a little unsteady on her feet when she wakes.”
“Fetch me then,” Bran said.
He hoped there would not be an attack while Mara was convalescing. The sooner he could get her away from the front and to the safety of court, the better.
Hestil was in the command tent, leaning over an array of maps spread out on the low table. She straightened when Bran walked in, and raised one eyebrow.
“My scouts tell me you arrived with a human woman. Could it be that the long-awaited prophecy is finally in motion?”
“Yes.” He nodded at the maps. “Have there been any more incursions beyond the ones marked?”
She made an annoyed sound. “For just a moment, forget you are a commander, and answer as though you have a heart. What do you think of her?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” It never had, not when he’d grown up bound by prophecy.
“Nonsense. You have to marry the girl. It’s better if you don’t find her odious.”
“She’s human.” He shrugged. “They are somewhat different than our kind.”
“Our kind. You know as well as I that before the doorway was closed, Dark Elves and humans interbred. Just because the Hawthorne line never intermingled doesn’t mean she’s of completely alien blood.”
“My mother would disagree.”
Tinnueth had always found the idea of the Hawthorne Heir married to a lowly mortal quite distasteful. Which was why she’d probably concocted the scheme to betroth him to Mireleth.
“Just because part-blood mortals almost never showed Dark Elf characteristics doesn’t mean they’re not compatible mates,” Hestil said.
Mates. Bran could not help the shiver of distaste that went through him at the thought. “The prophecy says nothing of breeding. Only that we must wed.”
His second-in-command regarded him a long moment, then gave a small shake of her head and turned back to the maps. “There’s been a breach further south. We were able to contain it, but the forces are spread too thin.”
“One creature got through,” Bran said, his voice tight. “It attacked Mara, and that might have been the end of us all, right then. We must increase the patrols.”
Hestil’s eyes widened. “Muck and mire. Was she badly injured?”
“Burned, but not too badly. She’s resting in the healer’s tent. I killed the creature.”
“Of course. And you know we haven’t enough warriors to add extra patrols.”
>
Bran clenched his fist and tapped it against the sword at his waist. What Hestil said was true—they were desperately shorthanded.
“Up the ration of puffdust,” he finally said. “We’ll all be short on sleep, but the alternatives are worse.”
Hestil frowned, but made no argument. They both knew prolonged use of the stimulant could cause debilitating headaches. Still, they had no choice.
“I’ll go out now,” Bran said. “Who’s in most need of a rest?”
“Lieth. She’s been pulling double shifts since you left.”
There was no censure in her voice, but Bran felt a stab of guilt anyway. Lieth was the strongest magic user the Dark Elves had, after himself. But she was not also heir to a court, and subject to the beck and call of an imperious father.
“I’ll send her in right away,” he said.
The brightmoon had just cleared the horizon, spilling milky light over the land, as Bran stepped out of the command tent. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the light, then went to fetch Fuin.
It took less than a turn of riding to find Lieth. The glow of her magic was a simple guide, though Bran noted the light wavered unsteadily as he approached. He dismounted at Lieth’s rough camp and tethered Fuin, then hurried to the clearing where she held the Void at bay.
She stood, bathed in a halo of purple light, one hand upraised to try and maintain the barrier. With her other hand, she directed a stream of lightning at a huge, lumbering creature who had obviously issued from the Rift. Its five eyes glowed menacingly atop an elongated neck and it sported a maw of wickedly sharp teeth, but thankfully its stumpy legs did not propel it very quickly.
Bran summoned his magic, adding his own powerful blast to Lieth’s attack. With a wet whump, the creature exploded. Lieth staggered back a step, but to her credit kept the flow of power going to the barrier. Quickly, Bran stepped up beside her, ready to lend a steadying shoulder.
