Immortal Defiance

by Laura Maybrooke

  A third group marched to join the other two, their intention clear from the start.

  “Give her to us,” their leader said. “We’ll make sure she gets to the Master.”

  The red-caped man bared his teeth at the newcomers. “Piss off! You have no business here!”

  “Watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it off. She comes with us.”

  The crowd pressed closer. Dulcea watched them shifting between ogling her and staring at the groups arguing over her. The atmosphere had morphed, and she shivered at the ominous sense of expectation sweeping through the soldiers like a tidal wave. The man holding her dug his fingers into her thigh with sudden force, the rag in her mouth muffling her pained yelp.

  There were angry shouts from the crowd.

  “Dulcea the witch queen!”

  “Not so mighty now, is she?”

  The crowd chorused, feeding each other’s agitation and frenzy.

  Her captor dropped her to the ground. “Damned woman! I’m not getting killed for you!”

  Her breath escaped her lungs. Dulcea tried to roll and get to her feet, but the tight ropes binding her hands and feet restricted her movements, and she fell face down on the cavern floor. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her arms and legs were jelly from the long hours of forced immobility. Ever more men flocked to the scene, eager for a piece of the action. Fights broke out around her. No one maintained authority anymore, and the growing mob was howling for her blood.

  Several dozen hands fought to grab her. Dulcea tried to cringe away from them, but there was nothing she could do. The Saruseans were either fighting each other or trying to get their hands on her. To Dulcea’s horror, they seemed to have forgotten about taking her to Master Neros. They were not trying to kill her, either; instead, they were pulling at her hair and tearing at her clothing.

  A swift knife thrust sliced the ropes, and as soon as her hands and feet came free Dulcea tried to kick, claw, and fight, but it was useless. She was alone against a hundred, her mind cursed and her body weak. The soldiers were laughing and shouting obscenities at her, rending the last pieces of her clothing and groping at her exposed skin.

  The lights went out without warning. Everyone halted; even the men on top of her pulled back in confusion. There were shouts and sudden screams of agony from the crowd. Dulcea did not understand what was going on, but she guessed from the pattern of the sounds that someone was clearing a path toward her. Several pairs of hands grabbed her and dragged her back upright.

  The torches, lamps, and cooking fires flickered back to light, as if a dark spell had passed. Dulcea found herself surrounded by a group of men and women in black robes. The mob held back at a respectful distance, although there were still a few furious shouts in her direction. Dulcea dry heaved, feeling shaky and nauseous from the narrowness of her escape. She did not want to consider what would have followed had these priests or mages not interrupted. By now she was only wearing ripped deerskin trousers and an elven corset, and she had lost one of her boots.

  They took her into a temple deep inside the underground base. Where the stone halls before had been gray and bare, the temple was colorful and decorated with walls of rune stone. Dwarven, she supposed, for they were neither of elven nor human origin. A man awaited her there. Based on the fabulous serpent embroidery on his robes, he was likely to be a high priest of Asherac.

  “Well met, Dulcea Lightbringer.” The man’s tone was polite, and his voice had a clear, ringing note to it. “I am Neros, a high priest of Asherac, and the master of this fortress. Welcome to Serpent Rocks.”

  She swallowed. The reprieve was over, and the fear was rushing back into her.

  “Have you no manners to greet your host, my lady?”

  Dulcea glared at him in cold silence. She had no desire to speak with him.

  Neros tapped his chin. “You understand what I am saying, do you not, Lightbringer? I thought your kind learned enough to speak the language of the lords. Or did the men outside perhaps frighten you speechless?”

  Dulcea stared hard at him. She would not allow him to see her flinch.

  “I understand what you are saying,” she said in Sarusean. “Your men do not frighten me.”

  The high priest grinned. “Make no mistake, my lady. They would have torn you to pieces. They have lost everything they have because of you, and even your renowned magical powers would not have saved you.”

  Dulcea fought not to shudder. She righted her lithe frame as best as she could.

  “Your reasoning makes no sense. We are not thieves. We only want to take back what is ours.”

  Neros laughed. “That is your version. Why is it any worthier than ours? Caeryn has been home to us for six long centuries. Most of us have never been to S’Aruse. We bow to its king only because our parents teach us so. You are not simply taking back what is yours. No, you are stealing these people’s hopes, the only home they’ve ever known. You seek to drive us to the unknown, to a land we do not know.”

  “This continent was ours before you came and put us in chains.” Dulcea gritted her teeth.

  “I cannot help the decisions a king made six hundred years in the past.”

  “You destroyed our culture! You raped and pillaged like it was your born right!”

  “Again, I am not accountable for what an ancestor of mine did six centuries ago. The history of this world is full of violence. We have always fought for our own place. This land is mine.”

  “Your king did not need to conquer. Dranmore is wild and empty, and most of Lavea and Miranma are uninhabited.”

  Neros made a dismissing motion with his hand. Dulcea shut her mouth.

  “Enough. We will never see eye to eye on this.”

  “What will you do now?” Her tone was venomous. “Throw me back out to the wolves?”

  “No. There is a different fate my Lord Turendar has instructed for you.”

  “How different?”

  Dulcea had no wish to speak with Neros, but she wanted to know what the Saruseans had in mind for her. Perhaps they meant to imprison her. Or perhaps they intended to send her to S’Aruse. If they kept her alive, there remained a chance for escape. She would not give in to despair yet.

  “I am glad you should ask, my lady. A great honor awaits you,” the high priest said. “It will be dawn in a few hours; a poetic moment for the dying of light, would you not think? A new age will begin.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “At dawn I will sacrifice you to Asherac, and you will serve until the end of time as the Dark God’s handmaiden.”

  Dulcea tried to suppress her shivering. She turned her head to the side and said nothing. She wished the men outside had finished their intended task. The thought of suffering once in their hands was infinitely preferable to an eternity of pain and humiliation in the House of the Dark God Asherac.

  Neros pressed a hand to his chest. “I wish to stress what a great pleasure this is to me. Your life is the most significant sacrifice I have ever had the honor of offering to my god. I doubt such a prize will fall into my hands again in my lifetime. I believe I do not exaggerate when I say that today is the most important day of my entire life.”

  Dulcea glowered at him, fisting her hands. Bitter contempt boiled in her veins.

  “Is there anything you wish to say to me, my lady?” He sounded almost kind. “Speak freely. Is there some final message you wish to leave? Or perhaps a final desire we may grant? Food, water, clothing? I would gladly see you spend your last moments in relative comfort. It is unnecessary to torture you. You might receive plenty of that after your death, I imagine.”

  Dulcea wondered if Neros was insane, making her an offer like that.

  “I have nothing to say to you. You are all murderers and madmen.” His deceptive kindness made her uncomfortable.

  “As you wish.” He did not appear offended. “I must take my leave of you now, my lady. It is time for me to prepare for the ritual. We will see again at dawn.”
>
  The lesser priests took Dulcea away, escorting her into a large candle-lit room dominated by a massive stone altar. Dulcea could see old blood stains covering the altar and turned her face away. A sickening, burning sensation swelled in her stomach.

  She tried to think of a way out of this situation, but she was alone and without her powers. How had they cursed her? How had she gotten so careless? Had she truly been so sure of her victory that she had ceased to pay attention?

  A shiver ran through her. With a sinking feeling Dulcea realized her error. They had been right all along. Amparo Darksun, her dragon guardian and the leader of the Golden Clan. Myoden, her second-in-command and a long-time friend. All her other generals, too: Haden, Tarim, Nemnyan, and Hai’Mezene. Even Lady Pendralyssa whom they had lost three months ago during the siege of Fellmaar…

  They had long admonished her for her recklessness. She had always dismissed their concerns with a smile, with great confidence in her own powers, but now she would learn her lesson the hard way.

  The priests and priestesses lifted Dulcea on the altar and chained her hands and feet into its four corners. The metal of the manacles felt cold and heavy on her slender wrists. Dulcea shrank away with disgust and horror from what has happening to her, but her pride kept her silent. What use would it be to scream? Begging, crying, and fighting back would not stop them; it would only make them spread the word that Dulcea Lightbringer made a pitiful fool of herself in her final moments.

  The priests left the room, and Dulcea collapsed on the stone slab, astonished at finding herself alone. Her heartbeat slowed and her breath calmed. She would have a moment of free thought before they came back at dawn.

  Dulcea was now certain she would die. She could not think of any way of stopping it. Her spirit would not be free but bound forever to the monstrous god whom the Saruseans served. The mere thought of it almost paralyzed her, but she kept telling herself to remain calm. She would not show her fear to them. She would think of the sunlight filtering through the foliage back home at the Silverwoods, and that light would keep her from sinking into permanent darkness.

  Dulcea stared at the black ceiling, shivering from the cold of the underground. She attempted to recount all the important things in her life before it was to end when out of nowhere she heard a soft voice.

  “A damsel in distress.” To her confused surprise, the language spoken was Caerynian Common instead of Sarusean, the tone of the words fascinated. “A maiden sacrifice.”

  Dulcea thought she saw a shadow move from the corner of her eye, but when she turned her head to look there was no one there. For an instant, fear took her breath away.

  The seconds ticked by, but nothing happened. She saw no one.

  “Aren’t you going to ask who’s there?” the voice asked her after a moment, sounding amused.

  It was a man’s voice, deep and smooth—almost familiar, like something half heard in a dream.

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “Who are you?”

  “I could tell you my name, but it would mean nothing to you,” the voice said. “I can tell you what I am instead: I am the beast that has come to collect you.”

  Chapter 2

  An Unlikely Alliance

  Even if it had saved her from this, Dulcea could not wish she had never left the Tower.

  ---

  Sraeyn, great southern grass plains. Mead Moon (summer season 7087).

  The first year of the Rebellion.

  Black, sleepy twilight crept inlands from the river, cloaking the Enchanters’ White Tower in its warm embrace. The sky outside was midnight blue, and the grassy plains around the white stone tower were silent and dark. Life within the fortified walls had calmed for the night, and only the master enchanters walked the halls of the tower of illusions.

  The year was 7087, said the old Caerynian calendar. It was a dark age filled with fear, terror, and uncertainty. Age of Glory, said their Sarusean conquerors. The cruel iron hand of the people of the west had reigned in the continent of Caeryn for nigh on six hundred years. Centuries before a powerful alliance had existed between the four kingdoms of Caeryn, forged by four great dragonlords, but that time was far in the past now. The Age of Heroes had come and gone.

  That night, Dulcea Silanquel took the first step toward becoming the fabled heroine for whom her shining optimism and the golden dragons’ presence would soon earn the nickname Lightbringer.

  ---

  Her blood ran cold. The hair on her nape stiffened.

  Her throat felt raw. “Keep away from me!”

  “You are afraid. Good. You should be. Things do not look good for you.”

  Dulcea whipped her head from side to side, but still she saw no one. The voice seemed to come from a different direction every time it spoke. She could not tell if she was talking to a person under an invisibility spell or a disembodied spirit.

  “What do you want?”

  There came a soft, answering chuckle from somewhere nearby. “If only it were that easy. What do I want? The mind can want one thing, the heart another. Reason and instinct can both be at conflict. It is not so much about wanting as it is about choosing a path, and I have not yet chosen.”

  “Who do you serve?” He sounded different from the priests.

  “I serve no one.”

  “No. Everyone serves someone, even kings and emperors.”

  “I am neither a king nor an emperor, but I serve no one.”

  Dulcea froze. Fear entered her mind. She had the sudden dreadful premonition that perhaps she was already dead and talking to Asherac himself.

  “You refused to heed the counsel of your friends,” the voice said. “You ignored the caution advised to you, only to find yourself in this wretched place. How does that make you feel?”

  Her breath failed her. Dulcea wheezed, trying to calm the panicked fluttering of her heart.

  “I bet you have some regrets and would welcome a second chance.”

  The faintest hope stirred in her breast at his words. Perhaps he meant her no malice.

  “Yes…” Her tone was cautious. “I wish for a second chance.”

  “It is a vain wish. There are no second chances. All of us we only get one try, and if we fail, we must live with the consequences. You have failed. I am not here to rescue you. I am merely here to offer you a different kind of nightmare.”

  “What… what are you talking about?”

  “I cannot seem to choose on my own, so you must do it for me. Would you like to take your chances with me… or with them?”

  The heavy doors in the four corners of the temple flew open, and black-clad priests and priestesses streamed in, chanting in low voices. Dulcea drew a deep, shaky breath and braced herself. Dawn had arrived, and faster than she could comprehend. This was it, then. The end of everything. She was not yet dead; the horror was yet to come.

  The priests circled the temple at a slow pace, stopping to wave wooden talismans at the candles that lit the place. One by one, they changed color to a dark, rusty orange, and soon the temple bathed in darker and more sinister light. The priests arranged themselves around the altar, but kept their heads bowed so low she could not see their faces. The chanting cut off without warning.

  Neros entered the temple, dressed in robes so studded with jewels and metal thread embroidery that it looked like he was wearing an enormous, glittering snake’s skin. On his head was a metal headdress shaped like the head of a rearing cobra. Six other priests followed him, all wearing metal masks over their faces, and each holding a snake-shaped dagger high above their heads.

  The priests in simple black all kneeled and pressed their heads down to the floor in worship, then stood up again and resumed their chanting.

  Dulcea fisted her hands. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her vision faded. Her teeth chattered from the cold. She clung to the only hope she had. She should not wish for a rescue, the strange voice had said, but she could choose an alternate fate. A different kind of nightmare. Dulcea chewed
on her lower lip. Could any nightmare be worse than what was about to happen to her? What if it was a trap? This was Asherac’s temple in the middle of a secret Sarusean base. What sort of sinister creature could come here unnoticed and speak with her?

  What if her premonition had been correct, and it truly was Asherac himself, come to toy with her?

  But then again… she had nothing to lose.

  Neros and his procession dispersed around the altar, drawing patterns in the air with their raised daggers. The high priest stood on Dulcea’s right. He lifted his arms and chanted with an exulted look on his face. Dulcea fixed her gaze in the ceiling and steeled herself, hoping for the mystery voice to still hear her.

  “I would take my chances with you,” she said to the empty air. “Whatever you are, help me!”

  ---

  Sraeyn, peasant village Twyre. Mating Earth Moon (summer season 7087).

  The first year of the Rebellion.

  From our vantage point we see everything. We know your every thought and your every motive.

  Dulcea awoke with a start, her hand seeking the small velvet pouch around her neck. The glossy golden stone inside pulsed with life, as though a tiny creature had lived inside it.

  “Who is it?” she whispered the words aloud, but no one answered. “Who is it?” she tried again, her fingers curling around the smooth, golden stone.

  I am Amparo Darksun, a voice sounded in her mind.

  She trembled. His name and voice were unknown to her, and yet her heart knew him. His mighty presence had loomed on the edge of her consciousness ever since she had first touched the golden stone, on the night of her escape from the White Tower. Over a month had passed since then, but nothing had prepared her for the humble humility of at last talking to one of the ancient dragon kind.

  The stone, lodged between her hands, radiated warmth. She pressed it to her chest.

  “I am Dulcea Silanquel,” Dulcea said, not knowing how else to respond to the mind voice in her head. “I am a daughter of the elves. In my youth I called the Silverwoods my home, but these many years I have been with the enchanters in Sraeyn. I have taken the golden dragonstone without permission.”