by Martha Carr
Maleshi snorted. “That’s more than enough fellwine to last us a week, kid.”
“Oh, shit.” Cheyenne stared at the green glass bottles and chuckled. “Seriously?”
“I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a barrel of Bloodshine either if I were you.” The general shot Cheyenne a sidelong glance and subtly nodded across the chamber toward Ember, who had been pulled into a conversation with Lumil, Byrd, and two battered orcs. “Sakrit made a good call on that one too. You might not know about it.”
“Fae don’t drink fellwine.” Cheyenne pressed her lips together to keep from laughing and nodded. “We already figured that one out.”
Maleshi grinned. “Aren’t you just privy to all the nuances of O’gúleesh drinking customs?”
“Spent a lot of time in Peridosh. Where else am I supposed to go out on a weeknight to get in a barfight or two?”
“Earthside?” The nightstalker shook her head. “I couldn’t tell ya. Here, though, for the next two weeks, you can go just about anywhere to get the same results, and you won’t find a single O’gúleesh reveler trying to fight you. No war machines tunneling into the marketplace, either.”
Cheyenne watched the cups being passed around and finally let herself smile. “Promise?”
“Ha. Once those bottles open, kid, I won’t be able to promise you a damn thing.” Maleshi leaned toward her and lowered her voice, though no one would have heard her over the rowdy conversation and the rising shouts coming from Byrd and Lumil as they argued about who slashed up more Crown soldiers. “Good way to deflect from the real issue, though.”
Cheyenne looked slowly across the chamber. Almost all the rebels had a drinking vessel of one kind or another, but Sakrit still hadn’t popped the corks to let the O’gúleesh liquor flow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Have an issue with large crowds, huh?”
Cheyenne focused on Ember and the goblins again and slowly exhaled through her nose. “I do when the whole crowd’s touching me and shouting my name.”
“Who else’s would they be shouting, kid?”
The halfling swallowed. “I don’t need to be put on a pedestal, Maleshi. I didn’t fight those magicals, and I almost didn’t finish what I came here to do.”
“Bullshit.” Maleshi straightened the front of her military jacket, sending a shower of dust and what looked a lot like flecks of dried blood to the floor around her. Then she lifted her chin and clasped her hands behind her back. “You put yourself on the line as much as the rest of us to get to the Heart. Every O’gúleesh in this ridiculous bunker would make the decision to stand behind you and fight a thousand times over just to get to where we are at this moment. It might not seem like much right now, Cheyenne, but what you did today was impossible until a few hours ago. They were ready to give their lives to make the impossible happen, and they’d do it again in a heartbeat, no questions asked.” The general turned to face the halfling princess and raised her eyebrows. “So would I.”
Cheyenne shook her head and had to look away. “How many of them did?”
“Two.” Maleshi didn’t skip a beat in answering. “They’ll be sent off in O’gúl warrior fashion before the end of the week. Thanks to you, it wasn’t any more than two. I can’t say I enjoy losing the use of my own body for an extended period of time, but it was quick thinking.”
Cheyenne snorted. “I told her to call off the fighting, not freeze the whole damn courtyard.”
The general threw her head back and let out a deep, unhindered laugh. “That drow bitch wants every thinking mind in this world to believe she’s got everything under control, but she’s as fond of stretching the truth as her brother.”
Catching sight of L’zar beside the open and almost empty trunks of metal drinking cups, Cheyenne wrinkled her nose. “Still weird to think of that connection. I did not see that coming.”
“If you’d known all that before you agreed to come here and return your marandúr, would it have swayed your decision?”
The halfling blinked quickly and shook her head. “I don’t know. But I should’ve been given all the facts first.”
“I agree, you should have. You deserved to know the truth like the rest of us.” Maleshi dipped her chin and took a deep breath. “But we couldn’t take the chance that telling you would drive you away from your birthright. That’s part of being a leader, Cheyenne.”
The halfling snorted. “Being lied to?”
“Letting what you deserve take a back seat to doing what’s right for those you’re responsible for protecting.”
“Wow. You sound almost as philosophical as Corian right now.”
Maleshi’s smile tightened as she turned toward Cheyenne and shot her a quick wink. “I’ve had thousands of years to ruminate on my choices, kid.”
“And last but not least!” The huge orc with the black bands of paint around his tusks stomped toward them with a metal goblet in hand. “For you, Aranél.”
Cheyenne gave him a deadpan stare as he bent low in a semi-mocking bow, delivering the goblet with his other hand behind his back. He chuckled and stared up at her with narrowed yellow eyes until she took the thing and turned it over in her hands. Made of black metal, the goblet seemed to suck away the light around it and funnel it into what looked like rubies studded all over the cup above the long, thick stem. “I get the fancy cup, huh?”
The orc’s laughter rumbled through his chest. “It’s a replica. The gems are fake. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Wonderful.”
“So feel free to smash it at the end of the night. It’s been done before.”
Cheyenne couldn’t help her wry chuckle as she stared at the dark goblet. Not that many times if they’ve been waiting this long for something to celebrate.
The orc straightened and fixed his gaze on Maleshi. A hush fell over the bunker’s main room when the other rebels realized what was happening. Some of them nudged their neighbors to interrupt the conversation and point out the next interesting moment.
“And for the Hand of the Night and Circle,” the orc’s lower lip turned down as he grinned around his thick tusks, “a token of our undying gratitude for the spark of this fell-damn revolution.”
Maleshi lifted her chin and stared him down. Despite the orc having at least six inches on her, the general could have been the tallest magical in the room. “Well?”
He whisked his other hand out from behind his back and thrust a mangled, glinting silver shape twice the size of his palm under her nose. Maleshi blinked. The quiet rebels around them sniggered and tried to fight back their amusement. It took Cheyenne two seconds to realize the unusual shape was a creature’s skull with the bottom jaw removed.
Maleshi’s nostrils flared as she looked up from the silver skull and scanned the tensely waiting magicals scattered around the chamber. “Which of you brainless morons went through my personal effects when I made my great escape?”
No one said a word. On the far side of the chamber, L’zar cleared his throat and nodded toward Corian, who was standing behind him. The nightstalker blinked in surprise at the skull in the orc’s outstretched hand, one tawny, tufted ear twitching above his light-brown hair. Then he laughed and slowly pressed a fist to his heart as he met Maleshi’s gaze. “My blood for the Hand of the Night and Circle.”
“In battle or the bedroom, vae shra’ni?” jeered a goblin with his arm in a makeshift sling.
The rebels exploded in boisterous laughter again, pointing at Corian and falling over themselves in their mirth. Feet stomped on the stone floors as the rebels pushed each other around and laughed harder. Corian grinned at Maleshi, and she snatched the silver skull out of the orc’s hand with a half-joking hiss. “And you sent Jara’ak to return it to me for you.”
“I wasn’t planning on returning it at all,” Corian shouted above the howling laughter and the pounding echoes. He turned slowly toward L’zar, who looked at his nightstalker Nós Aní with a mocking shrug.
Maleshi la
ughed and stormed toward the bottles of fellwine and the metal keg on the table. “Dahal would be rolling in his grave if he saw this skull empty in my hand. What are we waiting for?”
The rebels lifted their mismatched metal goblets, tankards, and simple cups in a cheer of agreement. The general snatched one of the fellwine bottles, ripped out the cork with her teeth, and spat it onto the floor with a roaring cheer. The shouts and snarls of approval rose in a deafening roar as General Maleshi Hi’et poured a splashing stream of fellwine into the overturned silver skull in her hand. Sloshing the sparkling green liquor all over the place, she handed the bottle off to the magical beside her and raised the skull, whirling to face Cheyenne. “To the Aranél!”
The rebels lost it when she guzzled from the silver skull, fellwine splashing down the front of her military jacket and bubbling in small pools on the stone floor. The other fellwine bottles were snatched up and uncorked, and Sakrit cranked open the spout on the metal keg before filling whatever goblet was thrust his way to catch the shimmering golden Bloodshine spilling out of it.
Cheyenne’s eyes widened at the unbelievable amount of fellwine Maleshi put away, and she forced herself to shut her mouth when she realized it had been hanging open. Yeah, Mattie Bergmann and Maleshi Hi’et are two different people, all right. Shit’s about to get real.
Chapter Five
Once every cup was filled and the real party got started, Cheyenne found herself staring at the golden liquid poured from the keg into her fake-fancy goblet. Ember laughed at a toast one of the rowdy rebels tossed her way and approached her friend’s side, grinning from ear to ear. “Honestly, I thought the fighting was crazy, but this?”
Cheyenne said, “I know, right?”
“It doesn’t even seem real.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ember peered over the lip of Cheyenne’s black goblet. “No fellwine for you either, huh?”
“Are you kidding?” The halfling snorted and gestured at the revelers with her drink. “These guys make everything we did at Peridosh look like a bunch of kids on a playground. And Maleshi’s drinking out of a freakin’ skull.”
“You think it’s real?” Ember lifted her heavy metal tankard of Bloodshine and raised her eyebrows as she slurped.
“I mean, it could be, for all we know. Dipped in silver or something. Or it could be a gag.”
“You should ask her.”
Cheyenne laughed. “I should ask her?”
“Don’t look at me like that. No way in hell am I going up to the psychotic nightstalker warlord to ask if her drinking skull is the real deal or a prop.”
“Ha. You’re forgetting one important detail, Em.”
The fae girl cocked her head and shot her friend an exasperated look. “Enlighten me, then.”
“You’re Nós Aní to the Aranél of Ambar’ogúl.” Cheyenne fought back a shudder. “You can ask anyone anything you want, and they can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Oh.” Ember found Maleshi in the crowd of drinking rebels. The general had propped one blood-splattered boot on the closest pulled-out chair and leaned forward over the table, laughing and drinking out of her silver skull with the others. “Still, you should ask her.”
“I think you care a lot more about the story behind that one than I do. Might as well use your high status while you can. Your best friend’s drow royalty, apparently.” Cheyenne snickered and lifted her goblet in a sarcastic toast before taking her first drink of Bloodshine. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed at the burst of tingling bubbles sailing both down her throat and somehow up to her head. “I don’t know what to say about this stuff.”
“Like champagne on steroids.” Ember took another long drink and smacked her lips. “I love it.”
Cheyenne laughed and looked at her friend in surprise. Then she caught sight of Foltr for the first time and lowered her goblet.
The gnarled old raug had made his appearance at the celebration without anyone noticing his arrival through one of the dozen archways leading into the bunker’s main chamber. He shambled toward the partygoers with a heavily wrinkled scowl on his gray face, orange-brown eyes blazing beneath the thick ridges of his furrowed, hairless eyebrows. The heavy walking stick in his clawed hand clacked on the stone floor, but it wasn’t loud enough to draw anyone else’s attention. When he stopped at the end of the huge black table, he propped both wizened hands on the top of his stick and lifted his chin. Then he cracked the base of the stick against the floor and sent strobing orange light in every direction.
The rebels turned toward him with their smiles frozen on their faces. Foltr lifted his stick and pointed at the table. “It’s been a long time, but I assumed you lot were smarter than a pen of bare-assed pups still sucking on their mothers’ teats. Clear the table. Give the seats to those who earned them. And somebody better pour me a drink before I have to come after it myself.”
Laughing, Sakrit grabbed the last tankard from the open chest before hurling the empty box behind him. It clattered to the floor, quickly followed by the second, and he grabbed a half-empty bottle of fellwine to fill the tankard to the brim. He turned back toward Foltr with a grin. “For the ancient one.”
“The ancient sleeping one,” a troll man shouted, raising his goblet. “You missed all the action, raug!”
“I miss nothing.” Foltr snatched his drink from Sakrit’s hand with a grunt and moved toward the closest chair beside the head of the table. He took a moment to upend his drink in a long guzzle, then slammed the tankard to the table before lowering himself into the chair. “But the lot of you seem to be missing the point entirely. Don’t make me say it again.”
A cheer rose from the surrounding magicals as a select few removed themselves from the crowd to head toward the table. Maleshi slid her boot off the chair and sat where she was. Corian and L’zar approached the end of the table, where the drow sat at the head beside Foltr and the nightstalker took the chair on L’zar’s other side. Jara’ak, the buzzing magical made of swarming black specks, Lumil, and Byrd joined them.
“Cheyenne.” Foltr stretched his arm toward her and nodded. “I would be honored if the Aranél sat beside me. Both of you, of course.”
“Right.” Cheyenne and Ember exchanged confused glances before making their way toward the table. The halfling sat in the chair beside the ancient raug, who sniffed and nodded curtly before propping one hand on the top of his crooked cane and grabbing his tankard with the other. Ember sat on her other side and gazed at the others at the table while the rest of the magicals stood or lounged about on stacked crates, drinking and laughing in their own private conversations and ignoring the little meeting the raug had called.
The troll woman Elarit Masharun took a seat directly across the table from Cheyenne. The silver chains draping across her purple nose from one eyebrow to the other were flecked with someone else’s blood, and she widened her eyes at the halfling with a small, approving smile.
Cheyenne nodded back and took a sip of her drink. She’s sitting right next to Corian like nothing ever happened. No idea Persh’al’s been lying to all of them.
“Foltr.” L’zar sat back casually in his chair at the head of the table and smiled at the raug. “I know you’re a stickler for details, but I’m sure this can wait until we’ve all had our fill of victory.”
“You’ve already had your fill, Weaver.” Foltr looked the drow thief up and down. “You’ve been having your fill since you opened your mouth for your first lie. Do us all a favor and shut it now unless someone asks you a direct question.”
“Your bite hasn’t aged a century.” L’zar laughed and thumped his fist on the table. “I’ve missed you.”
“That makes one of us.” Foltr grunted, but a small smile flickered at the wrinkled corners of his gray mouth. “The last time the Aranél sat at this table with a less complete assembly, she was clueless about her part to play in this grander scheme.”
Cheyenne choked on her Bloodshine and tried to play it off a
s choking on a laugh. “Thanks. It was that obvious, huh?”
Across the table, Elarit leaned back in her chair with a knowing smirk. “Glaringly.”
Foltr waved aside the troll woman’s comment and fixed Cheyenne with his scrutinizing gaze. “You walked through a river of fire to be here for our city. For this world, which is the only world most of us in this room have ever known. You know another, Cheyenne. Whatever knowledge you carry with you of our kind on Earth differs vastly from what you know of Ambar’ogúl and its history. Which is next to nothing, it would seem.”
She pointed at the wizened raug and raised an eyebrow. “I do know the Crown is my aunt.”
L’zar chuckled. Corian dipped his head and stared at the black metal surface of the table, unsuccessfully hiding a small smile. Maleshi slurped fellwine from her silver-plated skull.
The old raug grunted. “That discovery was by necessity, yes. A good thing to know. It changes nothing.” He thumped his stick on the stone floor again and settled both gnarled, clawed hands over the round knob on top. “Tonight, you’ll learn what you’re fighting for, Aranél. Not because you asked, but because you are owed the truth. After what you’ve accomplished today, we owe you the truth.”
While the rest of the rebels drank and laughed and got into half-playful skirmishes, an expectant silence hung over the magicals sitting at the central table. Foltr gazed at each of them with narrowed orange-brown eyes, daring anyone to challenge the decision he’d made for everyone.
“I’ll start then, eh?” L’zar steepled his fingers and rested both hands on the table, leaning forward with a feral grin. “I never had my doubts that we’d reach this moment.”
Corian barked out a laugh. “I believe the raug wanted to start and end this conversation with the truth.”
“If you’re looking for a heartfelt confession from me tonight, brother, you’ll be disappointed. I don’t lie and tell.”
