The Broken Tomb Book 2 of The War for Inìsfail

By Kaiya Hart

Not all tombs house the dead. Some are only a prison for those who cannot truly die.

Not long ago, Shea’s small, peaceful village was attacked. Many she called friends were slaughtered. Others were taken away as slaves. Now, Shea is continuing the quest to rescue as many of her people as she can. But nothing is as easy as it is in stories. Her elf guardian, Galen, despises her more with every passing day. The lies her mother told her are coming unraveled and the secrets she so jealously guarded are coming to light. The further into Inìsfail Shea travels, the more she begins to understand how little she really knows. Nothing is as it seems, even her own nature. Everything Shea thought she knew is falling apart. And worse things than goblins are waiting in the dark places of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaiya Hart
• Release date: Mar 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301722136

Kaiya Hart

Kaiya Hart was born in 1977 in Villa Grove, Illinois and raised by wolves (the nice kind). She was married in 2001 to Tim Mann (and, consequently, the Air Force). Since then she has lived in Germany, Texas, and England, where the couple currently reside with their two dogs and one cat. Most often, she is known as that crazy, quiet person lurking in corners at the parties. Kaiya's favorite books are Shirley Jackson's Haunting of Hill House, Stephen King's IT, and Peter S. Beagle's Tamsin. Beagle is also her favorite author of all time. Kaiya has been writing for 15 years, mostly for her own amusement since there are stories she wants to read that just haven't been written. She focuses on fantasy and horror, but 'writes whatever happens into her head' and doesn't limit herself to any one thing.

Book preview

Book Two

Of

The War For Inìsfail

By Kaiya Hart

Other Books

By This Author

Fantasy

Morrigan’s Harvest : Book One of The War for Inìsfail

Horror

Getting Thin: A Ghost Story

For Cover Art Contact:

Nina Lipkin at [e-mail]

Copyright 2013 Kaiya Hart

Smashwords Edition

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Kaiya Hart.

Cover Art ‘The Broken Tomb’ by Nina Lipkin Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Mom and Dad

Thanks for always believing in me. Especially when I forgot to believe in myself.

Prologue

Ciaran was bound. Caught in the web of the black castle, Cair Rothiel, deep within the Loddan Mòre. He was chained to the dark, damp stone which had once housed the darkest of gods, Chaos, as she looked out upon the lands of Inìsfail and called them her own. Ciaran was frozen upon the black throne, which had become his prison. He was bound by the magic of the oldest elf, the first, the daughter of the moon, the star which had fallen from heaven to give Inìsfail its light. Ciaran was bound by her, but not left powerless. He retained his abilities, which could not be caged and which grew in strength, like an elf’s, with his age. As the years twisted by, he kept watch through Chaos’ window, that terrible device which she had used to rule the lands with an iron fist. The Loddan Mòre froze as he drew from it whatever pitiful life there was in the rotted trees and insect ridden mud. Soon, he held sway over goblin and troll and all other foul things which had been abandoned to their fate by Chaos as she fled the newly blessed land of Inìsfail and the wrath of her youngest sister.

Ciaran was always watching, waiting, and, when it helped him, gathering allies that he would use against the holy races and humanity in order to free himself. One by one, he gathered those in search of greater power, those who feared death or age, those whose greed overtook their sense. Others came, drawn by the new religion, which promised redemption to those that felt abandoned or betrayed by the older gods, romanced by the dream of the power and freedom which only the holy races truly possessed. One by one, he took the free lands by force and lies and held masses of human armies beneath his rule. With the help of a human king, Corwin, to whom he granted in return an extended life, he began the final preparations which would free him from his prison.

The time had come when the elder races were crumbling beneath the foul touch of evil. Ciaran’s bounds were weakening. The endless was ended. Her spawn would bring the end of all else. He stretched out his hands to take those who fought hardest against him and posed the greatest threat. Soon, only a handful remained who had a ghost of a chance at stopping him. And then, even they were gone. Inìsfail stood at the brink of destruction. Ready to fall to Ciaran, ready to die. And the self-proclaimed New God saw the light at the end of his dark captivity.

Book One

Chapter One

Soft breezes whispered over a small, growth of trees, shaking the freshly budded leaves and bending the tall, slim trunks so that they creaked in response. Small bunches of bright wildflowers had sprung up beneath the delicate branches, though they weren’t as bright as they had been in past years. It had been a dry spring and, lacking rain, some of the flowers had already withered. The breeze caught at the wilted petals, tossing them into the air and carrying them, dancing, past the line of trees and over the long, yellow grasses of the plains, where they spun, delicate dancers, in a pale shaft of morning sunlight.

There the breeze dropped its playthings, running off to other fields and leaving the faded petals scattered over the motionless humps of four people tucked beneath rough, dark blankets. A fifth watched with pale, bottomless eyes as the flower petals settled over his companions. His face was dark with a mixture of dread and despair, which did little to rob him of his unearthly beauty. Nearby, six horses shifted and sighed, still sleeping, their heads drooping near the earth where their tack lay.

As if the light touches of the flower petals on her cheek were some sort of trigger, the smallest of the four sleepers moaned and twisted in her sleep. The watcher, Galen, lifted himself up from his place in the flattened circle of grass, as if preparing for something.

The girl moaned again, then whimpered until the half-grown cave wolf at her side lifted his head and regarded her with worry in his green-gold eyes. Despite the heat and his heavy, black coat, he was never far from Shea, his mistress, during the night, as if her repeated dreams were something he could protect her from.

A swift, almost imperceptible darkening swept the small clearing, though not one cloud marred the pink and grey arch of the morning sky. A chill seemed to follow the shadow, something which had nothing to do with and did not affect the heat which was already building. The smell of mud, dense, heavy, and stinking of dead things, fell down like a cloak.

As if this was the sign Galen had been waiting for, he strode across the clearing. His figure was tall and lean, like all elves, but not weak. There was a deadly grace to his movements with nothing wasted. His facial features were beautifully made, as though he’d been sculpted by some love struck artist, yet there was a coldness and cruelty to them that chilled the heart. His ears were sharply pointed, exposed by the war braids which held his long, silver blond hair away from his smooth, pale forehead, and, if that was not enough to give away his race, there was a pulsing shiver about him, a sort of strange glow which always marked him as elf kind for any who doubted it.

The elf bent over the girl, studying her as she twisted beneath her blankets, a worm on a hook. She would tell no-one of her dreams, which came every morning, yet it was clear they were unwholesome. He’d long since begun to suspect them a true danger to everyone who traveled with her. Her already pale skin had taken on a gray cast, something they all agreed was part of her exhaustion. Her fatigue had become a visible mantle which clung always to her in the form of bloodshot eyes and hands which fumbled anything she tried to lift. Not that Shea had ever been particularly graceful.

Tam, the wolf, looked up at Galen and whined softly, as if begging the elf to help the girl, but he stayed frozen over her, watching and waiting. His features had grown even colder while looking at the helpless girl before him and there was a shadow of hate in the pale depths of his eyes.

Shea’s lips parted. She ceased to thrash. One word broke the silence of their camp. Mother. It was spoken in desperation, a sob that echoed lonely yearning and bone-deep fear. The elf lunged, his expression twisting so that he wasn’t beautiful at all, but demonic in appearance.

His long fingers seized against her jaw and his palm slapped neatly over here mouth just in time to catch the screams which, every morning, woke her and, until Galen had taken to smothering them, everyone else. She twisted and flailed against him, her small hands reaching up to pull fruitlessly at his grip. He allowed it and, when she at last opened her eyes, she went limp on her tangled bedding. There were tears in the corners of her eyes and her chest hitched, but her struggles and screams ceased.

Galen released her and sat back on his heels. More nightmares? he hissed unkindly, as if there was something the girl could do to stop them.

Shea blinked up at Galen and lifted herself up a little. The sleep tangled crimson of her hair pooled, gleaming, beneath her. It isn’t as though I enjoy them, she said, her voice low and rasping. She rubbed at her eyes, then turned those deep emerald pools to the others. They slept on, motionless and peaceful. At least I didn’t wake them again. She glanced back at him. I suppose I should thank you.

Don’t hurt yourself, he said dryly.

I won’t, she replied, her tone acid. They stared at each other for a long moment. It was difficult to tell which one of them looked more hateful. Then Shea sighed, her shoulders sinking and her expression becoming one of exhaustion mixed with worry. I’ve never slept well. Not since Mother died, but at least before my dreams were of her, not of such death and despair. She bent her head to the wolf’s and her eyes sparkled.

The elf shifted, obviously uncomfortable, and pretended to be looking at the shadow of the trees, tinged with the pale light of the rising sun. Shea scratched the wolf’s ear, grabbed her soft, leather boots, and stood up. She didn’t look at the elf as she pulled them on.

They had never gotten along, not since the day he’d come to collect her. Brenna, her mother, had died of a mysterious fever when Shea was only fifteen. Brenna had chosen Galen as her daughter’s guardian. Rook, Shea’s adoptive father, had disagreed with Brenna’s choice and managed to stall Galen’s arrival until Shea was twenty-one years old. Then the elf had come to the valley at the southernmost edge of Kildàrroch. Despite her age, Galen insisted on taking his place as her guardian, just one of the many disagreements that constantly strained their dealings with each other.

Shea started toward the trees, only to be followed by the elf. She spun, an exasperated look on her delicate features. Is there a problem? She asked, her voice low and tight.

You shouldn’t go wandering off alone, Galen said. If you get lost, we’ll waste hours trying to find you.

Shea’s pale cheeks darkened. I’m not planning on getting lost, she said icily. So why don’t you leave me in peace?

"No-one ever plans on getting lost, he pointed out. And there are dangerous creatures hunting on these plains. We wouldn’t want you to come to harm." The tone of his voice suggested it wouldn’t upset him in the least.

I’m only walking to the rock where we sparred last night, Shea said. I’ll be close enough you can hear me screaming. She turned away again and started off, but the elf stayed close behind. She swung back, eyes flashing. Can you not leave me in peace for one minute, for Danu’s sake? Shea cried, glaring at him.

Galen smirked. If you didn’t so often get into trouble, perhaps I could.

Galen, stop being such a pest, someone growled, one of their companions. Mithala groaned and rose up on one elbow. Her dark, ebony skin gleamed with shimmering golden highlights and her golden eyes were soft with the vestiges of sleep. Just leave her be, she said, then rolled back down and tossed her bare, dark arm over her eyes, which had vertical, slitted pupils, like a cat’s.

I’m only trying to protect her, Galen protested. Mithala held up her other hand.

"You’re being an ass, old friend. It’s only a little walk to that rock and, despite what you think, Shea can handle herself. When you are not standing around making her feel self-conscious. Now shut up and let me sleep."

Galen scowled and turned back to Shea, but she’d taken her chance while Mithala was talking and slipped off. Tam, the wolf, slid past the elf, following his mistress. Galen frowned, but didn’t walk after the two of them.

Shea moved through the slim trees slowly. The soft breeze rustled their leaves and swayed them back and forth. A gentle creaking filled the air, almost reminding her of Darkwood, the dark and dangerous wood she called home, but too pure and natural to really mimic its more magical counterpart.

A delicate mist rose up beneath the trees, which formed a narrow strip along the rutted dirt track they had been following for days. A single stone lay in the center of the trees, a dark shadow in the sifting veils of vapor.

Shea paused when her boots crunched on the bare, sandy dirt that ringed the stone and the small stones that littered it. She could mark out her own fumbling steps and Galen’s more confident prints, though his were barely there. Tam slid out of the woods behind Shea, a ghost in the mist. He nosed Shea’s hand and she rubbed the top of his head without looking at him. He leaned into her, placing his head against her sternum.

Keep growing and I’ll have to have a saddle made for you, Shea said. The wolf wagged his long, shaggy tail and looked up at her with green-gold eyes that gleamed in the dim, gray light. Shea lifted herself onto the rock, which had a small depression in it, like a chair. The wolf lay down at her feet and lowered his wide head to his paws. The mist swirled over his shaggy fur, moisture gathering along the edges until the wolf’s thick coat was glittering as though laced with diamonds. Shea lifted one leg up and bent her knee, then propped her chin on it. Her bright eyes scanned the trees. Their jade colored leaves looked almost white.

It seemed to her that she could not even clearly remember her forest or the Kell Valley where it lay. It seemed years since she had been comfortably at home and all was right with her world. The people of her valley had been attacked and taken as slaves by an army from a land in the south, Tír Bréach. The women had remained close to their valley, forced to unspeakable acts by the rear guard that was waiting to hear of victory from the main body of their army. Except Darkwood, the strange and ancient forest which Shea had so long called home, had been woken from her dreams by the invasion and those shadows which always lingered beneath her twisting and twining canopy proved to house creatures far more dangerous than the goblins which had accompanied the invaders. Shea, her guardian elf, her adoptive father, and two mercenaries had gone seeking the taken. Now, Shea could remember little of her peaceful life in the valley. It seemed distant and fogged to her. She felt always covered in dirt, always uncomfortable under the elf’s watchful eye, and constantly thinking of how far behind the slave wagons they had fallen. It seemed not one minute went by that she was not straining ever southward, yet each day seemed to crawl by with maddeningly little distance passing beneath the horses hooves.

The light breeze which had been playing in the treetops died away. For several minutes, there was no sound. An eerie quiet settled over the girl and her wolf. Then, from the plains beyond the trees, a bird chirped sweetly, its trilling voice echoing in clear, high pitches, rippling like cold water over the treetops, underbrush, and rock. Tam raised his head and growled, his eyes focused on something within the treeline. Shea followed his gaze with her own.

The mists shifted and swirled, then parted, revealing a woman close to Shea’s own age. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair which was wind-blown with large, loose curls at the ends, soft, sun kissed skin, and dark eyes. Shea stiffened, her own eyes narrowing. They were many miles from the last village and hadn’t seen another traveler since they’d taken a fork in the road a few days before. The woman moved through the mist, dark, wide eyes watching Shea. She was wearing a black cloak which moved and rippled, as though caught in a wind stronger than the breeze which rustled the top of the trees.

She began to walk toward Shea, apparently undeterred by the growling cave wolf at the girl’s feet. The back of Shea’s neck tingled and the hairs there tried to rise; the woman moved with such grace that it was as though she was floating rather than walking. Shea slid off the rock, ready to run or fight. Her hand went for her sword. Her fingers seized on empty air and she flushed; her sword was still lying by her bedroll.

The other woman stopped. You do not need to worry, child; I am no enemy to you. Her voice was raspy and somehow hollow, as if she had been screaming for so long, she had shredded her throat into bloody tatters. There was a hollow coldness in her tone that made Shea tense; she didn’t sound human, even if she did look it. It was as though her voice echoed out of another world. I want to help you. Her dark eyes were full of intense desperation.

At the sound of the woman’s voice, the wolf snarled and rose into an attack position. Shea took a long step back. My wolf doesn’t agree, she said.

The woman twisted her pale fingers into the closed edges of her cloak. He cannot help himself. He knows what I am.

And what are you? Shea asked.

The woman furrowed her brow and shook her head a little. That isn’t important. She glanced around and it was clear she was extremely nervous. "What is important is that you are very careful…. She trailed off as a brisk wind swept over them. Shea shivered; despite the warmth of the air, the wind was as cold as winter, as if January had just breathed upon them. You are in danger, the woman said and the urgency in her dry, hoarse voice had grown. You must stay alert. Let nothing go unobserved." The wind came again, harder this time, and the trees shook in response.

Somewhere in the forest, a branch snapped. Shea jumped and looked around, but saw no-one. She thought she saw a flicker of motion in the dim. She looked back to the woman. The visitor was gone, as though she had never even been. The bitter, cold wind had passed and the weight of the midsummer heat was pressing down again. Shea wondered if she had imagined it all. A hand dropped on her shoulder. She gasped and turned. Galen stood over her, scowling. In his other hand he held her sword. He shoved it at her. Did I not tell you there are dangerous creatures about? he snapped.

Shea took her sword in numb fingers and belted it low over her hips. She started to tell him about the other woman, but he turned away, snapped up a stone, and flung it at the nearest tree. A large raven rose screeching in protest from a branch, barely avoiding the rock. Shea closed her teeth over her words. Tam had sat back down and he looked at her over one shoulder, his tongue hanging out over his teeth. His tail thudded on the sandy dirt.

We are preparing to leave. I suggest you come back to camp. Unless you’ve changed your mind about this foolish quest of yours.

Shea scowled at him. I haven’t and I won’t. She pushed past him, retracing her steps, but Galen caught her arm. She spun back to face him, her face reflecting her will to fight for her decision. The look on his face silenced her; it was a mixture of distress and regret. What is it? she asked in a small voice.

The elf bowed his head. What do you think you will find in Odessa? he asked in a voice far gentler than usual.

You know why we are going there, Shea said.

That isn’t what I asked, he said. His words were spoken even more gently and Shea wrapped her arms over her chest, as if to protect herself from him. He stepped closer, his pale eyes distant and shadowed. Let us say that we succeed, that we, by some miracle of Danu, free your beloved Tamerick – given that he is even still alive – what do you think he will be like? He’ll have spent months beneath the harsh rule of Tír Bréach soldiers, wearing their iron collars and suffering the bite of their whips. What sort of man do you think will be left?

He’s my friend, Shea said.

"He’ll be broken. Shattered. If he still lives. Corwin’s soldiers are merciless and they’ll have little use for a young lordling, who is unlikely to know one end of a shovel from the other. Once they tire of torturing him, they will dispose of him."

Tamerick is as hard a worker as any man in the valley, Shea said. Her chest heaved as if she was out of breath and her eyes gleamed wetly.

It would be kinder to leave him, to not torture yourself and him. He wouldn’t want you to come, to endanger your life and the lives of our companions for him, not if he is the man you make him out to be. What you will save might be less than a shadow of who he once was, a burden upon his father who will remember always who his son used to be and never will be again, a strain upon his people.

Tears slid down Shea’s pale cheeks. We can’t leave them. Those people deserve to be rescued. They at least deserve an attempt.

It is Tamerick you chase, Galen said quietly. "The others may believe different. Perhaps even you believe different because you are so eager to be a hero rather than a desperate, lovesick fool. I, however, see that it is this boy, which drives you. Why? Why do you send us to such a hopeless task, knowing failure is almost positive?"

Shea shook her head at him defiantly. "You are welcome to leave, Galen. No-one has you in chains."

He grabbed her arm, his hatred leaking back into his face. If only that were true, Brat, I’d have been gone long ago. Tell me why you sentence us to death or capture for one man.

She met his eyes, her own sparkling with more than tears. He saved me once. He’d do so again. If it was me that had been taken, he’d have come after me, even if he had to do so alone. She shrugged out of his grip. And you are wrong. Tamerick is not my only reason. The enemy has burnt my home and taken my life away. The villagers I’ve known my entire life have been murdered, raped, and enslaved. Shea swallowed hard and placed one pale hand upon the wolf’s midnight head. Brenan was my friend, always kind to me, never an enemy to anyone. There was a newborn baby dead in her mother’s arms, lying in the road like discarded trash. How can you possibly believe this is only about one person? Of course I want to save Tamerick. But I also want to save what is left of the villagers, the men, hopefully the children. To me, it is worth my life and trying to shame me into turning away won’t work."

Galen started to protest, but Shea spun and walked away from him. He stayed where he was and watched her vanish into the trees, giving her plenty of time before following. Overhead, a raven cawed as it floated high in the clear, blue sky. Galen turned his eyes upward, the hatred that had become clear on his features while talking to Shea darkening and twisting until his beautiful face became something terrible, very nearly evil.

Go back to Hell, filthy beast, he snarled at it.

Chapter Two

Keep to the road. Those last, ominous words had dropped from Galen’s mouth like shadows over the bright, hot sun hours before. Silence had reigned since, following them so closely Shea’s ears rang with it. Despite the sun dappled grasses that rolled alongside the rutted dirt track, scarred by the wheels of a thousand carts long since passed from memory, she could not stop the shivers of unease which crept up her spine like chill fingers tracing the bones beneath her skin. She told herself the vision earlier that morning was nothing, that the woman she’d seen was only a lone traveler. Surely she had only been trying to frighten someone. Shea knew she was lying to herself, but, no matter how many times she opened her mouth to tell the others, she just couldn’t do it. The silence was too deep and the elf’s back was too stiff.

Ahead of them dark folds of earth rose up in the distance, soft shadows that were darker in some places than in others, as if their sides were creased. Upon them there caught the random, dancing flashes of sun which illuminated the golden flowers that speckled the countryside. The rich, bitter tang of their scent hung heavy in the still air. The smell was not unpleasant, especially mixed with the musty, green smell of the tommy grass, but neither was it inviting. Shea was reminded of star jasmine, a plant whose intoxicating scent was the sweetest of lures into the horrifying trap of a carnivorous vine. There seemed to be danger lurking here, upon the endless undulations of the Treeless Plains, hidden behind the sweet innocence of the scenery.

Ahead, the road passed beneath the bent boughs of a patch of slender, curving trees, which reminded Shea of sinewy dancers caught as they whirled to lively music. Their twisting branches were lined with dark needles, rather than leaves, which formed a dense, heavy brush that hid the rough, red bark. There were clusters of pale pink flowers blooming within the needles, and, though slightly wilted and faded, they were beautiful. With each passing breeze, the petals showered down softly, drifting and dancing as they fell. Birds sang merrily from the branches of the trees, the first noise they had heard in many an hour, save for the high shriek of a hunting hawk diving for its prey.

I thought the Treeless Plains would be… well… treeless, Shea said. The elf turned to glance back at her, the pale, blue ice of his eyes scathing. Shea flushed.

They were, once, Bran said. He turned to look at her as well, his dark eyes glittering with a merry light and his honey colored curls gleaming. He slowed his horse, a leggy bay Teachdairean called Mika, and leaned back in the saddle in such a way that he appeared as a man who had just finished a fine feast might when he pushed back from the table. Long, long ago, before all the things we know, this plain ran flat and featureless, the still pool caught between mountain and forest and swamp. The singsong cadence of Bran’s voice became a rich tremble in the air, rolling over Shea like sweet music. Mixed with his good looks, his storytelling was intoxicating. She’d never asked him where he’d learned the bard’s craft and she made a note to get that story before they slept; he had a talent for storytelling beyond anything she’d ever heard before. Of course, Shea hadn’t heard much; although plenty of traders had passed through the small village where she’d grown up, on the edge of Inìsfail’s northernmost land of Kildàrroch, there hadn’t been many bards. Shea supposed it was a terrible, long way to come just to sing a song for a few coppers. Still, there was something about Bran’s storytelling which made her think he was gifted with something rare. Perhaps it was the way his words spun out, like a gentle spider web, and caught the listener in the ebb and flow. Or perhaps it was just that his words painted such vivid pictures in her head. Either way, she was certain not all storytellers had this talent.

Between chaos and sense, between light and dark, great legions swept the land, tearing great scars with their wars, which were the memory of no human man. The fertile plains became barren, broken, and maimed by those who would own them. Until, at last, Chaos found her ruin beneath the swords of her sister’s brood. She fled beyond the swamps where light is seldom seen and quickly extinguished, leaving the noble elves to weep for the destruction she left behind.

Grass came again, softening the ragged wounds and, beast, man, and immortal alike carried life back into the barren plains. Yet do some say, when they must pass this way, that the land beneath bright wildflower and grass of yellow-green is still darkly dreaming of the touch of foul beasts and bloody warriors, for no land ever forgets the breath of evil.

Mithala, riding on Shea’s left, shook her head until the beads woven into the long, thick plait of her hair glittered brightly. Her laugh was merry and the grin on her wide mouth made her ebony skin glow with a golden shimmer. "Pay him no mind, Shea; he is a hopeless romantic and must constantly profess it. There are plenty of dangers here without fearing some lingering cloud of doom or the madness of Chaos huddled beneath the grass.

Bran gave Mithala a soft, patient frown. Oh, my dear Captain, how can you speak so? Romantic I might be, but these lands need no help from me. They are haunted, and there are tales enough to prove it. Why, do we linger in the open after dark, you shall see what the gypsy traders call the dead lights, tiny balls of pale light which flicker and dance like fireflies, but with much more sinister purpose. The traders say that, do you watch them dance too long, your mind will fall prey to the will of the lights and you will wander away, never to be seen again. Other tales tell of ghostly battles, which replay every night, for the immortal souls which fell here can find no rest. And there is no end of tales which speak of Chaos’ Madness, which has overtaken so many that most stop to pray in Danu’s temples and leave offerings to Lugh in hopes that the consorts will protect them from the sickness which descends without warning and leaves its victims howling and incomprehensible. And, in some cases, murderous.

"Now you are being foolish, Galen snapped, halting his slim, elvish mare beneath the shade of the trees. Shea heard the gurgling of a hidden stream from their right. The elf dismounted and stroked Freyja’s nose softly. In the shadows, the horse seemed to flicker, like the flame of a candle or a ghost, though she was solid enough to touch. These plains are not haunted by restless souls." To Shea’s ears, the elf did not sound so arrogantly sure of himself as he always was, but, as he frowned up at them, Rook rode up from behind and his expression was much more stern.

I’ll not have this nonsense so close to dark, he said, frowning at Bran. Shea has nightmares enough without your help, if you don’t mind. He turned his gray eyes to Shea, who had flushed hotly at the mention of the nightmares which woke her – and anyone else in screaming vicinity – on a nightly basis.

I don’t dream of ghosts, Shea muttered, but it wasn’t entirely true. Her mother, dead for six years, often flitted through the dreams, but, since it was not Brenna that caused her bouts of screaming, she hardly thought that was worth mentioning.

Bran shrugged, his chagrin obvious. Shea felt anger rise up in her; she was tired of everyone trying to protect her as though she was a child. Over the past week and a half, as they followed their friends from Hadley, Rook and Galen seemed to have formed some sort of understanding. If Shea asked the wrong question or if one of the others started to tell her more than the elf or her adoptive father wanted her to know, they quickly interrupted or sent her to fetch something.

I want to hear what Bran is telling, Shea said, glaring at Rook.

This isn’t the time, Galen said. We must make camp, and you and I need to have our lesson.

Shea scowled at him. Let me save you the trouble. You win. I drop my sword or stumble. You win again. I manage to make a fool of myself and you scream at me for my incompetence. And you win again.

I don’t scream, he broke in.

I end up a nervous, trembling bundle of self-disgust and you stomp off, lamenting the fact you’ve been saddled with me. There. We’re done. She glared at Galen and he glared back, his beautiful face twisting with the depth of his anger. His pale, glittering eyes should have frightened her; she could see his hate so clearly that it was nearly a tangible thing. Yet Shea had seen this expression so often upon Galen’s face that it failed to make her feel anything but sad that anyone should have to get used to being despised.

From the day they had met there had been friction between them, and it had grown until the two of them could barely stand to be in each other’s company. If Galen had not been bound to her by the promise he made to her mother, Brenna, long before she was born, Shea thought he might have murdered her long ago. As it was, he clung to her and would not let her stray far. He had named himself her Keeper, a duty which placed him in charge of guarding her life and teaching her to protect herself, and he had lived up to the name often enough to make her ashamed. Yet never did he let her forget how he truly felt. Once, she had wondered why, had sought desperately for the reason Galen hated her, but those days were over. His reasons no longer mattered. She hated him as much as he hated her and no amount of reasoning would ever change that.

It wasn’t as though she didn’t admire the elf; he was a warrior, as quick and deadly with his blade as any she had ever heard tell of. If not for the elf, the women of her village, taken prisoner by the army which had overrun most of Inìsfail, would still be in chains, raped, beaten, and treated like animals. If not for the elf, Shea didn’t think she could continue on, seeking the men of Blackwater, who had been separated from the women, and retribution for her friends, who had been murdered by the invaders. Even with Bran, Mithala, and Rook, Shea thought it likely she would have quailed in the face of this journey. The elf gave her confidence; what he set his mind to do was done. It just didn’t make her hate him less; however much he was a dependable ally, he was still an arrogant ass bent on pointing out even her smallest faults.

"We will have our lesson, he snarled, walking toward her. Aisling, her horse, flattened his ears and struck the ground with an ebon hoof. The silver coated stallion’s eyes already contained a soft, crimson glow. As Shea and Galen’s animosity grew, Aisling’s tolerance of the elf grew less and less. The half-grown cave wolf at Aisling’s shoulder glanced back and forth between the horse and elf, his green-gold eyes worried; he had struck up an unlikely friendship with the horse and, as most living creatures did, loved the elf. We will continue to fight until something actually sticks in that weak, excitable mind of yours."

How can I learn? Shea said, tossing her hands up in frustration. "You don’t teach me. You just attack me until I can’t even stand up."

Doing something is the best teacher, he snapped. Eventually, you will learn the lessons I try to teach you.

Because I’ve learned so many so far, Shea snapped back. If not for Mithala, I wouldn’t be learning anything at all.

And what is she teaching you? I haven’t seen any sign of improvement.

If you would give me a moment to ready myself….

And the enemy should do the same, I suppose? Galen said, cutting her off. This was his best argument; Shea never could think of an answer for it because he was right. "You can learn every repast and parry, you can learn the footwork and the philosophy, and it won’t do you a single ounce of good until you learn that it is all nothing. Swordplay and actual battle are two separate things. Survival comes first in battle. It does not matter if you are a sword-master or a fool who has never touched a blade, then, not if you can’t feel the desire to protect yourself. If the sword-master stops to think about which footwork to use, the fool will kill him with a bad lunge. Now get down here."

Shea wanted to tell him to make her; Aisling’s usually dark eyes had become hot coals, emitting a burning glow which belied his fury with the elf’s proximity. His ears were pinned back and his long neck flexed beneath his flowing, ebony mane, ready for the strike. Shea wanted to turn the stallion and just let him bolt as far and long as possible, until the elf had no hope of catching her. Instead, she found herself sliding from Aisling’s back, her head hanging as she put her hand against the stallion’s nose to stop him from striking out. She would never be a warrior, she knew that. She didn’t want to be a warrior. That had been Brenna’s wish for her, obviously, but she wanted only to return to the peaceful life she had known before the invaders came, before Galen had come. She’d trained horses and her best friend had been the lord’s son, Tamerick. He had asked her to marry him only days before their life had been torn apart. Now she could only consider that, had she not spent so long caught between him and the life she would have to give up to be with him, neither of them would have been in the valley when it was attacked. Would she truly have been on this quest if Tamerick was safe? She tried to imagine not searching for the taken, doing nothing to help them, happy that she and Tamerick were safe. She could not do it. The faces of the dead and the missing haunted her as much as Tamerick’s and, though his face was first, always, in her thoughts, it was never the last.

The thought of Tamerick, the wolf’s namesake, of not knowing where he was or what was being done to him sent a sharp arrow of pain through her heart. He was the reason she dismounted, the reason she would do whatever Galen asked and spend every evening trying to learn whatever it was he was trying to teach. For Tamerick, for the other captives, for the dead, she knew she must try; when they came to Odessa, they were going to need every sword and there would be no room for someone who required a guard.

She went to stand before the elf, head still down, all her fight gone. Sulking will not help you, Galen said in a low voice, so that the others couldn’t hear. Then he turned away. Make camp next to the road and then we’ll have lessons.

It’s only mid-afternoon, Mithala protested, still sitting upon her great horse, a Famhairean called Thrall. He was all black save one white sock and an odd star, which was shaped like a white leaf in the center of his forehead. We are never going to catch Gil and Silas like this.

And if we continue on, we’ll find ourselves too near the Hearth come nightfall, Galen said.

Mithala pressed her lips together, her large, golden eyes gleaming and her pupils becoming vertical slits, like those of a cat. What is the Hearth? Rook asked, echoing the question in Shea’s mind.

If there is any place in the Treeless Plains which is truly haunted, then it is the Hearth, Galen said, his face darkening with something Shea couldn’t read. Perhaps, if the Halfling brat follows orders and we manage our lesson, then Bran may tell us the story before we sleep; it would be well if everyone knows the danger before we get there.

Shea flushed, her anger rising again; Galen never missed a chance to allude to her mixture of human and elf blood, a blasphemy in the words of the mother goddess, Danu, but the promise of the story stilled her tongue. She loved listening to Bran and her curiosity was peaked.

Perhaps I will not wish to tell such a bleak tale, Bran said, but Shea already knew any protest he made would be only to irritate the elf – whom he despised for reasons she had yet to discover. There was a teasing edge in his voice, a promise that the tale had many delicious twists. He was already choosing his words, Shea thought and, if she asked, he would certainly tell it.

I don’t wish her to hear anything which might give her nightmares, Rook began.

Galen snorted. She already has them. It would be impossible for them to get worse. Shea almost reminded him that, not five minutes before, he had been complaining about Bran’s stories frightening her, but she bit her tongue. This is not a child’s tale or the gossip of bored women. Some tales must be known, and, for safety’s sake, the brat should hear this one now, before she has the chance to make a foolish mistake out of ignorance. He shot Shea a look that said he expected her to make one anyway, no matter how many cautionary tales she was told or how many rules she was given. She met his gaze, wishing he didn’t have plenty of proof to suspect her.

Galen led them down into the woods after they settled the horses. The narrow stream Shea had heard bubbled happily into a small waterfall, which filled a round, still pool. The twisting trees were reflected there, and a patch of bright sky. Along one side of the pool was a narrow beach of sandy dirt where nothing grew. This was where Galen chose to have their sparring session for the night. Shea walked slowly to face him, dread already growing on her, though Mithala had told her several times that this was one of the things Galen used to defeat her.

Ready yourself, Brat, he said, smirking at her.

Shea started to take a deep breath, but the elf jumped after his words, as if he meant to catch them. She stumbled back, already ashamed; after all this time, she still let his first attack stun her. He twisted his sword and hooked one of her ankles with his foot. Shea landed on her backside, defeated before she’d even had the chance to draw her blade. She didn’t pause to contemplate the elf’s sardonic grin, but scrambled for her sword and drug it from the sheath slung low over her hip. The elf silver blade caught the light as Shea rolled away from another attack and managed to find her feet. She met his next lunge with her own blade. He let her have two more blocks – and she knew he was simply allowing it – before twisting his sword, neatly catching her blade in the space between the guard and blade, then tossing her weapon aside. All he did, every motion, had the grace of a dancer’s movement. He was light and easy on his feet and his speed was blinding compared to Shea, despite his greater height and weight.

Shea dropped her empty hands and sighed as he came in to knock her down again. Once, she had thought he would murder her during these sessions, now she sometimes wished he would. As she fell, she feinted away from her sword, then rolled back toward it, but he didn’t fall for the trick. He rarely did. The cold, metal edge of his sword fell against her neck, not hard enough to cut, but firm enough to make her stop and look up at him. He was no longer smiling. His pale eyes glittered and his features were blank. Shea felt a sudden, disquieting surety that he wasn’t actually there, that he had gone away and left some other in his place, and that one would not even afford her the small kindness of allowing her to live. For the first time in weeks, Shea thought he might actually kill her. Then he lifted the sword, bent and grasped her arm, and pulled her roughly to her feet. He thrust her toward her sword. You are utterly useless, he spat. A child could have guessed what you were doing. Again.

Shea didn’t wait for him to come for her, nor did she answer his jibe; she knew too well he wouldn’t wait. She dove for her sword and managed, for once, to grasp the hilt before he could get to her. She leapt forward and then turned, but he was already there. She dodged his first thrust, then tripped over her own feet. Her sword slipped out of her sweaty fingers as she landed, sliding away from her. The elf sighed heavily and his thought was clear, even though he didn’t speak it. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’

For the next hour, the lesson continued and Shea spent most of it just trying to keep her feet. Eventually, Galen bored of his game and stalked off, muttering about useless brats who did not deserve the fine swords they’d been granted. Mithala came to stand by Shea as she looked down at the sand. Their footsteps were marked out plainly enough. Galen’s were light and barely visible, despite the number of times he’d forced her up and down the small spit of loose, sandy earth. Hers, however, were deep, clumsy scars, layered over each other with larger depressions to mark the multiple times she’d fallen.

Shea sighed. I’m hopeless.

Mithala laid a bare, dark arm over Shea’s shoulders. Her soft smile was kind, but stern. You are still worrying too much about the sword. How many times have I told you? It is the person’s shoulders and hips you need to pay attention to. Everything else is background.

Not with Galen, Shea protested. He doesn’t give any warning. He is just there, like a snake striking…. She flung her hands in the air. He just enjoys making me look like a fool, you know. He isn’t actually trying to teach me anything.

Mithala frowned. That is unfair. If he just wanted to humiliate you, he wouldn’t move so slow and careful. Now, I realize you two don’t much care for each other….

Slow and careful? Shea asked, thinking of how quickly the elf moved.

Mithala patted her shoulder. My dear, that is positively glacial for him. Believe me, I have seen him in true battle. The other woman paced along the beach, her strange, golden eyes cast down at the sand. I was like you, once. I thought Galen was just using me to prove how much better he was than anyone else. I even complained to Brenna. I told her that I didn’t think he was teaching me anything at all. She said to me, ‘if you can learn to defend yourself against an elf’s slowest attack, then you have become a great warrior.’ I didn’t understand what she meant then, but I did learn.

And have you ever been able to defend against him? Shea asked.

Not even once, Mithala said, smiling again, her white teeth flashing against her dark skin.

I didn’t know you trained with Galen, Shea said. She vaguely recalled Mithala once speaking of sparring with Galen, but she hadn’t really thought much about it since.

Mithala’s face was suddenly full of memory and her golden eyes became hooded. That was a long time ago. In another place.

You don’t like to talk of it, I know, Shea said. This was not the first time her friend had come to this point and she’d come to accept that there was something the warrior simply did not want to discuss. She was quick to share details of the life she’d had with Brenna, Shea’s mother, before Shea had been born and Brenna withdrew from the world. She would even share tales of the legendary Dragon Clan, which Brenna had ruled and Mithala had given her allegiance to. However, there was some shadow over these stories and there was a point at which Mithala stopped speaking. Shea was curious, but she didn’t press her friend; she had her own secrets and knew that some things should not be spoken.

Mithala turned, rolling her gleaming, bare shoulders, and drew her sword. Well, let us try and correct your faults, shall we? You are still dropping that left shoulder.

Chapter Three

Shea followed Mithala back to camp. Her shoulders ached; the other woman never treated her as though she was fragile, nor had she wasted the extra time they’d been given. She felt better than she had when Galen left, more confident in her own abilities. As they stepped into the clearing they had chosen for camp, Shea was greeted by the scent of a campfire, the first they’d had since Hadley. She glanced around quickly, unsure if she should be happy for the light or nervous that Galen would be angry with them for having the fire; he’d been the one to decide not to light a campfire for fear of attracting worse than cave wolves. Goblins now roamed Aíket’s countryside in bands, something they’d had several brushes with in the past couple weeks. Sometimes there were even trolls mixed in, though it was a well-known fact the two races hated each other.

Galen sat near the fire, his back against a fallen tree, Tam’s head in his lap. He was stroking the wolf’s gleaming black fur and staring into the flames. The expression on his face said he was deep in thought. Shea paused, taking a moment to examine both the wolf and the elf.

The wolf really had grown frightfully fast. It seemed only yesterday he had been a dog sized cub, lying beside the body of her friend, Brenan. Yet now he was as tall as her waist and showed no signs of slowing down. Brenan had been in the habit of taking in any orphaned animal, even rats, but cave wolves were violent, dangerous beasts that roamed in packs and nested in the caves at the base of the Howling Mountains. Shea still wondered how Brenan had found the cub without being savaged. Most would agree with Rook and Bran that the cub would eventually turn on any who tried to befriend it and eat them. Still, Shea had insisted on taking the poor creature in, if only because she couldn’t bear to think of what Brenan would have said if she had left it to starve or fall prey to some larger animal, and he’d stayed close ever since. Rook and Bran insisted he would turn on them one day, but Shea refused to send the creature away. Now, as she examined him, she realized how big he had actually gotten. He would still be small when compared with the monsters the village had fought off during the last winter; some of those had stood only a few inches shorter than the cattle they hunted, with the ability to seize a full grown sheep like a kitten and run off with it. Though Tam was not yet so large, he was beginning to show the signs of maturity; his shoulders were filling out and the narrow look which had always made him seem a puppy, despite his size, was nearly gone. Shea felt a small stab of misgiving; did he turn against them now, he would likely kill someone before they could stop him. Tam chose that moment to roll over, inviting Galen to rub his belly, and the tongue lolling grin he gave the elf was so sweet that Shea instantly felt like a fool; the wolf was just as tame as any dog she’d ever known.

She shifted her gaze to Galen and found he was watching her, a knowing expression on his face. Shea dropped her eyes and moved to sit down by the fire. Bran was already sitting close by and Mithala and Rook took their own seats. Rook pressed two squares of waybread into Shea’s hands. She looked at it for several long moments with distaste. The dense, dry wafers didn’t taste bad, exactly, but neither did they taste particularly good and there had been nothing else for Shea to eat since Hadley. Tam sometimes found deer when he went out hunting and, on rare occasions, he would bring down one too large for him to eat alone. Mithala would skin the creature, give Tam what he needed, and cook the rest, but Shea could not stomach meat.

She suspected her inability to eat flesh was a side-effect of her elvish blood – she noted that Galen would not touch the meat either – and had resigned herself to the steady diet of traveler’s bread, which was so heavy it often lay in her stomach for hours afterward, feeling as though she had swallowed a boulder.

She bit into her first wafer of waybread and turned when Bran laughed. His dark eyes sparkled merrily at her. Horrid stuff, isn’t it? If we ever come to a place where it is safe to visit an inn, you’ll find yourself devouring everything they have on offer.

Mithala shot her lieutenant, a scowl. Can we not speak of food? She gave Shea a crooked smile. I find it’s best if you just don’t think about it. Especially when the waybread is human-made. Now, if we could get Valina waybread… ah, what a difference it makes. She tipped her head back and looked up at the twilight sky. The first scattering of stars had appeared, though they were still dim. The Traveler’s Star was up, Shea knew, but the brilliant blue star was hidden by the trees.

Tastes like a dream. As light as any cloud and as filling as any feast, Bran intoned. Though it isn’t the best of what the Valina offer. Oh what would I give for a bit of honey bread and a pint of Valina ale?

Mithala groaned. Hush, foul beast; my stomach is already feeling empty.

I’d settle for the ale, Rook said quietly. His stormy gray eyes were cast down at a bit of wood he was holding. Shea saw he had his carving knife out. Rook had carved various things over the years they had been together. Sometimes it was animals, other times it was tops or whistles, and he would give them to the smaller children when he passed them. Shea wondered what it would be this time. It’s been a long time since I travelled like this. My bones grow weary; I suspect I’ve grown too old for adventure.

Or just too soft, Mithala teased, grinning. Shea laughed with her; Rook did not look as weary as he claimed. In fact, he looked better than she ever remembered him looking before. His tanned skin had taken on a ruddy glow and his eyes sparkled and snapped like those of a young man. After years of seeing Rook’s weary sadness – a match to Shea’s own grief for her mother – it was a welcome change. I suspect you are simply feeling the effects of your loss.

And which loss might that be? Rook asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The loss of a soft bed and a well-stocked pantry, Mithala replied, then the teasing left her face and her expression became serious. We should have caught Gil and Silas before the fork in the road. You don’t think something happened to them, do you?

Rook shrugged. We were still finding signs of their passage. They are fairly safe, you forget.

Mithala nodded. The troop of soldiers from Hadley had been traitors to the enemy, but, as none had escaped to tell of their treachery, they now marched under the guise of being loyal men to Corwin. Shea remembered a man she had allowed to escape and shivered. She said a quick prayer to Danu that she had not brought ruin upon them all. I suppose they are just in a hurry, then, Mithala said.

Rook nodded. By my mark, they are only resting when it is absolutely necessary. You saw how impatient Gil was to get back to his family and who can blame him. I can’t say I’d be surprised if he was driving his men on night and day.

Perhaps we should do the same; our shortcut will only allow us to catch them if they move at an ordinary pace. Mithala said, then shook her head. Actually, I’ve been thinking. There are so few of them in comparison of those in Odessa. Too few; we cannot hope to save all those held as slaves in the city with stealth and trickery.

Well, we can’t attack head on, Rook said. That would be suicide.

Aye, Mithala said. Even with an army, we’d only get the captives murdered and likely die ourselves. I was thinking of something in between.

Something like Hadley? Rook asked, his voice dry. That was pure luck and you know it.

Aye, Mithala said again. I was thinking of the last time Odessa fell. I wasn’t there; I hadn’t even been born yet, but the plan that brought the carved city to its knees was a sound one. It remains sound today.

It was born of madness, Bran said quietly. Shea looked at him and saw all the teasing had gone out of him. Now he sounded as though he was giving a warning.

Do you speak of Ahrin and Liam? Shea asked, darting glances between Bran and Mithala.

The two mercenaries exchanged glances and she was surprised to see, looked to Galen, as if asking permission. Understand, Mithala said, holding up her hands as though asking for patience from a protester, though no-one had said anything to deny her yet. I don’t wish to follow the trail of the legend. I just think there are other ways to do this that won’t end in the death of innocent people.

Mother told me the tale many years ago, Shea said. "It did not have a happy ending, but I do think the attack on