The Silver Ring

By Olivia Dromen

The world is a dangerous place. The Demon King Kanath invaded Celatier over a thousand years ago along with his human and half-demon followers, the Miroganti. Throughout that time, he has easily repulsed every effort of the Celatiern people to break his power.

After the death of a prince, the defection of one of the Demon King's lieutenants, and the plunging of two nations into anarchy, the fate of the free people of the world is held in the hands of Iona, a warrior woman with uncertain destiny, and her friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Dromen
• Release date: Dec 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310362316

Olivia Dromen

Olivia Dromen has been actively queer since the late eighties, when ze realized at the tender age of possibly-too-young that having hir hand down a girl's pants (in public, on a bus) was quite pleasurable. Other experiments followed. Ze is non-monogamous, kinky, and strangely attracted to awkward queers with cats. (Also, ze is a trans, demigirl, genderqueer, femme—hir pronouns are ze/hir/hirs.) Ze lives in western Massachusetts, where ze enjoys backpacking, drinking coffee, and having lots of sex. Ze writes high fantasy and erotica.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Ancient History

The demon, Kanath, stood in his study awaiting the return of his faithful slave. His massive, clawed hand passed listlessly over the papers on his desk. It did not seem to him that any of the agreements and plans would matter as much as they had a month before—if everything worked out today. And how can it not, he wondered. Today, the war ends.

The room was not large, only barely big enough for a desk and a chair. The desk was fashioned from obsidian from the slope of the Mountain of Sorrows, in the land of Mere, thousands of leagues away. The volcanic black glass had been polished to an even finish so the red glow of that special stone would shine through. It was also impressive because it was wrought in a manner no one had seen in this backward land—at least not in the past several thousand years. Sometimes he wondered whether coming here was worth all of the trouble it had caused him.

Kanath paced behind the desk, ignoring the papers for another moment. His black wings rustled behind him as he unconsciously expressed his agitation. This can wait, he thought as he glared at the papers.

The door, a solid steel plate set on tremendous hinges—yet cleverly counterbalanced so it could swing with a slight touch—opened. His slave, a human of no more than thirty years, hesitantly walked in. In his hands, wrapped in a light blue blanket embroidered with gold thread, was an infant.

My lord, he said softly.

Is that him? Kanath asked. His voice sounded like an earthquake. Are you sure this is the right one? He wasn't really sure how anyone could tell the vermin apart, without the markings of a proper heritage. That fact alone would have caused problems on more than one occasion if he had cared at all whether any single one of them lived or died. Perhaps this one will change that, he reflected. This one could be important.

Y-yes, my Lord.

Good, the demonic monarch smiled, showing his fangs. He walked around the stone desk. And no one saw you? You told no one?

N-no, my Lord, the man began to shake. That was the power of Kanath's presence, an aura of uncontrollable fear that could incapacitate any without demonic heritage.

Kanath smiled again. His hideously pointed teeth gleamed, even in the low light of his office.

The slave's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped to the ground. As his knees gave way, Kanath reached out, gently taking the boy from the now lifeless slave.

Still smiling, he gently held the infant in his clawed hands.

Chapter 2: A Meeting in the Dark

Iona was not old, but her knees and back ached. It had only been six years since she had sworn the oaths of a warrior and took up the leanri, the band of braided leather she wore on her arm to signify her status as a warrior in the service of the nation of Celatier in exile. She had taken up arms at the young age of twenty-two—years earlier than many of the young men chose to fulfill their duties to their people. Many thought that she was too young—and, of course, too female—to take on the responsibility. She knew that boys much younger in years, from other lands, often went off to war, but the Celatiern were not as eager to lose their young men to war. Most did not take up the leanri until they were thirty years old—and had at least a few children. Almost none of the Celatiern women ever went into battle.

For Iona, it had not been a hard decision; her parents had both been killed in the war, and she wanted desperately to see its conclusion. That day—when she bent knee before Wareen, Who-would-be-King, and received her sword—seemed ages ago. Today, on her twenty-eighth name-day, she celebrated by crouching under the boughs of a lone pine tree, sheltered from most of the rain. Tired, cold, and hungry—she had only a handful of wild carrots to eat—she let her mind wander as she watched the dripping water fall from the needles imperfectly roofing her hiding place.

It had been over two years since she had crossed so far into the Shadowed Lands, the lands in eclipse, which other people called the Mirogant Empire. These rolling plains were her people's birthright, but like most Celatiern she had never seen more than a hundredth part of them. The Celatiern were a people with a long memory. Many from other lands said that the only reason the world knew that the Mirogant Empire had not always been there was because the Celatiern reminded them. The Celatiern continued their battle for their homelands from the Gailfen Forest to the south, refusing to acknowledge that they had lost the war over a thousand years ago.

She did not even think about any of that; it was how she had lived her entire life. She worried over the particular lands she was in. She worried that she would meet the Darkspawn lord of this domain. Part of her, filled with the stubbornness of the Celatiern and the immortality of youth, wanted to seek out this Darkspawn and kill him. Adding honor to her name, a new rune for her sheath. Mostly she was afraid she would be discovered. She had met men and women who sought out the half-demon Darkspawn. None ever had a chance to grow old. Many—even the Fán who came from the plains far to the northwest to aid in the war against the Shadow—did not even gain one rune for their sheaths. The Darkspawn lords, more powerful than a hundred warriors, fought with the magical power inherited from their demonic parent. Balefire and fear flew out of them in battle, and the subtle dangers of paranoia and pride seeped from their presence a mile off.

Iona felt that. The paranoia. She knew that there were eyes watching her that were not human. She knew that she might have to face a half-demon… again. The first time, when she earned the only rune she wore on her sheath, she was new to the sword, less than a year after swearing the oaths. She had nearly died, even though she had twenty-five seasoned soldiers from Alfarnia with her. Only three of them had survived. Iona felt lucky that they had surprised the Darkspawn while he was taking his morning ride through the forest, alone. The only other time she had faced a Darkspawn in battle had gone somewhat better, but she was still afraid.

Iona silently drew her dagger, cursing her luck and planning that she was not in the open. She waited and listened. She trusted her ears more than her eyes on nights like this. She had heard stories of Darkspawn who could disappear. Control, she reminded herself, is what wins the battle. She mastered her breathing, attempting to bring forth the calm that surrounds the perfect control of a master swordsman. Half-rising, so that she could rely on the mobility of her legs when she needed them, she studied her surroundings with all of her senses. Crossed branches inches above her head. The quiet drip of water off of the pine needles. The smell of wet fur. She tensed, turning silently, slowly.

I was wondering when you would notice me, a voice whispered, almost laughing at her. Iona's face reddened as she saw who the voice belonged to. A young-looking man crouched under the same pine tree. He was dressed in fur and leather, wearing a curved short sword and carrying a horse-bow and quiver of arrows. He was at least a head and a half taller than Iona—who was considered rather tall among her people—and his slightly pointed ears marked him as elven-kin, a Fán plainsman.

Milaren! Iona breathed as she recognized her friend. They had known each other for years, since Iona was a young girl. Some had even suggested that she fancied him, though that was never anything more than the admiration for an older, experienced friend.

Yes, Iona. I followed your trail through these plains. You really need to be more alert to those behind you, even in this cursed rain. Milaren's eyes glinted with humor, though his words rang true.

Iona remembered what Master Halpern had told her nine years before, during her apprenticeship, There is no dishonor in having an Elf track you, just don't let it happen again. That's hardly fair, Milaren. After all, you've been training since before I was born. And, you can see in the dark! She thought for a moment, Would you like some carrots? It isn't much, but I doubt it would be a good idea to search for longer than necessary here.

Milaren refused the carrots with a wave, and began settling in for a long watch. You can sleep, I will watch. Taking a small leather flask out of his pouch, Milaren said, Happy name-day.

Iona gratefully accepted the flask, knowing it likely contained A'levara, a fortified wine from the elven lands far to the west. Thank you for remembering, she said and took a sip, wincing.

Your customs may be strange, but that does not mean I should not respect them. Good night, friend.

*

Milaren watched; Iona slept. She dozed fitfully at first. Curled on the damp ground, holding her long cloak tight against the chill and wet, her body slowly warmed to the liqueur, and she began to sleep more peacefully.

She dreamed of better times, back in the Gailfen Forest, where she grew up among the Elves and her own people. She dreamed of Spring Festivals and name-day feasts. Sunny days and peace-filled cheer. In short, she was happy for the first time in months. It wasn't that the war was going so poorly—it wasn't any different than the year before or the year before that, or even back through the last six years, as far as Iona could tell—it was more that the scouts had been going over the fringes of the Shadowed Lands since the snows first melted, and she was sick of it. The happiness took her to a better time and place. It was almost magical being among the Elves again—even if it was only in dream. That was one of the most beneficial powers of A'levara. That and the feeling of warmth it brought with it.

The transformation was so complete that Iona was surprised when Milaren's hand wrapped around her arm to wake her. Startled, she almost spoke, but her training and experience took over quickly enough. She readied herself mentally.

In the dim light, Iona could barely make out Milaren's hand flashing in signs—silently communicating the approach of a lone horseman traveling directly toward them. Iona's confusion disappeared in an instant of well controlled fear as she silently drew her sword from the well oiled sheath, laying it out in front of her. She swiftly and quietly buckled on her boiled leather breastplate and sword belt, preparing for the inevitable.

Milaren held his bow crosswise and drew an arrow without moving from his half crouch. He mouthed the word, Mage, breathlessly. Iona groaned inwardly and prepared for the worst as a voice called out in the trade language, Oh, do come out of there… I can see you plain as daylight.

That was when Iona first noticed the dull red glow from the stranger's eyes. Damn me to the deepest hell, she thought, of course the Darkspawn would wait until the middle of the night. And on my name-day, too. She controlled her fear, minimally shifting her weight so that her muscles wouldn't tense up at the wrong moment.

The mage pulled up closer, speaking again, this time in the tongue of Old Celatier. Oh come, come. I cannot wait here all night. The council has met and sent me to fetch the two of you. I hadn't thought that you would be together, but fate smiles on us tonight. We go into battle. He smiled.

Recognition dawned on Iona. This was no Darkspawn lord. This was an Alfarnian wizard, an ally—and a rare one at that. Probably a complete fool as well, judging by how he was looking forward to battle. She cautiously put her hand on the soft leather of Milaren's shoulder. They crept out into the rain together, lowering their weapons. The wizard was young, in his late twenties—maybe a year younger than Iona. He must have been fresh out of his apprenticeship, and a long way from anyone he knew. A few lords in Alfarnia, mainly the ones from the villages on the eastern border without close ties to their church, sent their younger sons off to train in the academies, so that they could make something out of their lives without the land that their older brothers would inherit. Most of these young lords who completed their training—any with useful skills—would go to join the war against the Miroganti for a few years, gaining renown and reputation. They would get as much renown as a wizard could gain in Alfarnia, in any case. Pointing, the wizard spoke, The camp is five miles in that direction. You can reach it before dawn if you hurry.

Iona found herself nodding. She knew very well where the camp was supposed to be, she had scouted the location herself. But the battle should not be taking place until after the scouts had finished their work. This will probably end badly, she thought. She suppressed a groan.

Tomorrow we fight. The mage continued. He paused, looking thoughtful. Oh, and my name is Allain, Allain d'Forgaine. He extended his gloved hand to Milaren. It is a pleasure to meet a Fán lord, such as yourself.

Milaren's eyes showed amusement as he shook the young man's hand. He was no lord. Fán did not have lords. The clan-heads were elected by the clan's eldest women, but their power was almost solely military—which only mattered when the nomads strayed too far south, and the orcs moved too far north. Most important internal problems were solved in council meetings, with the advisers deciding events by persuading the council. Iona knew that Milaren had long ago given up on attempting to educate Alfarnians about the structure of Fán clans, but the Fán was still entertained by their mistakes. Allain released Milaren's hand, saluted, and rode off, with a shout. We shall meet again before morning. May Fate favor you.

*

Iona quickened her pace, trying to match Milaren's long strides across the grasslands. Both of them were soaked. The pair had been traveling for almost two hours through the heavy rain and gloom. It was only because of Milaren's exceptionally sharp eyes that they were able to travel at all.

Passing over the crest of a low rise, the Fán paused. Iona slowed and stopped next to him, breathing heavily. She was quietly thankful for the rest. Even six years as a scout and her training with the Wood Elves of the Gailfen Forest had not prepared her for traveling with a Fán plainsman. She suspected that no matter how often this happened, she would never get used to it.

Sentries, Milaren whispered. We seem to have arrived.

Still breathing heavily, Iona replied, almost as quietly, Have they seen us yet?

No. They are on the next rise. They can't see us yet. He paused. Unless, of course, they have an Elf or Fán with them. He had a point. Both Elves and their half-human kin, the Fán, were able to see well at night. Another pause. This time, with a smile that Iona could only barely make out, Or a mage.

Iona peered into the gloom, past the rain dripping off the hood of her cloak. Standing here in the rain won't get us in a tent, or breakfast. Her stomach growled softly. The camp was a series of tents grouped around dying cook-fires. In the rain and dark it looked almost peaceful, except for the men gathering their equipment, readying themselves for another march—and battle. As Iona and Milaren walked into the camp, they watched as the wet canvas and leather tents were dismantled and strapped onto pack-horses.

Almost to a man, the soldiers wore armor. Passing through the camp, Iona examined each group: light infantry, with its heavy canvas and boiled leather armor, most painted brightly to signify their town or lord; heavy infantry, with chain mail and shields, blazoned with their colors; cavalry—lords, minor nobility, and professionals—with armor suiting their position and wealth. At this point, before anyone had been bloodied in this campaign, it looked like it could be a festival. Iona could almost imagine that the Wandering Court had come to town—except that there was no town. Every time she saw a camp of this size, she was amazed at how quickly it could spring up from the endless nothingness of the plains. Everyone's arms and armor were freshly polished and clean. The colors—where there were colors—were bright and pleasant to the eye. In fact no one—with the exception of Iona and Milaren—was covered in mud. Iona knew, from her years in the field, that the festival air and the unnatural cleanliness of this morning would not last beyond the army's first step onto the field of battle.

Everyone in the camp was quietly readying him- or herself for the day. The officers and their sergeants softly gave their orders, calling for their men to do one thing or another. It was almost as if no one wanted to disturb the peace of this rain-filled, but somehow majestic, morning.

A scout passed in front of Milaren and Iona, crossing their path. Milaren, who could see clearly, nudged Iona. Delreyn, he said.

Taller and stronger than the Alfarnian men around him, he stood out. His long black hair was tied back in a braid reaching between his shoulder blades. He wore only a leather breastplate for armor and a sword for a weapon, but on his left hand a heavy gold signet ring glistened in the dim light. On his left arm he wore the red e'leanri of a master warrior. His scabbard bore ten runes. Hail, Celatiern, Iona called in Old Celatiern. How goes the battle?

The scout turned, showing his hawk nose and a scar across his forehead. Iona! Milaren! Surprised, and pleased, he continued the ritual greeting, The Shadow is heavy, but the fight continues.

Until none of the Blood remain, Iona completed. Delreyn, I never thought I would see you here. I never thought I would see anyone with a friendly face tonight. She embraced Sir Delreyn of Greenwood Glen, melting to his chest as much as she could while wearing armor..

Releasing her with a playful clap on the shoulder, Delreyn spoke to Milaren, It is good to see you as well old friend. There are fewer and fewer Darkspawn hunters, and we need more.

Shaking Delreyn's gloved hand, Milaren's eyes lost their sparkle for a moment. It is as you say, fewer and fewer. Some fall to the Night. Some fall to Chaos. Few master hunters remain, and their loss grieves me as much as it grieves you. Fewer hear the call each generation, and even fewer return to the Northern Plains to teach.

The three shifted uneasily for a moment. It was a difficult topic to talk about. The war was not going well—it had not been going well for hundreds of years—and the enemy had eternity to whittle down the forces opposing him.

Delreyn broke the silence. Iona, I brought along a letter from Kels.

She's not here? Iona asked. She was disappointed. She had hoped to have at least a few minutes to spend with her lover. It had been too long.

He bit his lip and looked concerned. No, she stayed behind in the Gailfen. Here, I hope this explains it. He fished a letter out of a stiff leather pouch and handed it over to Iona.

Thanks. She held the rolled parchment under her cloak, anxious to find out what explanation Kels had for staying behind. Would your Lordships care to get out of this night-spawned rain? My bones are freezing and I am hungrier than Carl Helafarn after he walked across the Sandy Waste. Iona knew that Milaren was no lord, she also knew Delreyn from before he was knighted, from before he became a master warrior. Delreyn had taught her sword forms as a young woman—and much more—as she was growing up. After all, he was her foster-father.

Milaren, do me a favor… If you teach this young one nothing else, show her that trick of keeping yourself from feeling discomfort. At least then she would stop complaining. He smiled and pointed to a large tent with a banner planted in front of it. This way.

Iona doubted that she actually obfuscated her purpose, but at least Delreyn was being polite.

As the three approached the tent, Iona could make out the kingfisher eating a sea-serpent on the banner—the device of House Margood, the ruling house of Alfarnia. The Prince? Her heart sank. There would be no way to read the letter here.

Why else would we be making this foray before spring is really here? Before the scouts return. Why else would the camp be so… colorful? Delreyn looked pensive, Their king is not well, and Prince Florent takes risks that only a madman would take—or a man possessed by glory. He risks their House, with Prince Godric apprenticing to Faly Sin… He paused before opening the tent flap, whispering, We cannot afford a war of succession in Alfarnia any more than we can afford to hand our own heads over to Kanath. The name of the god-king of the Mirogant Empire was whispered even more softly than the rest, but it seemed to echo through the camp. No one else spoke as the three entered the tent.

The tent was furnished with a folding table covered in layers of maps. A single lantern lit the table, its wick turned up all the way. Two men, dressed in fine clothes and wearing jeweled swords looked up from the maps as the three entered. Prince Florent, a blond man in his early thirties, spoke first, Ah, you've made it! Sir Delreyn, I see you also managed to find another scout, and Lord Milaren. Come in. Come in.

They entered, muttering, My Lords.

Florent continued, This is my captain, Lord Siffild. He is a good cavalry man, and a high lord.

The other man stepped forward, extending his hand, My pleasure at meeting you, Lord Milaren, Sir Delreyn. As usual, Iona was below notice. She preferred it that way, in any case.

Siffild, send someone for food… and have my man pack my things and send my armor over. I think I'll be here until we march.

Yes, my Prince. Siffild disappeared out through the tent flap, bowing. Milaren, I will need you with us when we march into Heartswood. There is a Darkspawn there.

Yes, I know… My Lord. He smiled at the arrogance of this Prince and said, I was camped with Iona just over the hill from this village.

Were you? he asked, not caring whether he was answered at all. Well. You will ride with me, helping me plan the attack.

Yes, my Lord.

A servant entered, carrying a tray of food: bread, tea, and boiled eggs. A fine breakfast for a soldier, but not worthy of a Prince.

Sir Delreyn, you will take this scout into your company, for the time being at least. We will march from Heartswood before the end of the day, so you will find us a secure camp.

My Lord? Iona was astonished. Do you believe it will be so simple as that to take this village?

Prince Florent looked at her as if noticing her for the first time, Of course. It is hardly more than a manor house, perhaps fifteen or twenty families.

And a Darkspawn, Iona reminded him.

And a single Darkspawn. We will need a camp outside of the village, perhaps ten miles to the north.

With a glance to Delreyn, Iona bowed her head. The Prince motioned for them to eat, talking to them of the plans for the battle. Iona glanced at the tent flap and groaned inwardly. She wanted to get out of there, to read the letter and maybe get some rest. It was going to be a long day—and a long campaign—unless this Prince came to his senses.

*

Iona unrolled the parchment, already fearing the worst. Her mouth dried as she read. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned to Milaren, who had brought over two bowls of porridge for them to eat—the prince had not provided quite enough food for two people who had spent the night walking around the countryside. Tears feel down her cheeks.

She's getting married.

Milaren closed his eyes and shook his head. I'm sorry.

At the spring festival. So soon. She shook her head and wiped the tears away with the side of her finger. But I don't understand. We were so… good together.

Milaren ate a spoonful of porridge. He swallowed and looked his friend in the eye. You were? Were you happy together?

Mostly, yes.

Remember the good times, then. You were blessed. He looked her over. Maybe she wasn't as happy. It isn't as though she is the only woman out there for you.

She couldn't handle constantly being told to settle down, find a man. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone? They're all so busy getting married. She flung the letter across the table. As soon as she realized what she had said, she flushed in embarrassment. Darkspawn hunters were sworn to not take take a mate, to pursue nothing except destruction of the shadow. I'm sorry…

Do not worry about it. I understand. You are hurt. You said it in a way you did not mean. He shrugged and smiled. I'm sure you will find someone. You're quite dashing.

Iona couldn't help but stick her tongue out at the Fán. She smiled. Dashing? Really?

Chapter 3: Morning's Dawning

Milaren rode over the rise on a dapple horse named Fleet. Like most of his fellow nomads, he had practically been born on a horse's back, and although he chose not to use a saddle it would be almost impossible for him to be unhorsed. Years of practice and his elven reflexes—and no small amount of training—in riding and mounted combat allowed him to be almost at one with the horse.

He could see the village of Heartswood from his position at the fore of the column of soldiers, next to Prince Florent. A half dozen cottages surrounded the green along with a small manor—it was a very small village. It had no walls and, apparently, no guards. If Milaren had not known there was a Darkspawn living there it would appear to be woefully unprepared for a border village. Of course, Prince Florent thought it would be routine to take the town in any case, but Milaren knew him to be a fool. An important fool, but a fool nonetheless.

Milaren brought forth the magical powers welled in the earth and gathered in the sky—the very stuff of being. He used senses molded through the long use of this magic to weave a complex web that he hoped would not be seen by the Darkspawn; a web that would be used to trace the half-demon to wherever he was, and hopefully trap him. Sending this weave out, Milaren relaxed against his horse's neck, patting him gently.

Florent, I've found him.