The Green Triad: Book Four of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

By Darragh Metzger

A whisper of strange and dangerous magic reached the ears of the Green Faction, and the Green Triad was sent to investigate...
Restored as Cavalier of the Green Triad, Rowan of Killaloe fights to regain her honor and forge a lasting bond with her new Triad: the mad Mystic, Girai Groushko, and the tainted Ranger, Jade the Elf. But an explosive encounter with an embittered Fey Lady proves that the past that disgraced Rowan, destroyed Groushko's sanity, and broke Jade's previous Triad, continues to haunt the footsteps of the Green Triad.
Now Rowan, Groushko, and Jade must prove themselves once more, not only to their mysterious masters but to themselves, as they pursue a quest that turns friend into foe and drags terrible secrets to light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darragh Metzger
• Release date: Sep 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311043559

Darragh Metzger

I make my living in the world's two lowest-paying professions: acting and writing. While my resume includes stage and screen credits, I've spent the last several years wearing armor, riding horses, and swinging swords with The Seattle Knights, a stage combat and jousting theatrical troupe. My publishing credits include plays, non-fiction articles, and short stories, one of which made The StorySouth Millions Writers Award Notable Stories of 2005. I've written two short story collections and ten novels to date, sold three of them in 2002, and have now re-released them under my own imprint, TFA Press. My first non-fiction project, Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could, came out in 2018. I also sing and write songs for A Little Knight Music and The Badb. If I had free time (which I don't), I'd spend it with horses. I'm married to artist/fight director Dameon Willich.

Book preview

The Green Triad

Book Four of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

Copyright 2010, 2020 Darragh Metzger

A TFA Press Original

Lynnwood, Washington

Cover art by

Dameon Willich

Copyright © 2011

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Title/Copyright Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: Rowan

Chapter 2: Rowan

Chapter 3: Jade

Chapter 4: Groushko

Chapter 5: Rowan

Chapter 6: Rowan

Chapter 7: Jade

Chapter 8: Groushko

Chapter 9: Jade

Chapter 10: Rowan

Chapter 11: Jade

Chapter 12: Rowan

Chapter 13: Rowan

Chapter 14: Groushko

Chapter 15: Groushko

Chapter 16: Rowan

Chapter 17: Oengus

Chapter 18: Rowan

Chapter 19: Rowan

Epilogue

Please Review This Book/Connect with Darragh Metzger

Other Books by Darragh Metzger

Acknowledgements

Author's Notes

About the Author

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Dedication

For Karen and Big John.

Prologue

Clouds swallowed the moon and stars, swathing the barn in darkness. Even inside, the dark hung like a black curtain just beyond the faint ring of light cast by the oil lamp the young groom had hung from a peg in the beam behind his chosen seat, a wooden chair covered with a worn saddle blanket.

A warmer, softer light leaked from the slits around the top and sides of the old camp stove in the center as well, but it did not even reach as far as the door. At least the stove lessened the night's clammy chill; outside its circle of warmth, the air hung heavy, thick with the smell of the rain that would doubtless come before dawn.

The youth yawned and tipped his chair back to lean against the rough wooden beam. It could have been worse; at least he was inside, relatively warm, and the mistress had provided a pot of spiced cider, currently steaming atop the stove and mingling whiffs of apple, cinnamon, and cloves with the pleasant musk of horse, leather, and sweet hay.

He didn't really mind mare watch. Not that, even if any of them foaled tonight, they were likely to need his help, but they and the young lives they carried were the wealth of the farm, and it didn't pay to take chances. Besides, it was peaceful inside the barn, the mares were good company, and it gave him the opportunity to think over some of the things gnawing at him in privacy.

The creak of the door startled him; he rose as the lantern's light flickered in a sudden gust of cold, damp air. Who's there? he called softly. The rustle of straw and a few low whickers from the stalls around him echoed his query.

White hair caught the edge of light as a tall, lean man stepped into the barn. It is only a restless old man, for whom sleep proves elusive. I apologize for the intrusion. He gently closed the door behind him, turning his head to address the dark eyes gleaming above stall doors on both sides of the barn. To you as well, ladies. Go back to sleep.

The groom smiled. What luck. Opa, the old storyteller, had been a welcome guest at the house for several days; his stories filled the heart and haunted one's thoughts. I'm glad of the company. Come sit by the stove; it's not a warm, dry bed, but it'll shake off a bit of the chill. I can offer a cup of cider, if you like.

Ah. Don't mind if I do, young man. He entered the circle of light and sat down on a pile of unopened burlap bags near the stove, opposite the groom. Your courtesy is much appreciated.

The groom rose and filled a battered tin cup with the fragrant warmth of the cider while he groped for a way to put his questions into words. It wouldn't do to sound too eager, like some silly child, all puffed up with heroic tales of adventure and romance. He had to sound sensible, mature, thoughtful. Actually, this is most fortuitous. For me, I mean—I realize it's less so for you— He clamped his lips shut to stop his babbling and handed the cup to the old man before trying again. "What I mean to say is, I've been listening to the stories you've been telling the others, and what I wanted to know is, well...the stories you tell—that I'm hearing—that is..."

How is it that you hear more in them than I say in words? the old man finished for him, his blue eyes bright with amusement...and something else, something the groom could not name.

But at least the old man understood. The groom let his breath out in eager relief. "Yes, that's it. When you tell the Triad stories, it's as if I'm there, seeing it, hearing it, smelling and tasting—I know what they're all thinking, I can see them doing things you're not even telling about. He refilled his own cup and sat down carefully. He hoped his uncertainty didn't show in his voice. But then the mistress, the rest of them, they talk like they're just stories, a lark. They don't hear them that way, do they? It's just me, isn't it?"

Opa's eyes gleamed above his smile, as if lightning lived in the summer-blue depths. There is magic in my tales, my young friend. Not everyone hears it. Perhaps not everyone wants to. Some hear more than others.

Magic, the groom breathed, tasting the word on his tongue. After a moment, he added, It's real, then. The stories. The Triads. The Fey. Tir na n'Og. All of it. He leaned forward, his hands tightening around his cup. I'm on mare watch for the next several days, Master Opa. I can't be there when you tell the rest of the story you started to the others. And I need to know what happens. Please.

Opa sipped his drink, watching the youth over the rim of his cup. You ask no small thing, my friend. The tale of the Triads is long, and many threads go into its weaving.

The groom gave an impatient jerk, sloshing hot cider over his hands; he swallowed his reflexive curse and shook away the drops, casting a pleading look at the old storyteller. Master Opa—

Just Opa, if you please. I am no man's master.

Opa. I've tried to be there each time you've told the story about the three Triads. Murder, black magic, a dark-clad rider on a pale horse, enemies who were once friends, treachery in high places...I can't get it out of my mind. I keep thinking... He swallowed, sat back. I don't understand how, if Ohma set things up to be so fine, so the Triads could do the Fey's bidding and be the defenders of the right and the good, how could the Fey let them... He shook his head. I know the others don't hear it the way I do. What really happened between the Factions? Did Ohma mean for it to be that way?

The neat white beard twitched around Opa's lips; he took another sip of his cider. So, you would have me tell the tale again, would you?

The groom took a deep breath, let it out slowly, looking down at his cup to hide his disappointment. I'm sorry, sir. I did not think...forgive me. He forced his mouth into a smile and looked up. I'm sure one of the other hands will fill me in later. May I offer you more cider?

I did not say I would not tell it, young man. I tell my tales as often as I find ears to listen. It is not often I am asked for the rest. The parts that aren't so...pretty. Opa drained his cup and set it carefully on the stove. The fire within the metal shell flared and dimmed, filling the barn with dancing shadows, as if the darkness crept close to listen.

In the beginning, said Opa, "humans who found their way to Tir na n'Og were unlikely to find their way out again, for the Sidhe—the Greater Fey—never forgot that Man had driven them from the earth. In their own land, the faerie Folk were ruled by nothing but their own whim, and men were blown like leaves in the wind of their passing. The Wild Hunt rode each night beneath the eternally full moon, and Man was their prey, dying on the fangs of their beasts and the points of their spears."

Opa leaned forward, his eyes pinning the young groom to his seat. "It was Ohma, daughter of Lugh the Golden, Lugh of the Long Hand, who changed all that. It was Ohma who threw her protection over men. It was Ohma who bade the Fey treat their lesser cousins in accordance with their own ancient teachings. It was Ohma who taught mankind the Code, and set our feet upon the path we would forevermore tread in Tir na n'Og.

And it was Ohma who enlisted the aid and support of the three Powers, firstborn and greatest of the Greater Fey, so that they forbade the Wild Hunt, and made between Man and Fey the covenant we honor to this day.

Opa's voice filled the shadowy corners, drew the mares to the doors of their stalls to stare out at him, their eyes glinting in the dark. The groom sat utterly still, feeling life and movement all around him but unable to look away from the uncanny old man on the other side of the circle of light.

"In gratitude, men honored Ohma, and took her wisdom for their own. Man and Fey alike took up her Code, and followed the way it led. Mankind learned of honor and courage; the Fey, to whom such things had once been sacred, looked at men and saw themselves mirrored, and so rediscovered their own greatness. The thirteen Factions agreed to let mankind become the bridge between them, and laid down their swords.

And so, out of the greatest among the humans, the leaders of the Fey Factions chose the first Triads, to carry out deeds of honor in their names. And in time some of these, the merest handful, became the first Triumphants, who were given stewardship of the cities of men, and the first Ironlords, who were given the Law and sworn to uphold the welfare of the land. We honor their names with tales of their deeds, and the deeds of those who have followed.

Yes, thought the groom, and at the same time, no. Another tale lay beneath the first. He could feel it. He clasped his hands more tightly around his cooling, half-empty cup.

Opa paused and looked away. When he spoke again, his voice rolled out of the shadows; quiet, yet filled with power, like the rumble of distant thunder. "But when Ohma, in her wisdom, first forged the compact between Man and Fey, not all were in accord. Though there were many among the Sidhe who embraced Ohma's Code and took her beliefs for their own, and sought to care for their human charges in the way they believed the three Powers desired, there were others who did not. No few throughout the Factions saw the banishment of warfare as a diminishment of their former glory, and to them, the guidance of humankind along a new path was a poor substitute. Others remembered that once men had worshipped them and their kind as gods, and they looked upon the role of guardian with disdain. Still others could not forget that they had been driven from the earth by mankind's smoke and steel, and they did not forgive.

"And so it was that, over time, the Triads began to be used, not always as Ohma had intended—to protect, serve, and become bridges by which humans and Fey could live together in peace—but as pawns in a game the Factions played with and against one another. The Triads, bearing the mark of highest honor, were sometimes used in ways that sullied that honor and the honor of those in whose names they served. And no few among them, in their hearts, grew to despise that service to which they were bound by oath."

Opa paused, and for a moment was only an old man again. Is that what you wished to know?

The groom found he could move again, and nodded. I think...I knew it. Yes, that explains a good deal. He grinned. I can understand the Red Triad now, anyway, I think. But honestly, sir, I was hoping to hear more about the Green.

The Green Triad, Opa murmured, and leaned back. You want to know what happened after the Red Triad and the Blue Triad left them, is that so? The youth nodded, and Opa smiled. You said you know the rest of the tale so far.

Most of it, yes. He hesitated. At least, I heard all about the Red Triad. I think I caught most of how it all started. He eyed Opa hopefully and finally cleared his throat. But...would you mind...?

Opa picked up his cup and held it out. Refill this, and I shall remind us both of what has passed.

The groom reached for the cup, and Opa's voice washed over him like a breath of wind before a storm.

"A whisper of strange and dangerous magic among the Sobaka reached the ears of the Green Faction, and the Green Triad was sent to investigate. And the Red Faction, hearing similar hints, sent out the Red Triad. But when next the wind carried news of the Triads to the waiting ears of their Factions, it was of death, swift and sudden; both Triads slain but for one man, and he but a maddened wreck. And the wind bore no whisper of how this had come to pass.

"The slaying of two seasoned Triads within such a short time did not go unnoticed by any of the Factions, and roused to action some that had heretofore merely observed.

"The Blue Faction, perhaps in the belief that the Red and Green Factions withheld greater knowledge of events than claimed, set the Blue Triad the task of unraveling the tangle of rumors, hints, and strange happenings. Yaqut ibn Munqidh the Cavalier, Antonio Ságria Montoya DeVasa the Mystic, and Angharad Jarlsdotter the Ranger had served long together, as Triads reckon time, and had brought much pride and glory to the Blue Faction.

"The Red Faction chose three young, untried heroes for their next Red Triad, hoping for a fresh start. John von Ravensburg of Drachenfel became the Cavalier, Bae Twan of Angkor the Mystic, Shee-An-Natay of Nilka the Ranger, each eager to prove worthy. The Red Faction set the living Triad on the trail of the dead, and sat back to wait and watch.

"The Greens summoned Rowan of Killaloe to service, once the favored Cavalier of the Green Triad, but who had been disgraced and set aside years before. They placed with her Girai Groushko, the surviving Mystic of the Green Triad that had died so strangely, and a former Black Triad Ranger who had been tainted by old magic, changed to something no longer human. He bore the name of Jade the Elf when he became Ranger of the Green Triad.

"All this have I told you; of how the three paths tangled and led them to one another; of how the three Triads pursued one another, each suspecting the others of a hand in the weaving of the cloak of deception they sought to unravel. Of how they came together at last only to be set against each other. Of how each man and woman among them looked into his and her heart and found something unsuspected. Of how they learned much of one another—and of themselves—before they laid down their weapons and made peace. Of how three Triads vowed to aid one another in bringing the one they suspected of masterminding this evil, a man they knew only as 'the dark rider', to justice."

Opa leaned forward and took the forgotten cup of cider from the groom's unmoving hands. His voice dropped, filling the barn's dusty interior with echoes. "Listen well, for from this point on, the story changes. The three Triads were driven apart as surely as they had been brought together, each with only a tiny piece of the puzzle.

"The Red and Blue Triads followed the trail of their foe into a forgotten Gate on an island in the lake known as the Hand of Odin, but they did not come out where they had planned. Of the fate of the Red Triad, you know; how they fell out the Gate onto the sun-seared plains of Kinshasa, and of the terrible trials they faced there. How they were broken and re-forged beneath the hammer of the evil they faced and fought.

"The Blue Triad emerged in the Mists, and their tale has yet to be told.

But the Green Triad forbore to follow, for the magic of the Gate would not work for Jade the Elf, and Rowan of Killaloe would not part her Triad. So, the Green Triad turned back toward shore, wondering at their next step.

He paused, caught the young groom's gaze, and did not let go. I will tell you what I can, and you may hear more. But all the story may never be told. You see, it is not only the Fey who keep secrets. Or so the Green Triad found.

Chapter 1

Rowan braced herself against each surge of the boat through the cold, clear water, mentally counting the beats between the creak and swish of the oars, the gurgling rush of water past the hull, and the grunts of effort that produced them.

The rowers—eight men of Kalmar, a mix of thralls and freemen—were tall men and husky as smiths, the lot of them, filling the confines of the clinker-built boat with the musk of toil and sweat. They made her Ranger, Jade the Elf, look like a child perched uneasily on the middle bench, his hands gripping the polished wood to keep from toppling over with each stroke.

She could not read Jade's expression in the gathering dusk, but she suspected it was much as her own: apprehensive, or trying hard not to be.

Jax was always at ease on the water—she cut the thought dead. Dead as Jax. It's Jade now and always. Jade! she reminded herself fiercely. No comparisons, now or ever.

She hoped Jade was doing a better job of hiding his nerves than she was. She hated boats, for all that she'd grown up with them. She could swim well enough, even in water as deep and icy as Lake Thrym, or the Hand of Odin as it was often called by the locals. Not so well, though, when she was wearing armor, and the boat, for all its breadth and sluggish bulk, had a tipsy feel to it that made her long for shore and solid ground beneath her booted feet.

Her breath misted in cold, clear air crisp with the scent of pine as she scanned the surrounding waters. The dancing surface still caught occasional flickers of light from the dying sun hidden from view somewhere behind the surrounding mountains. But it wasn't enough to see much by, and evening mist was already rolling in, obscuring the shore and gliding, thick as smoke, over the water. The islands that broke the lake's surface by day had vanished in the gloom, swallowed by the mist or lost against the shoreline. The black silhouettes of the mountains loomed against a sky only slightly paler and barely tinged with the last fiery hues of sunset. Full dark was nearly upon them, and the moon would not rise for a bit yet. Anything could be out there. And probably was.

The sooner they were all back ashore and away, the better. She could bid farewell-and-thanks-for-everything to the boats' owner—some sort of kin to the Blue Ranger, Angharad—and she and her Triad would be on their way, this whole unsatisfactory episode behind them. The Red and Blue Triads, hot on the trail of their quarry, had vanished through the ancient Gate atop the nameless island now somewhere in the dark behind the boats, and Rowan wished them well of it. Let the other two Triads continue their pursuit of the dark rider and all the questions he raised in his wake like dust. The Green Triad had completed their mission. She, Jade, and Groushko had discovered who had murdered the prior Green Triad, and the killer was dead. No more steps need be taken down that road. With any luck at all, their masters, the Fey of the Green Faction, would order them to resume the search for the Gem of Ohma, and that would be the end of that.

She did not want to ask her sworn overlords if they had known who the Alchemist was when they sent her to find and slay him. She did not want to speak Dmitri's name again, ever, save in the privacy of her heart, where he was still human, her Mystic, her friend.

She did not want to have to think about why Dmitri had done what he had done.

So like Ankh. Too much like Ankh.

How could it happen twice?

Her hands tightened on the side of the boat, and she pushed the memory aside. That way lay nothing but madness and grief. She'd had a hard enough time staying out of that particular darkness; she'd not tempt it again. She had the future to think of. Her future. With her new Triad. A new beginning.

She hoped the horses were still where they'd left them, tied in a concealing thicket. Kalmar was no place to spend the night outside the safety of walls. The mountains were haunted by a wide and colorful variety of fell things that appreciated fresh horsemeat, from hobgoblins and trolls to common, garden-variety wolves. She was sure she would have heard something if they'd been attacked. Sound carried quite well over water, as the shrill din of frogs serenading one another along the shoreline proved, and a horse's scream was a good deal louder than any number of frogs. Still...

And here she was, fussing like an old woman, and the boat scarce halfway to shore. Time enough to worry about what waited when they reached it. Magic and the other horses were fine. The things that might be lurking in the water were of greater concern, at the moment. The Hand of Odin was home to many of the most ancient and feared monsters of the deep. And a good many of the lesser ones as well. Worse still were the pirates, killers in their small, fast sailing ships that preyed on anything that came in reach. Such as, for instance, two big, fat rowboats in the middle of the lake at night.

Best keep watch for real threats, and leave fancies for another time. Better yet, leave them entirely.

She glanced toward the second boat, three or four horse-lengths larboard of the one in which she rode. Her Mystic, Girai Groushko, sat slumped in the middle, a dark hulk surrounded by rhythmic movement; all she could make out of the Kalmaran sailors. The men made light work of their task, handling the thick, oaken oars as if they were so many walking sticks. But they made for shore with determined haste, rowing in grim silence.

Well, as near to silence as two great, heavy boats full of people being hauled through the water by wood and muscle could get. One couldn't exactly hear a pin drop through it, but all that grunting, swishing, and splashing was still quieter than the frogs.

Come to think on it, there was a sight too much swishing and splashing for sixteen oars all pulling together to be making.

As if her thought had summoned it, a sudden flare of light bloomed in the second boat, limning Groushko's huge hand and bearded face, the startled oarsmen, boat, and surrounding waters in soft, green light, as if an enormous firefly had settled among them. Startled oaths split the stillness; the surrounding rowers flinched from the light as if it hurt.

The boats' master, Sigurd Snorrison, stood up in the prow of the first boat. Put that out, fool! Now!

Groushko's black eyes glittered from the hairy mask of his face, his shaggy brows lowering over them in warning. His voice rumbled over the water between them, as thick and dark as the night mist. I hear something. We must see.

Rowan hissed, slashing her hand through the air. Groushko, put it out! Do you want to draw ever eye on the lake? And under it?

His sullen scowl deepened, but he growled something that was probably a Russian curse, and the light vanished.

From the darkness at the prow of the boat, Sigurd's hoarse whisper carried like a shout. I meant no disrespect, Green Mystic. Olaf the Black has been haunting this part of the Hand of late. Had my kinswoman not asked it, I would not be on the water now. Best we pass unseen. A whispered order in one of the Kalmar tongues, a dialect Rowan didn't recognize, and the men shipped the oars. The swish and creak of water and wood stilled.

Rowan pulled her hood back and listened to the sudden quiet. Someone's nervous sweat hung, warm and rank, in the icy air. The frogs shrilled, their vigor undiminished. Droplets, doubtless from the oars, plinked into the lake, a soft, musical tinkle.

Had she really heard anything at all?

With a massed sigh of released breath, the men around Rowan stirred. A loon called from shoreward and received an answer from farther out on the water as Sigurd's voice reached her, barely louder than the collective sighs of his crew. All's well; man your oars.

Wait. Jade's voice. His shadowy form leaned toward Rowan; she could just make out the gleam of his widening eyes. That was no loon.

Fires of Hell. A fight on the water. In the dark. In little, shifty boats. Well, all right, decent-sized barges. But still. Rowan snorted and pitched her voice toward Sigurd. Well, that's done it. Make for shore, best speed. They're on us. Must have spotted us leaving the island. To Jade, she whispered, Can you shoot in this light?

I can shoot in any light or none at all. I can't promise I'll hit anything, though.

Jade's eyesight and hearing were better than a normal man's—among the few benefits being tainted by Fey magic brought. Evidently it wasn't as much of a benefit as rumor had it. Do what you can, Rowan said. Keep your blade handy, though; doubtless that'll do the most good. She grabbed her round metal shield from where it leaned against the side of the boat, and slung it over her arm. No light, Groushko. Not yet. Make them work for it.

His voice, a rich bass, drifted to her from the other boat. "Da." Other voices undercut his; male voices, trailing Groushko's like echoes. Not in the other boat. More distant, but closing. Hard to tell how close. Rowan squinted into the dark, trying to pinpoint movement, sound.

There. Something blotted out the faint sparkle on the water a few horse-lengths behind and larboard. And directly behind, a large black-on-grey shape against the mist. A sail. She leaned toward her Ranger. Jade.

I see. Shall I shoot?

Not yet. Wait until you've a clear target.

Sigurd croaked from the bow. Lady, can you do naught?

She replied through clenched teeth. Not until they're in reach of my sword, or make themselves better targets. Tell your men to keep their heads down and row. With luck they recognized Groushko's light for what it was and will be wary. Not that Lady Luck had been a frequent visitor of late, but there was no sense in saying so.

Master Sigurd's voice scraped out of the darkness, trying to carry his orders to the men in both vessels; that unfamiliar Kalmar dialect again. She'd have to remember to ask about it.

Light flared, blinding from all sides. Rowan shaded her eyes and bit back a curse while the men around her cried out in startled fear. No, not all sides—three: two lanterns at each point. Three pirate ships, and each looked larger than the two in which her Triad rode. She swiped at her tearing eyes, cursing under her breath. Roars promising murder and mayhem shattered the night as the attackers closed, and Sigurd's men leaped up to defend themselves, grabbing the axes and spears they'd laid aside while rowing.

Sigurd, his burly form outlined in the light, cupped his hands around his mouth. Ahoy there, you attack Sigurd Snorrison, kinsman of Angharad Jarlsdotter, Ranger of the Blue Triad. 'Ware what you begin here.

Clever of him; almost everyone spoke English, the common trade tongue. Even if the pirates weren't all of Kalmar or spoke no common dialect, they'd know what they faced.

Doubtless Sigurd meant the Green Triad to hear that as well. Rowan doubted the presence of a Triad would stop the pirates, but it was worth a try. She braced herself to stand—

A skiff emerged from the mist and slammed into Sigurd's boat, rocking her almost off her bench. Men scrambled to cross from hunting ship to wallowing barge, or grabbed the sides to hold it trapped in place for their more nimble brethren. A voice—a young man's, from the sound, and laced with mockery—called from the dark. My thanks for finally bringing your boats to me, Snorrison; they will serve me well. A pity I know you left the Triads on the island; your kinswoman's not here.

Ah, now, wasn't that just too grand an entrance to let pass? Rowan stood, dropping her cloak. The Blue Triad's not here, but the Green Triad is, if you care to try your luck. She yanked out her sword and hacked down at a muscular arm engaged in hauling its owner over the side and into her vessel; meat and bone parted and the pirate's scream almost covered the splash he made hitting the water. Jade, she called, the lights.

Jade's bow spat; a choked cry, and the man holding the lantern closest to the unknown speaker toppled into the water, taking the light with him. A second lantern and holder followed the first, and Jade swiveled on his heels to fire into the mass of bodies around a third before the pirates reacted. Thin, black silhouettes arced across the light. Bows, raised.

Shields, Rowan yelled, crouching behind her own. "Groushko—"

"Da." Whomp. The boat heaved and Rowan toppled across her bench; orange-white flames engulfed the ship nearest Groushko's, billowing out like a greedy monster to swallow the crew. Pirates screamed and leaped, flaming, into the water, wriggling meteors swallowed by the void.

She shook her head to clear it and rose again. When had Girai got himself a fire-ball? Damn the man, how long had he had it? All the times it could have gone off and killed them all...she pushed the thought aside. No matter; he'd used it now, and things looked a good deal more promising for it. The boat he'd flamed was the smallest of the three attacking them, no bigger than Sigurd's, but its violent end threw the other two into terrified confusion and spurred Sigurd's men to cheerful slaughter. Bellowing war cries, the crew swarmed over the pirates, crossing downed bodies like bridges to the other ships.

Jade whooped and shot to his feet, dropping his bow. His short sword and the dagger he carried that was nearly as long hissed from their sheaths. Have at it, he yelled. To the dance! He gutted a pirate in the act of leaping into the barge, and bounced over the body to the next, a thin man trading blows with one of Sigurd's crew.

Hopefully he could tell friend from foe in this light. Rowan turned to meet a great, balding fellow with his beard in two braids, beat his axe aside with her shield and cut his throat with a flick of her sword's tip; he gurgled and toppled over the side, but another pirate filled the sudden space, his roar drowning out the splash. She ducked and his sword swished barely overhead; a tug at her scalp told her she'd lost a lock of hair to him. Better hair than head—damn me for leaving my helm on my saddle!

She lunged forward and up, shield braced, and slammed him back with all her weight; it was like slamming into a tree, but she'd caught him mid-move; he toppled into a third man and both crashed over the bench behind. Three quick, hard thrusts to throat and inner thigh and they were both dead, their corpses hindering the rest from coming at her. Didn't stop them—not that she'd expect that—but it made them come at her off-balance, vulnerable. She shield-slammed the next one overboard as he leaped at her, hacked a leg out from under the one after, then stopped keeping track.

The footing was getting tricky, what with the blood and water and bits of pirate washing about, and with those two great, armored corpses taking up half the space she'd little enough room to maneuver. She had no idea where Jade had gone—though she could track him well enough from the manic shrieks, whoops, and taunts rising above the more guttural roars of the Kalmarans and the clang and crash of metal; Jade was not a stealthy fighter, Ohma bless him—and she could not tell how Groushko faired. She sensed no especial danger around him. But, weak as their bond was, would she?

Well, the big madman could surely take care of himself, if anyone could.

She beat aside another blade, slashed the wielder's arm above his bronze bracer to the bone, cracked his jaw with her shield and jammed Copperhead's point into his exposed throat. The force of the next man's axe hammered her shield, rocking her back. She spared a quick, wishful thought for the great axe she'd left bound to her horse's saddle; it would have made short work of the hatchet-sized fighting axes the pirates favored. Flexing her legs against the wild rocking of the boat, she thrust deep, splitting maille. The pirate went down, choking on his own blood, and she shoved him over the side as the next came on. Hack, thrust, beat aside; an unfaltering rhythm.

Her sword, Copperhead, had a thinner blade than most of the Kalmar swords, but she'd a better temper to her and took the best those great, flat trowels could dish out and gave it back full score. A good thing, too. On a crowded and slippery deck bucking under her like a half-tamed colt, Rowan couldn't use her agility to advantage, and relied more on the strength of her battered alloy shield and Copperhead's bite. The thick, metallic smell of blood soured the air, riding the fresh mountain breeze and drowning the clean scent of pine.

The last man standing against her reeled back, arms flailing as he tried to balance himself on half a leg; she gave him a helping shield-bash to send him overboard, steadied herself against the side to keep from following him, then looked around, panting, to realize the fighting was over.

By the harsh light of the burning pirate ship, the few men standing made no move to attack each other. Some knelt with empty hands held high before others who stood barking fierce commands with weapons raised. Sigurd's crew the victors, then; pirates rarely took prisoners. Sigurd's men proved tougher meat than the pirates thought to dine on, at least when backed up by a Triad. Rowan grinned into the dark. They'd not make that mistake again.

Usually fights left her too winded for shouting, but having to stand in one place had its advantages, after the fact. Jade! She pitched her voice over the calls of men looking for comrades in the dark, the moans and cries of the injured. Girai, are you well?

A harsh grunt of what passed for laughter with her Mystic reached her from the other barge, followed by the dark beauty of his voice. Why should I not be? A cloud of smoke between them parted, and she caught a glimpse of him, looming over half-a-dozen kneeling men, bodies piled around him like sacks of millet. His eyes caught hers and his savage, shaggy face twisted in something like amusement before the boat drifted into shadow again, turning him back into a hulking silhouette.

From the nearest pirate ship, Jade sang out, Hoi-oh! Axes for sale, slightly used. Two for one, if you're quick.

Boasting is for lesser folk, she wanted to call back to them both. Ill done to demean the good men who'd died beside them that night. But scolding her comrades was not something she'd do before others. She spotted her Ranger, then. Jade stood framed by the looming figures of two other men; around them knelt several prisoners; impossible to tell how many from this angle.

She hadn't taken a single one. Hadn't even thought of it. A brief twinge of something too vague to be called regret: time was she'd loved the dance as much as she hated killing, and here she hardly noticed either anymore. Too late to worry about it now. She looked around. Master Sigurd?

From the bow, a broad shouldered form rose from kneeling over a dead or dying man and turned to face her, squinting into the glare. Aye, Lady. The red light glistened wetly on his face and beard, and his voice had the tight, controlled sound of someone speaking through pain. We've beaten them, it seems, he said, as if surprised. He raised his voice to shout a question, and male voices rose in response, one after another. A roll call. Rowan counted eight replies. Less than half the men they'd started with.

But they'd captured both remaining pirate ships. An excellent prize for Master Sigurd, though Rowan doubted it would entirely make up for the crewmen he'd lost. She called to Sigurd. Don't kill the prisoners. You'll need the hands.

His face did not change; she thought he blinked, a slow flicker of eyes that gleamed like a beast's in the firelight. Aye, Lady.

Rowan? The boat rocked again as Jade appeared out of the dark like a spirit, landing on the slippery deck almost beside her. A prodigious jump from the other ship. It confirmed his claim to have escaped injury. Are you hurt?

She shook her head, turning her attention from the incomprehensible shouts flying back and forth between Sigurd and the other boats. No, but remind me not to set foot on a boat again without an axe. In fact, remind me not to set foot on a boat again. She focused on his pale-skinned face, the fine, light yellow hair floating around sharp features and grey-blue eyes that never stayed still. Jade stood nearly a head shorter than herself, but there was nothing frail-looking about him. A tough, feisty little devil of a man. Elf. What-have-you. A fine job of shooting you did there, by the by.

He grinned. Luck more than anything. For some reason, I shoot better when I can't aim.

Shooting from the heart. Rowan nodded, then stopped herself. There she was, talking like an archer. Change the subject. Did you pass through Groushko's ship on the way?

He glanced toward the other boat, absently brushing a lock of hair behind a pointed ear, almost the only outward sign of his taint that he bore. No, but he said he wasn't hurt, and if he was, he doesn't need my help to heal himself. Should I call him over?

A dead pirate lay at her feet. She used his woolen kirtle to clean the blood from Copperhead. It might be for the best. I'm thinking we should make Master Sigurd's job a bit easier. Ferrying one boat to shore instead of two leaves him more hands to get his prizes home. She stood and sheathed the blade. Four boats is a fair job for so few.

True. Jade paused, frowning, and raised his hands to his head. Curse it. I've lost my hat.

It's in your bag. You put your hood up for the crossing, remember? In fact, he'd kept his head covered by the hood of his worn, green mantle most of the time they'd been in Kalmar; the hood hid his ears better than the hat he preferred, and Kalmarans did not tolerate the Tainted well. She hadn't the heart to remind him, at the moment.

Ah. Right, then. He turned away and prowled through the bodies toward the bench where he'd ridden earlier, beneath which he'd stashed his belongings.

Well, and she couldn't blame him for delaying going to Groushko, could she? Kalmarans weren't the only folk that couldn't abide the Tainted, and though her Ranger and her Mystic had finally taken the first tiny, hesitant steps toward acceptance of one another, she feared it might be a long time before Girai Groushko welcomed the company of Jade the Elf, or vice versa.

Perhaps she should push harder, now that they'd finally...but no. Pushing now would only make them both dig in their heels all the more. Best let them work it out on their own. They were good lads, the pair of them. Despite the fact that Groushko was kissing close to howling mad, and Jade was suspicious of his own shadow.

She swallowed against a sudden, fierce longing for the effortless teamwork she'd enjoyed with Jax and Ankh, and later with Jax and Dmitri. A lie, she reminded herself. A