Prophecy's Daughter Page 3

  Although Vorgen fully recovered, his twin son and daughter were born disfigured, with a distended mouth and facial features that were a blend of Endarian and wolf. When the high council decided that the two babies must be euthanized to prevent the spread of the mutation, Landrel took his family and fled into the windswept northeastern plains. And as the Endarians had surmised, the mutation continued through subsequent generations, creating the race known as the vorg. The revelation had stunned Arn.

  The other subject that fascinated him was Queen Elan’s description of the two forms of exchange magic that many practiced but only a few mastered. To perform great feats of time-shaping or life-shifting required considerable natural ability to channel the energies involved. Mastery also required years of study and practice.

  But what kept many Endarians who possessed the innate talent from putting the magic to use was fear of the danger involved. A single mistake in life-shifting could rob the wielder of his health or take his life. An error in time-shaping could leave the wielder trapped in a time-mist while the outside world sped forward or slowed to a halt. The prospect of rapidly aging or having all whom you knew age and die in what, to you, seemed like moments was a terrifying thought. Arn had no difficulty understanding Endarians who wanted no part of that.

  He paused, considering the phrase that had just popped into his mind.

  Wanted no part of that.

  The words triggered a memory that Arn had not recalled since King Rodan’s chief wielder had performed the blood ceremony delivering Slaken into his hand. He remembered the haunted look in old Gregor’s eyes as he delivered his warning, as if he were giving Arn one last chance to reject the prize that the magical blade represented.

  “I know of your past,” Gregor had said. “But you need to know of this thing that I have created.”

  The way Gregor said thing resonated in Arn’s mind, as if the wielder would be glad to be rid of it yet dreaded what the weapon would do to the one with whom it mated.

  Gregor continued. “The boon you requested of King Rodan for saving his son’s life required me to bind a powerful denizen from each of the four elemental planes to the runes on the haft of this knife: Vatra of fire, Voda of water, Zemlja of earth, and Zrak of air.

  “Should you complete the blood-bond, these four elementals shall be trapped within those runes until the moment of your death, unable to be called upon by any wielder of magic. Only the combined abilities of these four can deflect the magics from all elemental planes. Thus, this blade shall stand alone, unique in all the world. It cannot be replicated. It cannot be unmade. And only the one who supplied the blood-bond can hold it.

  “But beware. Such imprisonment enrages the beings trapped within the runes. And their thirst for revenge will amplify the lust for vengeance that already infects you.”

  Arn had not hesitated in his response. “I’m fine with that.”

  Now, as Arn looked down at the black blade sheathed at his side, he wondered if he would still give such a reply.

  Shaking off the memory, Arn shifted his gaze to his companions. Companions? Was that how he saw the trio? Over the months of their shared journey and stay in Endar, they had worked their way into his heart. These were friends he would die to protect and who would each do the same for him.

  Kim stood looking northeast toward her mountainous homeland. At six feet tall, the princess stood a head shorter than most of her people. That, along with the lighter color of her mocha skin, were indicators of a heritage not fully Endarian. John, a couple of inches shorter, stood beside her, clearly wanting to take his love’s hand but allowing her the personal space the moment demanded. Yet the coal-black eyes within his hawkish face watched her intently. Queen Elan had performed their wedding ceremony within her white palace in the center of the lake. Arn was not surprised that the queen, who had loved a human herself, had blessed the pairing.

  Kim had worn an emerald-green gown, while John’s shimmering Endarian tunic had been the turquoise of the lake that surrounded the island. Galad had presented Kim’s hand to John and, to Arn’s surprise, had shown no distaste in doing so. Perhaps the unwavering tenderness with which John treated Kim had gradually softened Galad’s objections to the relationship.

  Arn turned toward Ty, who sat astride the palomino stallion that he had recently named Regoran. He faced away to the south, clearly ready to be off. Having been snowbound for several months, the Kanjari warrior had grown impatient. Now, as he sat bare-chested atop the big horse, his golden hair falling across the crescent-bladed ax strapped to his back, that restlessness for the trail was barely contained. Ty had held his notoriously sharp tongue, a testament to his high regard for the Endarian princess.

  But even that had its limits.

  “John,” said Ty, “if Princess Kimber is done pining for home, perhaps you two could mount up so we can be off.”

  Kim ignored Ty for a moment, but then turned and walked back to the tree where she had tied her horse. As he mounted his own horse, John shot Ty a dark glance but said nothing.

  Together, they rode out of Endar into the northernmost part of the Endless Valley, headed south.

  4

  Southeast of Endar

  YOR 414, Early Spring

  Earl Coldain stood in his stirrups surveying his troops. The line of soldiers, cavalry, and wagons stretched backward for miles down the valley, thirty thousand strong. How many months had it been since King Gilbert had ordered him to contact the other lords and tell them to serve up their armies under his command? And the lords had complied, some of them reluctantly, but they had all followed. What idiocy. The young king had stripped the kingdom bare of its defenses, and for what reason? To chase down Jared Rafel, the finest commander to ever grace the title of high lord in the kingdom of Tal.

  So Coldain had formed the troops at a war camp outside of Hannington Castle. It had taken most of a season to gather the soldiers from the far corners of the kingdom, an interval that was double what could have been expected in response to a request from King Rodan. But then, this was at a summons from his feebleminded progeny, Gilbert. Gilbert and his crazy wielder, Blalock. So Coldain had dutifully raised the army and then marched out beyond the Sul River, across the Borderland Range. They had been on the march for more than a year.

  Along the Banjee River, Coldain encountered a band of desert nomads he paid to guide the army across the Mogev Desert. When the nomadic leader had tried to drive a hard bargain, Coldain’s threat of force had brought the man around.

  Winter had seen the army of Tal working its way northward through the foothills that formed the eastern side of the Glacier Mountains as he searched for signs of High Lord Rafel’s passage. His forces had failed to find the place where Rafel had crossed the mountains. And when the first snows blocked the passes that gave access to the lands west of the Glacier Mountains, Coldain had made his winter camp here in the lowlands. Nevertheless, ever the man of duty, he would continue in his relentless pursuit of his old friend.

  Duty—a strange word, that. What did it really mean? Did it mean that friendship and mutual respect were to be sacrificed on the sword of madness? Was it his destiny to snuff out the life of a man who had served Tal so valiantly? Was it his responsibility to ensure the continued monarchy of a village idiot? Duty. Honor. Words to live by. And despite the lunacy of this quest, Coldain would see his duty done.

  Coldain spurred his black warhorse forward, followed by his aide and a flag bearer. They swept down the hill from which he had been surveying his troops, joining the lines of fighting men. These men, many of them severely footsore, strode along stoically, bearing their pain as they bore the sacrifices of being so long away from their families. They were good men, one and all. They were the pride of Tal, as were those who served under Jared Rafel.

  Before he cared to think about it, those good men, brothers all, would meet in mutual slaughter. And rivers would run red. For there was no doubt whatsoever in Coldain’s mind that his old friend and mento
r, Rafel, would extract a terrible price in that final battle. Outnumbered ten to one, the high lord would extract his pound of flesh. Coldain could almost hear the clash of steel, smell the odor of blood in the air, feel the sweat burning his eyes as it dripped from under his iron helmet, hear the screams of the dying. Almost.

  Not for the last time, a great sadness settled upon the earl’s shoulders as he gazed out across the men who marched under his command. How many of those young lads would never feel the embrace of their lovers’ arms again? How many wives and families would be denied the comfort of a husband and father? And for what great and mighty purpose did these people offer themselves to the gods of war? For the whim of an insane child-king. For the desire of Gilbert’s lunatic wielder.

  Coldain removed a flask from his saddlebag, one that he saved for special occasions. Pausing, he held it high to the southeast. “Well, your royal high ass, here’s to you, King Gilbert.”

  The earl brought the flask to his lips, tilted his head back, and took a long, slow swallow.

  5

  Areana’s Vale

  YOR 414, Early Summer

  Spring gave way to summer, time passing with such speed that Carol lost track of the weeks. Every day was filled with supervising the building of the villages, training teachers, and organizing classroom instruction for the children. Each night she fell asleep as if she did not have a worldly care. The same could not be said of her awakenings. Her troubled dreams continued, and yet she had been unable to recall even one of them. Carol had considered consulting Jason about her worries, but threw off the idea in disgust. Was she such a child that she needed to be reassured over some dimly remembered nightmare?

  Rafel kept every able-bodied person in his contingent efficiently employed. With Gaar in charge of the soldiers tasked with building the fortifications and Carol directing the workers, both men and women, in the layout and construction of the villages, their new fiefdom came together with remarkable rapidity. The growing satisfaction she felt with her performance of these duties partially filled the hole of her failure to wield magic. And her father’s willingness to place her in a role traditionally reserved for men gave her hope that she would lead other women in changing the culture.

  Workers cleared trees to make room for the settlements and surrounding farmland and provide the logs used to build houses and community facilities. For the construction of the forts, the soldiers cut trees in the forest west of the vale and snaked them up the narrow ravine using teams of oxen.

  By the end of spring, the westernmost of the forts in the ravine leading into the vale was functional, and the villages of Colindale and Fernwood were almost complete. But Longsford Watch, the most easterly of the villages, had been delayed by a series of accidents that resulted in injuries. Some of its residents proposed renaming the town Ill Fortune.

  On the positive side, the farmers had rounded up wild pigs, goats, turkeys, and guinea hens to replace the livestock they had been unable to bring with them on their flight from Tal. The animals roamed the long valley in such abundance that food shortages would not be a problem.

  With overall construction nearing completion, Carol found that she had more free time. She began ranging farther out in her explorations of the valley, passing outward through the lower fortress on the west end to explore lands beyond the vale.

  There was no great danger. The scouts and rangers patrolled well beyond where she rode, with no reports of anything moving within the area besides seemingly peaceful cliff dwellers and abundant wildlife.

  Carol traveled several leagues to the southwest. The day was unusually hot, with no breeze other than that generated by her passage through the pines.

  As she left the trees and topped a small rise, Carol rose in her stirrups to study the stream that ran through the valley to her south.

  She thought about the long months since her people had fled Tal and made their way westward through the lawless borderlands, across the Mogev, over the jagged range of western mountains into the great valley that had brought them northward to the vale. It had been pure good fortune, although some would say destiny, that had led them to find Areana’s Vale on the west side of the Glacier Mountains. Carol intended to take full advantage of that luck by getting to know these lands thoroughly.

  Nudging Storm lightly with her heels, she sent the mare trotting down the gradual slope. Suddenly a high-pitched scream rent the air, pulling Carol’s gaze. A woman in a multicolored dress ran full speed along the edge of the churning stream, her hands extended outward as if trying to grab something. Her clothing matched the description Jaradin Scot had given when he had reported the presence of a village of cliff dwellers inside a box canyon several leagues south of the vale. At first, Carol could not tell what the woman was chasing, but then she saw the focus of her concern. A brown-haired little girl was being swept along in the swift current, moving downstream more rapidly than the woman could run.

  At Carol’s urging, Storm whirled around and stretched her body into full stride. The lorness leaned forward, exhorting the mare to even greater speed. The woman was up ahead, with the little girl just beyond her. As Storm closed the distance, Carol saw that the child was being carried away by big rapids, sometimes disappearing beneath the surface. The girl was no longer trying to swim, her limp body tossed about by the fast-moving water.

  Carol flashed past the woman, making for a spot ahead of the child, where a fallen tree lay across the roiling water. She swung down from Storm’s back and scrambled out onto the log. As she reached the midpoint of the stream, she saw to her dismay that the bottom of the log was a full pace above the water. The child was almost to her. The sight pulled a curse from her lips. “Deep spawn!”

  Wrapping her legs tightly around the trunk of the fallen tree, Carol let herself slide, upside down, beneath it. Water sprayed into her face, causing her to gasp for breath. She looked around, but could no longer see the girl, who had once again been sucked beneath the surface.

  Carol thrust her arms down into the water, moving limbs back and forth in a frantic attempt to keep the child from getting by. The water tugged, splashing off her arms directly into her face, trying to pull her from the log. All at once, she felt a cold hand brush her own.

  She lunged sideways, extending her right hand to grab the small wrist. As she did, the water swung her outward. “Come on!”

  The little hand was so slippery that Carol was losing her grip.

  She swung her left arm out farther, trying to bring her hand up under the girl’s arm. Feeling her fingertips snag the girl’s shirt, she pulled with all her strength, lifting the limp body and hugging it to her chest. Just then, the woman’s hands reached downward, plucking the girl from Carol’s grasp and lifting her up onto the log.

  Carol struggled to right herself, but the log was too slippery. She was forced to make her way along the bottom of the log toward the shore, squirming forward until she found a place where she could safely lower herself to the rocks.

  The child lay on her back as the woman leaned over her, weeping. Carol placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and moved her firmly to one side, then rolled the girl onto her stomach. She straddled the child’s back and pressed downward, rocking back and forth with a steady rhythm. As she did, water dribbled from the girl’s mouth.

  Sudden spasms rocked the child’s body. She coughed, then vomited onto the bank. Carol moved off her back as the coughs gave way to sobs. The woman swept the child up in her arms, hugging her as if there would be no tomorrow. And as Carol watched, wiping the water from her own face, she understood just how close mother and daughter had come to losing all their tomorrows together.

  “Oh, my baby,” the woman said. “I feared I had lost you.”

  It did not surprise Carol that the woman spoke the common tongue. Although there were still people who spoke different languages, such as the Endarians when among their own people, common had long been the language of trade. And over the course of centuries, its usage had repl
aced most of the original tongues.

  Carol watched as the mother rocked her child back and forth, smothering her with kisses. Finally the woman lifted her tear-streaked face to consider Carol’s eyes. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life,” she said.

  “I was afraid that I would be too late.”

  The woman rose to her feet. She was towering and lean, with bronze skin and raven hair, her dark brown eyes flecked with gold. She wore a cotton skirt and blouse, decorated with colorful, intricate patterns and beadwork.

  “You must come with us,” the woman said. “I want to show my husband the face of the one who saved our child.”

  She turned and began carrying the little girl back up the valley.

  “Please, wait a moment,” Carol called out, bringing her to a stop. “I don’t even know your name.”

  The woman turned back toward Carol. A slow smile spread across her face, bathing it in radiant joy. “My name is Kira of the Kanjou Tribe. My husband, Dan, is our chief.”

  With that, Kira motioned once more for Carol to follow and again began walking.

  Carol stood for several seconds, debating the wisdom of following the woman. Then she turned and whistled for Storm, who trotted over. Carol leapt lightly into the saddle and moved up beside Kira. “May I ask your little girl’s name?”

  “She is called Katya,” Kira replied. “Please do not think that I am unfriendly or abrupt, but it is not my place to speak with you first. After you have met my husband, I will be able to talk more freely.”

  This comment raised Carol’s ire. Yet another society dominated by men. But she forced herself to relax. It would not do to attack these people’s customs.

  Kira’s eyes lingered momentarily on Carol’s bare left shoulder. Then she turned her gaze forward once again.

  Realizing that the sleeve of her shirt had been pulled upward to reveal the elemental brand, Carol hurriedly adjusted the garment, hoping that Kira did not know the significance of what she had seen.