Here's a sneak peek inside at the first chapter!
1
Poison Arrow
The arrow. Black feathered and stained sickly
green, it fled straight and true from the lonely ridge top where a single
yeoman crouched with the bow still humming in his hand. It sped fast and hard
as though driven not by the tightened string from which it was released, but by
the will of a powerful master, arching down over the writhing contortions of
battle, unmoved by a thousand screams, or ten thousand clashing swords. In a
valley full of war and heaving motion of men and horses it found its single
mark. It pierced deep into the chest of the warrior.
Breac woke from the nightmare sweating and
chilled. He sat up, rubbing his chest where he had felt the dream arrow enter,
and found it sound. Drawing a long breath, he rolled to his feet, lifted the
tent flap aside and stepped out to stand swaying in the chill twilight. It was
the cold hour before dawn, and the valley was pale with frost. Gray mist
crawled under the forest eves and bled out into the hollows of the meadow.
He nodded to a passing sentry. The man had his
hands inside his cloak to keep warm, and his hood pulled up close around his
face. He returned the nod, still humming to himself.
The dread that had gnawed at Breac when he woke
would not go away. It grew to a feeling of impending doom as he stood looking
down the valley. He knew the feeling well enough to distrust the peaceful
encampment, the silent dim valley. His gaze, half blue-eyed and half brown,
searched the shadows. Daring them to yield their secrets. Turning, he ducked
back into the tent, buckled on his sword, laced on his riding boots, and donned
a black cloak. Last he slipped on a pair of heavy gloves, hiding the milky
white scar on his right palm. He left the tent and made his way to where the
horses were picketed.
The bay stallion lifted his head at Breac’s
approach, and raked up earth with a huge hoof. He laid his ears back and tossed
his head up, but when the man spoke he stilled, swiveling his ears. Breac
whispered to the warhorse while he saddled him.
From behind them a voice spoke. “You will look as
old as I soon, if you don’t rest.”
Breac glanced around at the man who’d spoken, then
finished cinching the saddle girth before he replied, “Good morning, Jorah. Our
enemy doesn’t rest. Neither shall I.”
“Our enemy is not a mortal like you and I,” Jorah
said. He sat on an overturned bucket, smoking a pipe. Bushy white hair stuck
out around the rolled up brim of his felt hat, but his short beard was still
streaked with black. He had been a general in the King’s army for as long as
Breac could remember.
“He must be stopped none the less.”
Jorah did not reply as Breac paused to look and
listen once more. He rested his hands on the stallion’s neck under his mane to
warm them, studying the valley. In the faint light all appeared still. He
glanced to the forested hillsides, and saw nothing amiss.
“Too still,” Jorah said.
Breac shook his head. “No…. Just a feeling. I’m
going to ride to the top of the ridge and look around.”
“Shall I come?”
“No. Rouse the men. Have them ready. And listen
for my signal.”
Jorah nodded and rose, tapping out his pipe onto
the frosty ground. He placed his fist over his heart, bowed slightly, then
turned and ambled away.
Breac rode through camp, spoke a quiet password to
one of the sentries, and guided the stallion onto a narrow trail out of the
valley. The trail slithered through the leafless underbrush, sometimes steep
and sometimes switching back and forth. With each step apprehension clawed his
stomach. He did not doubt the feeling for an instant. Something was amiss, and
already he dreaded finding out what it might be. Near the ridge crest the horse shied, tossing his head up, nostrils
flaring. He urged the animal forward until in the trail he saw the body of one
of the King’s scouts. His throat had been slashed, and dark blood soaked the
ground and low bushes. The murderer had not attempted to conceal the body or
even his own bloody tracks leading back down the path.
A gust of cold wind
pressed Breac’s cloak against his body, tousling his sun-bleached hair around
his ears. He turned. The trail dropped out of sight a few paces on, heading
toward the far valley. Boulders and scraggy saplings lined the ridge, all wind
blasted and offering no shield against the rising sun. He slid from the saddle
and went forward to the ridge crest on foot. Crouching behind one of the
boulders, he looked down into the valley on the other side. Line upon line of
battle-ready enemy troops marched in formation south along the base of the
mountain. They were already far down the valley, and most of the army had
turned east, entering a gorge that would bring them around to his side of the
mountain, just a mile south of camp.
“So here we shall meet
indeed, Leazor,” Breac muttered.
The feeling of unease
lifted as he stared down at the mass of troops. The time for apprehension had
passed. Now he must act. But as he turned, something struck him as not right
about the hillside. Whether it was a sound or a movement from the corner of his
eye, he did not know. He crouched by the boulder and scanned the empty forest.
Down the path to the right a mountain laurel offered the only cover for an
enemy. Even as he thought it, he heard the twang of a bowstring. A black
feathered arrow hissed past his shoulder. He lunged toward the laurel, but the
enemy scout was already fleeing back toward the cover of dense underbrush.
Breac turned and ran back to his horse, swinging into the saddle.
“Fly my friend,” he
urged. “Do not hold back. We may both die today.”
The beast lifted his
nose to the wind, swiveled his ears, and sprang away down the path. By some
magic he neither stumbled nor lost control of his wild careen down the
mountain. With a leap they left the path. The stallion stretched out over the
dead grass of the valley. The mist was lifting. Breac took the battle horn from
his saddle and sounded the call to arms.
The camp came alive in
an instant. Shouted orders mingled with shouts of anger, and whinnies of
horses. Then the sun rose. It filled the valley with red light and illuminated
the endless army marching toward them. As the shadows lifted, the thin mist
turned gold, and a bugle sounded from the advancing cavalry. The lines of
mounted men began to trot, and then to gallop, and the King’s men, now armed
and mounted, rushed to meet them.
Breac drew his sword as the line of enemies swept
toward him, and his own men came down at his back. He joined the rush, and
raised his sword. Jorah galloped along side him, his streaked beard whipping
back in the wind, and shouted, “For the High King!”
“For the High King,” Breac replied. And then the
thunder of battle broke and echoed through the valley like a mighty earthquake.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon when messengers reported
that the battle was turning in their favor. Breac reined in the stallion and
paused to look around from the top of a knoll. From what he could see the
battle was indeed going well. His own men surrounded him. Yet once again he
felt the familiar sense of dread. The sense that had warned him of danger since
he was a child. His gaze swept over the heaving battlefield to the surrounding
hills and lonely ridge tops, then down the valley. Nothing but men and horses
and blood and screams. He returned his gaze to one of the ridges, and caught
the glint of sunlight on a polished wooden shaft. He turned, and the next
instant the arrow sank deep into the muscle of his chest. Black feathered, and
stained green, it rocked him back in the saddle. His muscles clenched
convulsively, but he felt no pain. Only the growing dread.
The horse threw his head up, high stepping amid
another rush of troops. Breac glanced down, pressing his hand against the
wound. Blood oozed thick over his gloved fingers. His chest and shoulder felt
numb, and his heart labored. He grasped the shaft of the arrow where it entered
his chest, but didn’t pull. Black feathers meant poison. He was already a dead
man. He wondered fleetingly why he was even alive this long. The next thought
was for his men. The clash of battle still sounded near, but when he looked up
again, he saw his army pushed back from around him by a wedge of enemy Death
Riders.
He was alone among the Death Riders, yet none
engaged him in battle. The Riders around him sat their mounts, glaring,
waiting.
Breac became aware of each breath, the slow sticky
beating of his heart, the heaviness that bore down on him. He was also aware of
sound and touch, the slick of sweat inside his gloves, the pressure of the
saddle gripped in one hand, and the arrow shaft in the other. He saw the faces
of his enemies, young and old, all weary and grim, dirtied and bloodied.
The Riders parted for their leader, a tall, black
cloaked figure on a white horse. Breac blinked, trying to clear his vision. It
seemed to him that the cloaked figure was veiled with red flame and black
shadow. All the dread he felt breathed from this creature, washing over him
like waves of agony, though most of his body had gone numb.
The
shrouded figure drew his horse up along side Breac’s stallion. He lifted a
gloved hand to push back the hood of his cloak, revealing a white, handsome
face and long black hair.
“So we meet at last, Breac—or is it Aindreas? Son
of Rajah, man of two nations. You know me?”
“Leazor.” The word came out slurred. Breac’s
tongue felt thick and clumsy. “What do you want?”
A coy smile twisted Leazor’s mouth. Narrow,
closely set teeth glinted white. “I want to see the High King weeping over your
decomposing carcass.” His voice poured words like oil “By what power do you
conquer my armies? Is it some magic you possess in yourself that makes the King
show you friendship? I wish to know.”
Breac didn’t answer. His breath came hard, his
lungs sucking and gurgling.
Leazor breathed a chuckle. “Without you, today
will be the King’s last victory. A prophecy that’s ended almost before it
began.”
Breac drooped lower in the saddle. Far down the
valley a battle horn sounded for a last charge. “Leave me,” he gasped.
Without command the white horse stepped closer to
Breac’s stallion. Gripping Breac’s shoulder with one hand, Leazor pulled the
arrow out backward from his chest. Blood bubbled out after it.
Leazor threw his head back, raising the bloody
arrow toward the sky, and cried, “I salute you, High King, and You, Creator.
The battle is yours. But the victory is mine.” He clapped spurs to the horse’s
sides, and the beast reared and leapt away. The Death Riders followed,
sounding the horn for retreat.
Breac was alone. He slumped down over the
stallion’s neck, swayed, and fell. Still he felt no pain as blood spurted
thickly from the wound. He felt his heart heave twice, then stop, and the
ragged darkness around his mind closed in.
* * * * *
A thousand million bright stars, and
the vast darkness of space. Behind is a light, brighter than all the suns in
the universe, and a sound—a hundred sounds—a thousand notes—a song that is so
far above mere music, more intricately entwined than the most stunning harmony.
It is the expression of every purest joy, of victory and glory. He starts to
turn, but a hand on his shoulder stops him, and a voice that is at once
familiar and strange.
“Not yet, Aindreas, son of Rajah. Not
yet.”
Utter darkness and stillness reclaim
him.
* * * * *
A voice reached into the darkness and dragged him
out. He fought it, because as awareness grew, so did pain, and a raging fire in
his chest that would try to consume him. He would die again of sheer agony.
His heart beat fast and hard. His eyes rolled
back, then forward, coming to focus on the golden sunset sky. The battle clash
was gone. A chilly spring wind blasted down the valley, scraping through dry,
trampled grass. The cries of wounded men and horses streaked the wind.
“The King commands that you live, Breac.”
He turned his head to see the woman who’d spoken.
Her low, melodic voice seemed foreign in this place of death. Dressed as a
common peasant, she was tall, and very slender, her voice deeper than most
women. She was a dryad, a being of the forest. The people of the wood rarely
mingled with humans, yet not so infrequently that any but the most foolish
could deny their existence.
“You will live,” the dryad woman repeated,
stretching his cloak over him.
He replied in a hoarse whisper. “I’d rather not.”
She smiled. “I was sent here on your behalf, and
you would rather die? Mankind has always been ungrateful.”
“I was so close…” he whispered.
“It will be there waiting, when the time is right.
Never fear.” She laid a slender hand on his chest. “I must help your comrades
while I am here,” she said. “So rest.”
* * * * *
When Breac woke again, he felt as though liquid fire
was circulating in his veins.
“Try and relax,” someone said. “You won’t help
yourself clenching up like that. The poison has to work itself out. At least
that’s what they tell me.”
Breac turned his head to see the old man. “Jorah.
Still alive.”
“There’s a few dents in the shield for the smith
to hammer out. And these old bones are weary, but all’s well. Today the victory
is ours… yours.”
Breac closed his eyes again. It hurt to talk. Like
someone had shoved heated sand down his throat. “Victory.” The word came out
bitter.
Jorah leaned forward and took the pipe out of his
mouth. “Would you rather have lost and seen Leazor take over the whole country
with his beastly magic and slavery?”
“No.” Breac croaked. “But victory is not mine
today. It belongs to the High King, and to Acatra Dahma. Victory is for the men
who are celebrating that they will see their wives.” He glanced around the
makeshift hospital tent. “There is no victory in here.”
“There is life!” Jorah jabbed the pipe at him.
“Which is saying something, in your case, you ungrateful vagabond.”
Breac groaned. “Take care of my horse while I’m
here, will you? And enjoy the celebrations. Doubtless you will receive all
the honor in my stead.”
“You old goat,” Jorah snorted. “You know I will.
I’ll be parading through the streets of Al Acatra on your own horse, drinking
all the ale I can hold, feasting at the tables of kings and chieftains, and
listening to fair maidens sing my praise. After thirty five years in the
service of the High King, I deserve it. More than you, you upstart.” He paused,
and grew more serious, tucking the pipe back into the corner of his mouth.
“Leazor meant to kill you today. He is bound to find out that you’re not dead.
I’m having guards posted outside this tent.”
Breac closed his eyes briefly as Jorah stood,
folding his three-legged stool and leaning it against the cot. “So that he will
wonder who here is ranked high enough to warrant guards.”
The pipe left an arch of smoke as Jorah gestured
with it. “Obviously the High King is not ready to release you from service.
What his design is I don’t know, nor why our enemy is set on your death, but I
do know that until you’re ready to walk it’s my duty to keep you safe.”
Copyright Shari Branning. All rights reserved.
