Dark Lady's Chosen (2 page)

Jonmarc stifled a cry and let the knife in his left arm sheath fall into his hand. He slammed the blade into his attacker’s back, sliding it through his ribs and deep into the heart. The
vayash moru
jerked upward, his blue eyes widening, as ichor oozed from the edge of his mouth. In one fluid move, Jonmarc flipped him backward, ignoring his own pain to straddle the
vayash moru
and bring his sword down and through its neck. The head rolled clear in the snow, spurting dark liquid that smelled like old blood. Jonmarc scrambled clear as the body began to disintegrate.

“Behind you!” Gabriel’s voice cut through the darkness and Jonmarc staggered to his feet just in time to parry a broadsword’s stroke that nearly tore his sword from his grip. His attacker was a woman whose dark hair was caught back in a tight braid. Her eyes glinted with hatred. In the shadows, the wounded
vyrkin
whimpered, but did not rise.

Jonmarc crouched, knife in one hand, sword ready in the other. He did not wait for her attack. With a cry, he charged toward her, bringing his sword down with all his strength as he let his dagger fly. The dagger caught her in the chest as the sword cleaved her from shoulder to hip. Jonmarc snatched his blade free and swung again, slicing clean through her neck. He stopped only long enough to retrieve his knife, rising in a defensive stance.

He felt air move behind him too late to turn. Strong hands seized him from behind by the upper arms, immobilizing him. The strain on his broken ribs made Jonmarc gasp in pain. A dark-haired
vayash moru
with the coloring of a Trevath native advanced on him with a cold smile. The man landed a hard punch below Jonmarc’s ribcage that made Jonmarc double over, and then struck him hard enough across the face that Jonmarc’s vision swam and he almost blacked out.

“Hail, Lord of Dark Haven,” the Trev mocked. Blood flecked Jonmarc’s split lip.

“Malesh send you to do his dirty work?” Jonmarc growled, lifting his head defiantly. The Trev swung again with a blow that made Jonmarc’s ears ring.

“The rest we kill. You—he wants alive. For now.” The Trev stood back, readying for another punch.

Jonmarc bucked backward, counting on his captor behind him to remain solid. He lashed out with his feet, sliding the blade in his boot out and kicking for the Trev’s chest. His foot connected hard and the Trev registered a look of shock as a black stain began to spread across his chest from the blade sunk deep in his heart.

There was a howl and a snarl, and Jonmarc felt an impact as the man pinning his arms behind him staggered, loosening his grip enough for Jonmarc to twist out of his hold. The
vyrkin
took the
vayash moru
to the ground, sinking its teeth into his neck and closing its powerful jaws. Beneath the
vyrkin
, the
vayash moru
twisted and bucked, trying to wrest free. There was a crunch as the
vyrkin
’s teeth snapped bone and crushed sinew.

“Get back!” Jonmarc cried, readying his sword. The
vyrkin
sprang free and Jonmarc’s sword whistled through the air, severing the
vayash moru
’s head. An acrid smell filled the air as the body crumbled.

Jonmarc looked around him, sword raised and ready. The snow was littered with dark patches of dust. In the moonlight, it was difficult to tell his
vayash moru
allies from their attackers, but Jonmarc thought the majority of his fighters were still moving. A shrill keen split the night air, and as one, the attacking
vayash moru
took flight. Gabriel and the others gave chase, but only as far as the forest’s edge.

A whimper close at hand focused Jonmarc’s attention. A large male wolf was seated next to a crumpled form near a tree. Jonmarc scanned the horizon once more for danger, and, sword still ready, walked over to where the wolf sat. A second wolf lay in a pool of blood in the snow beneath the tree. The wounded wolf twitched and moaned, then gasped and fell silent, its breath shallow and fast. From the angle of its body, Jonmarc guessed its spine was broken from the force of hitting the tree.

The male wolf nuzzled the fallen one and raised his head to howl. The wolf on the ground relaxed and shuddered one more time. As Jonmarc watched, the body began to shimmer as if the air around it were bending and folding in on itself. The blood-covered body of a woman lay still in the snow. Jonmarc knelt next to Eiria and covered her with his cloak.

One by one, he heard the rest of the
vyrkin
pad up near them until a circle of twelve wolves ringed him. The large male wolf, which Jonmarc knew was Yestin, howled again, and the pack responded. Chilling as a wolf’s howl was, never had Jonmarc heard the depth of pain that filled this cry. Jonmarc heard a light crunch in the snow behind him and turned to see Gabriel and Laisren.

“I’m sorry,” Jonmarc murmured to the wolf-Yestin. He looked up at Gabriel. “How bad?”

Gabriel’s expression was somber. “Five of ours. Ten of theirs. But either Uri lied about the number of
vayash moru
Malesh made, or—and I think this is more likely—he’s been joined by others. Malesh is less than a hundred years old. The
vayash moru
he made himself should be much weaker than all of those who fought for Dark Haven. It should have been a rout. It wasn’t. I’m afraid the war has already begun.” He frowned as he looked at Jonmarc, and ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt as a makeshift bandage. “You’re hurt.”

Jonmarc stood. He winced as the movement jostled broken ribs. “I’m still alive. That’s more than I expected.” Blood was running down his forearm. He let Gabriel bandage the wound to stop the bleeding. “Malesh didn’t show up.”

“He was here,” Gabriel said tightly. “I saw him in the woods at a distance—but I was busy fighting two
vayash moru
that definitely weren’t new fledges.”

Laisren joined them. “I sent scouts into the village. Malesh broke his word. They’re all dead, just like Westormere. Probably since sunset.”

“Damn.” Jonmarc looked from Laisren to Gabriel. “What now? We can’t let Malesh keep slaughtering villagers.”

Gabriel nodded, looking out along the dark horizon. “Agreed. He’s trying to provoke a war and he wants to make a statement by killing you.”

“The
vayash moru
I fought were definitely looking for me. They said they had their orders.”

Laisren looked from Gabriel to Jonmarc. “There’s another village half a candlemark’s ride from here. It’s the only settlement nearby that would be large enough for anyone to notice.

We could set a trap for Malesh there—be waiting for him just after sunset.”

“Assuming that Malesh chooses to strike there next,” Jonmarc countered.

“Malesh is arrogant,” Gabriel replied. “This win will make him even more sure of his abilities.

Laisren’s right; it’s a logical next move. The question is, how many
vayash moru
does Malesh have on his side—and how many of the elders have joined him?”

“Riqua’s sent all of her brood she can spare—everyone who’s not needed to guard the manor house,” Laisren replied. “We don’t dare pull anyone from there—it would make it too easy for Malesh to double back and strike.”

Gabriel pursed his lips, thinking. “My brood is small. Mikhail is in Margolan, and those who aren’t with us tonight are at Dark Haven. There isn’t time to find Rafe and Astasia and beg them

for help—assuming they’d side with us. We’re on our own.”

“What about Uri?” Jonmarc asked. “Wasn’t he supposed to bring Malesh back under his control?”

Laisren snorted. “If I know Uri, he’s fled Principality and he’s holed up in a nice, comfortable crypt on the far side of Isencroft by now.”

“Malesh isn’t going to listen to Uri,” Gabriel replied. “It’s too late for that. We’ve got to finish this.” He glanced up at the sky. “We need to clean up here and get to safety before dawn.

It’s less than a candlemark’s ride to Wolvenskorn through the forest from here—but we need to hurry.”

Jonmarc nodded and turned, reaching down to pick up one of the discarded cloaks from a dead
vayash moru
. He walked over to Eiria’s body, and exchanged that cloak for his own, carefully wrapping her in the makeshift shroud. The
vyrkin
still sat guard, and even by moonlight, Jonmarc could see that they also had received injuries in the fight. He lifted Eiria’s body into his arms and gasped as it strained his ribs.

“We can bury her in the crypts beneath Wolvenskorn,” Gabriel said quietly as Laisren brought up their horses. “Generations of the
vyrkin
rest there.” He glanced from Jonmarc to the
vyrkin
. “And we’ll see about patching you up.”

Laisren swung up to his saddle and reached down to carry Eiria’s body. Jonmarc gritted his teeth as he mounted and the movement jolted his ribs. The group set off, leaving the moonlight behind them as the shadows made it too dark for mortal sight. Jonmarc kept his sword in hand. After a long trek, they saw the hulking form of Wolvenskorn outlined in the moonlight.

Wolvenskorn’s tall, sharply sloping peaks stood out against the sky, topped by narrow gables. Three levels of wooden and stone wings, one behind the next, rose from the snow.

Each level had a deeply slanted roofline. The building was capped by a tall cupola ringed by carved monsters. The oldest wing was daub and wattle, with a sod roof that sloped back into the forest soil.

Grotesques and gargoyles looked down from the roof onto the front courtyard. Between them, intricately carved runes were both decoration and protection. The wooden sections of Wolvenskorn were set with carved panels and the lower halves were covered with overlapping shingles. An ancient circle of stone pillars circled the manor, placed there, Gabriel once told him, over a thousand years ago. Jonmarc hoped that their magic was as strong as Gabriel believed it to be.

Despite the time, servants ran to meet them, taking their horses. Jonmarc entered Wolvenskorn surrounded by the
vayash moru
fighters whose torn clothing told the tale of battle even if their wounds had already healed. The
vyrkin
followed them, some limping, some bleeding from their battle wounds. Two of the
vayash moru
carried dead
vyrkin
, shifted back to human form. A servant motioned to the
vyrkin
and they turned down a corridor. At Gabriel’s nod, Jonmarc followed.

A fire blazed in one of the three huge fireplaces, and Jonmarc guessed it was a courtesy to him and to the
vyrkin,
as the
vayash moru
had no need of it. Piles of clothing lay in rows near the fireplace, and the
vyrkin
who were not too badly wounded padded over to them.

The air seemed to shimmer and fold onto itself as the wolves shifted shape, their outlines blurring as they became men and women. Servants helped them dress, or wrapped blankets around those too wounded to dress themselves. Eiria’s body lay covered with a cloak near the door, and Yestin, now in human form, sat beside the corpse and rested his head in his hands. Jonmarc walked slowly toward his friend and sat down wordlessly beside him.

There’s nothing I can say that will help,
Jonmarc thought.
And I know too well what he’s
feeling.

One of the
vyrkin
, an older man with a trim, gray beard and deep-set eyes, took a large cloth bag from the shadows and laid it on a table. He lifted his hands over the bag and spoke in the language of the
vyrkin
, a clipped, tonal language that seemed to Jonmarc to be the speech of wolves adapted for humans. The man lifted his hands in turn to the four corners, and bowed to the north before carefully loosening the knots which bound the bag.

A vyrkin
shaman, Jonmarc guessed.

From the bag, the shaman withdrew a stole made of woven hair, set with pieces of bone.

Chanting under his breath, the man smudged a dark kohl mark on his forehead, chin and cheekbones. His eyes seemed to glow as he took a scepter set with a carved head of a raging wolf whose eyes were rubies. Two mortal servants came to assist him, bringing clean cloth for bandages and water to mix poultices. The shaman slowly moved through the
vyrkin
, beginning with the most badly injured. As servants prepared the bandages, the medicine man chanted over the injured
vyrkin
, and sprinkled powders or dark liquids into their wounds, taking what he needed from the pouches and vials that hung from his belt.

Over those worst injured, the shaman laid his hand on their forehead as he chanted, letting the scepter rise and fall in his other hand. The music was strange to Jonmarc, ancient and decidedly not human. Jonmarc could see the badly injured
vyrkin
relax under the shaman’s touch, and saw their breathing come more smoothly.

Finally, the shaman stood in front of Jonmarc. “Will you accept my healing, wolf-brother?”

Jonmarc nodded. The shaman indicated for him to stretch out on the floor, and Jonmarc did so, grimacing as his broken ribs protested. The medicine man put his hand on Jonmarc’s forehead, resting thumb and forefingers on his temples, and Jonmarc felt the pain lessen.

The shaman frowned, and pulled the throat of Jonmarc’s tunic to the side, exposing the mark of the Lady. A shadow crossed the shaman’s face.

“Bloodsworn,” he said in heavily-accented Common. He spoke words Jonmarc did not understand, and let his head fall back, raising his arms.

“He’s given you a blessing,” Yestin said without looking up. “He’s asked the Wolf Father to heed your oath and deliver your enemy into your hand. You’re fortunate. Such things are not granted to those outside the pack.”

“Thank you,” Jonmarc murmured as the medicine man returned his attention to Jonmarc’s badly cut arm. He felt the tingle of magic as the wound closed under the shaman’s touch, but it felt completely different from Carina’s healing. The shaman laid his hands on Jonmarc’s broken ribs, and Jonmarc could feel the warmth of his magic binding the broken bone together.

When the shaman had finished his healing, he turned to Yestin and laid his hand on the top of his head. In a quiet baritone voice, the shaman began to sing, and although Jonmarc did not understand the language, he knew it to be a dirge. He listened closely, and strange, wondrous images filled his mind, of thick forests and deep snow and the speed and power of the ultimate predator, of the solidarity of the pack and the warmth of the den. When the song was over, Yestin looked up, his eyes bright with tears, and nodded, unable to speak.