The Silent Tempest (Book 2) (11 page)

She was hurrying now, speeding up so that
she could come abreast of him. Looking up at him, she spoke, “We could have
stopped at my house.”

He didn’t bother to answer, keeping his
eyes on the road ahead.

“I could have seen my son again,” she
added.

Tyrion looked down disdainfully, “You can
go back now. I don’t need you.”

She looked back, uncertain. “What about
them?”

“They aren’t your concern,” he told her.
“Their future is going to be a hard one. The last thing they need is you
there, reminding them of what they have lost.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about them,
or about yourself?” she challenged.

He pulled on the reins, stopping the
wagon. Climbing down he walked toward Kate purposefully. She took a step back,
but he kept moving forward until he stood in front of her. Taking her hand, he
pulled her along with him, walking until they were fifty yards away, hidden by
trees and thick underbrush. He was half a head taller, which meant he had to
look down at her from such a close distance. “Is that what you want? You
think that coming with me will change the past? That we can have a second
chance, or that you can change me?”

She turned her head away in denial, “No.
I know there’s no going back.”

“Yet you think to abandon your son, and
your husband, for what?”

“When you left the first time, fifteen
years ago,” she began, “I was devastated. It was years before I finally
accepted it, and then you returned again. You agreed to a deal that you
thought was certain death to return, and when you left you were certain you’d
be dead in your next fight. Now you’re taking my only sister, and the only
thing I have left of you, back to that place. She’s young, and she’s scared,
and you’ve already admitted she may have to fight for her life. You expect me
to let you walk away a third time?”

The look in her eyes pierced him, but he
drew on his anger to shield him from the softer emotions that lay deeper, “What
exactly do you think you’ll be when you get there?”

“It won’t matter,” she said. “As long as
I can help her, or them. They’re only children.”

“You’ll be a slave, Kate, and once they
put that collar on you, there’s no going back. Believe me on that, for I’ve
tried. Not only will you be a slave, but you’ll be considered near worthless
since you have no power. They call those the ‘nameless’ back in Ellentrea, and
they are universally bullied and abused. The only thing you possess of value
are your looks, and those will only bring you trouble. The only currency among
the slaves of the She’Har is sex, but you won’t be able to trade it, they’ll
simply take what they want from you.”

Her face blanched as he spoke, but her
stubbornness remained, “You said the collar prevented that.”

He sneered, “Only the most common form of
penetration, there are plenty of other ways to seek pleasure—or to violate
someone.”

“I saw how you were with them yesterday.
They wouldn’t dare…”

“I am the first one you should be afraid
of,” he growled. “Go home.”

“Or what?” she said, scowling back at him.

In Ellentrea the only way to react to such
defiance was with violence or submission. His self-control snapped, and his
hand shot out, catching her by the hair at the back of her head. He wanted to
hurt her, but rather than strike her, he channeled his rage in a different
manner. Leaning forward, he twisted her head to one side and bit her ear,
hard.

She yelled, pushing at him with her hands,
but she was trapped. One knee came up, seeking to wound him where it would
count most, but he had expected that, twisting to one side. He kicked her feet
out from under her and let her fall to the ground.

Before she could rise he was on her,
pressing her down. She was helpless. The beast within him rose, demanding he
feed it.
Blood and ashes,
he thought.
Blood and ashes.
Emerald
eyes stared up at him as she stopped fighting.

A single tear escaped, falling to the
ground.

He went still. He was hurting Kate. He
was hurting the only woman who had ever truly cared for him.
To make her go
home,
he reminded himself, but he knew that was a lie. He wanted her.
Forcing her to go home was just an excuse.

She pushed him off as she sensed his
hesitation. “Is that it?” she demanded, “Don’t you want to prove how evil you
are? Can’t you finish the job?”

He looked away, “I will hurt you far worse
than this.”

“What? You’ll bite my other ear?! You’ll
pretend you’re going to rape me? I’m not afraid of you!” She was as furious
as he had ever seen her.

Somehow he had lost control of the
situation. Fifteen years he had been among the She’Har, regularly inculcated
with cruelty and indifference, and yet it had only taken Kate fifteen minutes
to strip away the years and leave him feeling like the uncertain boy he had
once been. For a moment it was Tyrion who was merely a memory. Daniel Tennick
stared at the girl he had once loved beyond all hope, and the pain of
everything he had done threatened to overwhelm him.

No, no, no, no—no!
She had to go home.

Kate was watching his face intently, her
anger vanishing as she saw the muscles around his lips begin to tremble.
Daniel’s face was twisting, shifting, as if a wave of grief had abruptly
struck. The hard uncaring veneer was crumbling, and beneath it lay an ocean of
suffering.
He’s about to lose it,
she thought. The realization brought
feelings of both triumph and fear. Her ‘Daniel’ was still in there, but she
was also worried he might collapse, utterly broken.

Suddenly she was the one who was
uncertain. Her intuition told her she had two courses. Take him in her arms,
and he would dissolve. If there was one person his inner child looked to for
forgiveness, it was her, and if she granted it—it might start an avalanche. He
was vulnerable. The only way his soul could ever begin to heal was in her
arms.

But it might also completely undo him.
Would he fall apart?

The other course was obvious. Rebuff
him. Hurt him. A sharp treatment with the sort of cold cruelty he had learned
to expect would probably snap him back into what had become his normal
mindset. Only hatred could summon the devil.

Daniel felt her eyes on him as his world
crumbled. Everything was spinning out of control. He should never have come
back. His father’s words echoed in his mind,
I wish you had never been
born.
What was he doing? Kidnapping his own children. It seemed like the
grandest folly he had ever committed. They hated him. Everyone hated him.
His legs felt weak, and a moment later he found himself on the ground.

The logic he had relied upon no longer
made sense, and then he felt
them.

Several points of brilliant aythar,
approaching from the direction of Colne. Somehow they had gone around,
probably during the night, searching the outlying regions around the town. Now
they were advancing from the town itself. The wardens were coming.

They would try to take the children. He
was sure of that. They were un-collared and he had no She’Har with him to make
a claim for the Illeniel.
How many will die if I fight them with all of
these children present?
He couldn’t fight. He didn’t want to fight.

Everyone hated him, except possibly the
woman who was studying him now, staring at him with a shocked expression.
She
has to go home. She can’t be here when they come.

“They’re coming, Kate,” he told her
sadly. “Please, you have to go. They don’t want you. You’ll be safe if you
aren’t here.” Staring up at her, he could see her aura wavering, uncertain, as
if she was making a decision. “Please, go home.”

Panic struck her at his words.
They’re
coming.
Kate made her choice. She spat on him, “Get up you fucking
coward. Did you think I’d forgive you if you
cried
? I don’t give two
shits about your
feelings
. You’re pathetic. Seeing you like this makes
me sick!”

“You don’t understand, Kate…” he began,
but she kicked him then, and he quickly realized he had let his shield lapse.

The pain in his side, combined with the
look of disgust on her face, sent a wave of coldness through him. She was
looking down on him, just like the She’Har, just like the wardens.

The bitch was looking down—
on him.

Fury burned, and Tyrion stood again.

For a brief second he considered giving in
to the impulse to kill her. That would be satisfying, but something stopped
him. No, he would punish her. Let her learn the lessons he had. “You will
regret that,
slave,
” he told her coldly.

Her demeanor changed, disdain replaced by
fear. Tears started in her eyes, and this time they pleased him. She cast her
eyes downward, letting her hair hide her features.

“Get back to the wagon,” he ordered. “We
have to prepare for guests.”

Fifteen teens, two adults, and one wagon;
there was no way they could move quickly enough to stay out of range. Tyrion
could dampen his aythar as much as possible, but it would only delay the
inevitable. The She’Har scouting party would find them.

He could probably close his mind
completely, totally hiding his aythar, but they would still note the presence
of seventeen people. Once they approached to investigate, it would only seem
more suspicious when they realized he had been attempting to hide from them.

He scanned the youths once more. If any
of them had begun to show signs of power, he might be able to use them, but
there was still nothing. Gabriel Evans had flickering signs in his aura, but
they were so weak he probably wasn’t even aware of them yet.

Tyrion’s saddlebag rested on the driver’s
seat. He reached into it and took out the quarrel he had recovered from
Branlyinti’s body and then handed it to Kate. “Load it and hope you don’t have
to use it.”

She nodded, avoiding eye contact.

“There are riders approaching,” he said,
raising his voice for everyone to hear. “I can count eight. They will
probably be mostly wardens like myself, but they may have one of the She’Har
with them, the ones you call ‘forest-gods’. They will seek to take you from
me, by force if necessary.

He paused then, gathering his thoughts,
and Gabriel Evans spoke up, “What are you going to do?”

Tyrion was surprised at the boy’s
temerity. “I am going to persuade them otherwise. Quite possibly that will
mean I have to kill them.”

Brigid piped up, “What if you can’t?”

He smiled, “Then I will see you all dead before
I let them take you.”

Their faces blanched, many turning white.

“If that sounds cruel to you, that is
because it is, but you have no idea of the sort of torments you will find at
the hands of the She’Har and their servants. I consider it a mercy,” he told
them. Searching their faces he went on, “None of you are ready to fight, nor
do I need you to, but there is a risk that you may be injured or killed during
this—discussion. Therefore I need you all to listen carefully and follow my
instructions exactly. Can you do that?”

Some of them nodded, while others just
stared at him dumbly.

That will have to be good
enough,
he thought. “I will draw a ring around
the wagon, to create a strong shield. It should be enough to protect you.
Those who are coming want to take you alive, so I doubt they will try to
penetrate it. If they do, it will be in the hope that they can spook you into
running. If we become separated, I cannot protect you. If one of them lays
hands on you, don’t fight, but do not cooperate; feign unconsciousness, make
yourself dead weight, force them to carry you. Otherwise, stay by the wagon,
and if the circle is broken do not run.”

He turned away then and began etching a
line in the dirt, forming a circle around the wagon. He kept it as small as
possible, to minimize the drain on his strength, for he would have to keep some
of his power focused on it during the fight that was to come. When he finished
it was fifteen feet in diameter; just enough to encircle the wagon, the mule,
the children, and Kate.

The party that was approaching had sped
up, sensing his presence now. They were less than a mile distant and covering
ground at an almost unbelievable pace. Tyrion had thought at first that they rode
horses, but he could tell now that they did not. They had taken the shape of
wolves, lupine bodies and long legs eating up the ground between them far
faster than would be possible for a horse and rider in such rough terrain.

The Gaelyn Grove then
, thought Tyrion. That explained the ease with which they had
gone around the town and searched the countryside while remaining outside of
his detection range. Taking the form of wolves or even birds had enabled them
to travel far faster than other wardens.
At least I know for certain what
grove they all come from,
he noted. Their tactic would have been unusable
if they had included wardens with other gifts.

He walked roughly thirty yards from the
circle and the wagon it would guard—once he empowered it.
No shields yet,
or I’m considered hostile by default.
That meant he had to leave himself
unprotected as well, even though he knew what the outcome would be. The
difference now was not that he hoped to surprise them, but that he knew some
would escape. He was in a defensive position this time, which would make
eliminating all of them virtually impossible.

That was fine, though. This was a fight
he could justify—so long as he could give an accounting that absolved him of
initiating the conflict. That meant he couldn’t defend himself until his
opponents had declared their intentions.

Eight massive wolves emerged from the
underbrush and spread out before him. Seven of them sat back on their
haunches, letting their long tongues hang out as they panted, while the eighth
shifted, taking human form. Seconds later a human figure stood where the wolf
had been.

Tyrion recognized the strange looking man who
stood before him.
Charlanum.
The brown-skinned, red-eyed She’Har of
the Gaelyn Grove had been present at many of his fights in the arena.

He dipped his head respectfully toward the
She’Har trainer.

“Tyrion,” said the She’Har. “I see you
have found a rich harvest. I assume these are the ones whom we seek.”

“I have already claimed them on behalf of
my mistress, Lyralliantha,” he answered. There was no point in wasting time
getting to the point.

The She’Har raised one eyebrow, “If that
is so, then we will respect the Illeniel claim…” His eyes roved over the
teens, “… but I see no collars on them.”

“They will be collared as soon as we
return.”

“Then Lyralliantha is not here with you?”
asked the Gaelyn She’Har in mock surprise.

Tyrion tensed, “No.”

“Do you expect me to take your word then?”
continued the trainer. “A slave cannot make claim to them unless he is
following the orders of his master.”

“I have been so ordered.”

“I see no proof of that.”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed, “I could not be
here without her permission. She made her wishes very plain to me before I
left. I have taken these, and they will be delivered to her.”

“She is not here,” insisted Charlanum.
“Stand aside. When we return I will speak with her and verify your claim. If
you speak the truth, she will forgive you for obeying my command and I will
give her my apology for transgressing against the Illeniel Grove.”

“But you will already have collared them
for the Gaelyn Grove…” said Tyrion, letting his words trail away.

Charlanum smiled, “Of course. I cannot
allow slaves to be left unrestricted.”

“I will have to decline your generous
offer,” responded Tyrion. “Killing me would incur a serious debt for the
Gaelyn Grove.” His last hope of dissuading the She’Har was to remind him that
Tyrion’s death would result in a heavy penalty of shuthsi, the honor currency
that was traded between groves.

Tyrion was currently the most valuable
slave in all the groves, but the prospect of fifteen others who might have
similar potential made the risk small in comparison to the possible reward.
Charlanum would not be deterred.

“I will regret killing you,” said the
She’Har, and his aythar flashed as he began a powerful spellweaving.

Spellweaving was fast, compared to
enchanting, but it was slightly slower than the ultimately spontaneous nature
of human magic. Ordinarily the difference in speed was insignificant, for
human attacks couldn’t penetrate a spellwoven shield, nor could human shields
stop a spellwoven attack.

Fortunately, Tyrion didn’t have to produce
his enchantments from scratch. The tattoos on his body were complete, they
needed only his will and an investment of aythar to activate the enchantments
they represented. His prepared shields expanded near instantaneously, with
almost a half a second to spare before the Gaelyn She’Har’s attack struck.

Two of the ‘wolves’ sent blasts of force at
him. Neither attack had any hope of penetrating his special protection, but
they nevertheless sent him tumbling from the sheer force of the blows.

“Two of you secure the baratti young, the
rest of you assist me in handling the warden,” ordered Charlanum.

Tyrion snarled, rolling with the momentum
granted by his enemies’ assault, even as he focused his will and raised a
shield around the wagon. Somewhere beneath his anger his mind was calculating
still, and it didn’t like the odds. Unlike his previous battle, he was now
contending with one of ‘the People’, as the term ‘She’Har’ meant when
translated into the human language.

The She’Har’s attacks could potentially
penetrate his defense, particularly if he grew tired and weakened. One on one
that probably wouldn’t be an issue, since he possessed nearly twice the raw
aythar that the Gaelyn trainer did, but he still had to factor in the seven
human wardens. Keeping a shield around the wagon and dealing with the human
mages at the same time would almost certainly exhaust him long before he could
finish the She’Har.

Tyrion moved, leaping forward to threaten
one of the wolves and then sidestepping to avoid a sudden trap as another
removed the earth in front of him, creating a pit. Seconds stretched out like
hours as he twisted and turned, avoiding attacks and trying to keep his
opponents from organizing against him. As he fought he could feel the first
serious attacks on the shield he kept around the wagon beginning to put a
strain on his strength.

Unlike his last battle, his enemies now had
an unlimited area to move in; that fact, combined with their lupine bodies gave
them a clear advantage in mobility. The unrestricted airspace also made
certain tactics he had used in the past almost worthless. Desperate, he began
to create the aythar laced fog he had used so often before to conceal his
movements, but three of the other wardens worked to keep the air moving,
destroying his fog before it could become effective.

Similarly, he was unable to create a
windstorm, for the same three fought with him for control of the air currents,
all while the other two sought to ensnare him, using the earth to create pits
or using lines of force to try and slow him down. Charlanum was able to
conserve his energy, saving it for focused attacks on Tyrion’s enchanted
shield, attacks that Tyrion was becoming less and less able to avoid.

Tyrion was beginning to face an unsettling
realization—he was losing.

He had faced long odds before, but rarely
had he felt the fight slipping away from him. Even in his fight with the Krytek,
he had kept control of the battlefield until the very end. This time he was
being forced to fight defensively, reacting rather than taking the initiative.

Without the She’Har’s presence, he could
have taken them, or if there were fewer human mages to support the She’Har, but
the deck was stacked against him now. His opponents moved in tandem to
restrict his movements while their own mobility made most of his attacks
ineffective. They had planned for this.

Something had to give soon, and it wasn’t
going to end well for him.

Another heavy blow to the shield around
the wagon staggered him, and he almost lost it then. If the shield collapsed
while he was still supporting it, he would potentially lose consciousness.
Tentacles of force shot out from three of the wardens and tangled around him.
They couldn’t penetrate his enchanted personal shield, but they slowed him
down. He slashed at them with his arm blades, but he couldn’t cut them apart
as fast as they sent new ones at him.

Charlanum was lining up for his next
attack as a nasty looking spellweave formed in the air before him. Tyrion had
no doubt about where it would be aimed.

Fuck this.

Two wardens were working together to keep
him from wresting control of the air or the soil. Those were common things
that mages used against one another in the arena. He would have to do
something the wolves didn’t expect.

Wolves,
he thought suddenly, and then he lit on an idea.

Using a small amount of aythar, he created
a sudden burst of sound, pitching it high in the hope that it would disorient
the Gaelyn mages. Their hearing would be much more sensitive than his given
their current forms. Then he released the shield around the wagon. Gathering
his remaining aythar, he used some of it to expand his enchanted shield
outward, clearing the air around him for several feet before releasing it as
well.

The sudden emptiness around him gave him
some leeway, and he leapt up and forward, focusing his strength on one arm
blade, making it as long and sharp as possible.

Charlanum’s attack was a focused spear of
spellwoven power, meant to pierce the shield he had had around him. Tyrion’s
sudden shift in tactics threw his aim off, but the attack ripped through his
left leg nonetheless, even as Tyrion’s force-blade ripped through his own
shield and cut through the She’Har’s skull.