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Thursday, May 26, 2011

CHAPTER THREE










            “Take that rag away and bring me some decent clothes!”
            Feenix threw the gray gown at the old woman who had entered the holding cell.  She may be naked, but she was not going to wear rags on her body.
            “I am Lala, chief slave of the royal house.  I have been commanded to prepare you for your duties.  His Highness has ordered that you wear t his garment,” the woman said as she bent down and picked up the offending dress.  “Save yourself a beating.  Put it on.”
            “I don’t care who ordered what!  I refuse to put that thing on my back.  It probably has lice and fleas living in it!  Find me some clothes fit for a warrior.  Something like your prince was wearing will do for now!”
            Feenix stood with her fists on her hips and glared at the petite silvan slave.  She looked to be about the oldest elf Feenix had ever seen.  Wrinkles covered her face and hands, like the cracks of a riverbed in drought.  Her wispy white hair looked thin and fine, chopped to just below her pointed ears.  A silver band, black with tarnish inside intricate carvings and runes, encircled her neck.  Wrinkled folds of loose skin grew around the edges of the metal, and the collar looked to have been there for ages.
            A large, well armed guard stood at the door, blocking any chance Feenix had to escape.  If she had her own gear, the guard would be no problem at all, but the way things were now, it was best to bide her time.
            The holding cell was actually a small stone room without windows, of course, and with a ceiling that reached far above her head.  A pallet of straw lay against a wall, and a bucket sat in a corner.  Nothing else.  No table.  No chair.  Not even any straw on the floor.  Feenix had lived in worse places.
            “And what would you do with warrior’s clothing?” Lala asked.  “Put the gown on and save me the trouble of dressing you.”
            “Ha!  You and that ox standing by the door couldn’t dress me in that rage if my hands were tied and my feet nailed to the floor!”  She decided to take a gamble.  “Come on,” she prodded, “I’ll bet the two of you together couldn’t dress a new born babe!”
            “You are a foolish human,” the elf said.  “Prince L’Garn is expecting you to be ready when he returns.  I have never failed in any job given to me.  I will not fail in this.”
            “Prepare for disappointment, hag!”  Feenix crouched with her arms held out to the side, ready to react to any advance or movement her captors might make.
            The old elf motioned to the guard without taking her tired eyes off the warrior woman.  The guard swept a coiled length of leather from his side in a blurred movement Feenix couldn’t follow until the last second.  The stone room exploded with a pop as the whip set her ears to ringing.
            Before she could react, the tip of the whip again reached out and flicked open a wound in her left thigh as long as her index finger.
            Howling in pain and rage, Feenix clapped her hand over the blood and backed up, but not in time to avoid the end of the whip once again.  This time it wrapped around her right ankle like a stinging clamp.  The guard yanked the whip and Feenix fell to the floor in a heap.
            As soon as she hit the ground, the little old elf woman jumped on her in a flash, holding a thin wire around her neck.
            “Now,” she said to the fallen Feenix.  “Let us dress you, shall we?”
            Feenix put her hands on Lala’s shoulders and pushed, kicked and hooked her right leg around the woman’s waist, then rolled to the left.  Suddenly Lala was pinned beneath the warrior woman, but the wire at Feenix’ throat had begun to cut off her air.  A trickle of blood dripped onto the face of the old elf.
            Feenix put the heel of her palm under the elf’s chin and pushed upward, bearing down with as much pressure to the ancient throat as possible, trying without success to break the hold.  Her other hand fumbled to release the wire around her own neck without success.
            Feenix straddled the woman and put both of her hands around her adversary’s throat, intending to snap the old woman’s neck before the wire strangled her.  Damn that half-elf’s spell!  She still felt as weak as a kitten!  Blackness crept over her eyes; her lungs begged to be replenished with air.  White and red dots chased each other across her vision, but still she held on to the wrinkled neck of the old slave.  Just a little longer …
            Crack!
            Feenix screamed with agony as the whip landed on her bare back, cutting a line of fire from her shoulder to her waist.  She let go of the woman and rolled to the right, trying to dodge another sting of the leather.
            As she moved, another guard rushed into the room, tugged her hands behind her, and pulled her long hair so that her head bent back, giving Feenix a wonderful view of the ceiling.  She found herself effectively pinned to the floor on her knees, although a voice from deep within exalted over the fact that it took two men to subdue her, even with the lingering effects of L’Garn’s spell.  Some time during the fight, the wire had fallen from her neck, and she gulped in great breaths of air. 
            “That was foolish of you,” the old woman said, rising slowly and rubbing her injured neck.
            “You’d be dead right now if I had my own gear,” Feenix ground out through a burning throat, finding it difficult to talk with authority in her awkward position.
            “Put the slave necklace on her, and the chains,” the woman ordered the guards.
            “I’m no one’s slave,” Feenix yelled, struggling to break the iron hold of the guard.
            “You are now,” the old woman answered.
            On her knees with her hands bound and her hair pulled back so that her throat lay open to any dagger, Feenix did not have a clear view of the room.  She heard the guard by the door shuffle towards her, and watched in horror as an iron ring was lowered to her neck and then clamped in place.
            A harsh shove from behind forced her on her stomach while the guard locked the collar behind her neck.  Her breasts pushed into the hard stone and her cheek hugged a jagged crack in the floor.
            “By the god’s brass bells, get this thing the hell off my neck!  Feenix of Port Marcus is no one’s slave!  I will kill you all!”
            Her struggles were in vain.  The sheer weight of the guards, combined with their strength, soon had her dressed and the slave ring in place.  Her hands were manacled and a heavy chain was run through the necklace and attached to the iron bands on each hand.  The length of the chain prevented her from extending her arms or lowering them past her waist.
            “You scum!  Do you know who you are dealing with here?”  She drew herself up as straight as she could and put as much command and intimidation as possible in her words.  “I am Captain Feenix of Port Marcus!  If you do not release me immediately, there will be so many warriors swarming through these caverns you won’t be able to turn around without impaling yourselves on a sword!”
            “Quiet, slave!”  The silvan woman did not seem to be intimidated at all by Feenix’ threats.  “I do not care who you were before you came here.  From this time forward, you are a slave of Cragimore.  You will work and eat and sleep only when told.  You will not rest without permission.  You will not eat without permission.  You will not even relieve yourself without permission.  This is the first lesson you must learn as a slave.”
            Feenix looked directly into the washed out hazel eyes of the woman.  The coloring was wrong.  Night Elves had paler skin, and their eyes were not the color of woodlands.  The old woman was silvan, but not a Night Elf.
            “Go to hell,” she said and then aimed a great glob of spit at the woman’s face.
            She had forgotten about the guard behind her.  Her sight went black with colored spots before she felt the pain in her head.  The stone floor slapped her cold and hard, and then she thought of nothing else.

*     *     *

            Pain exploding inside her head told her she was probably awake.  The incessant voice speaking to her wasn’t making any sense, however, so she decided to ignore the pain and go back to sleep.  Except the paid wouldn’t go away.  Neither would the oddly soothing voice.
            “Feenix!  Captain Feenix!”
            Damn elves, why couldn’t they leave her alone to enjoy a moment or two of rest?  The war would wait.
            “Wake up, slave!”
            This time the words were accompanied by a series of stinging slaps to her face that made the pain in her head feel like it would rip her skull from her neck.
            “Damn,” she yelled, forcing her stubborn eyes to open, “get the hell away from me or you’ll find yourself with two black eyes and a broken nose!”
            Feenix blinked to dispel the blurry vision standing in front of her.  She must be dreaming.  What the hell were all these elves doing in her quarters?
            Another slap to her face restored her memory.
            “Damn.  Where’s your bloody prince?”
            One of the guards jerked her up into a standing position, and then pushed her back against the stone wall.  It was then that Feenix realized she was chained to the wall from the back of her slave collar.
            “Like a flea-bitten dog,” she mumbled.
            “You will stand in the presence of your betters,” the guard growled.
            “Right.”  Since she didn’t have much choice, Feenix decided to humor her guests.
            “Now that you have rested,” Lala spoke, “you will begin to learn your duties.  You will come with me.”
            As the guard unlocked the chain that tethered her to the wall, Feenix inquired, “When is dinner?  I’m starved.”
            “You will eat when your chores are completed.  Follow me.”
            “Look, Lily,” she said as the guard gave her a push from behind to start her feet moving out the door.  “I haven’t had anything to eat in two days.  I demand some food.”
            The little old elf stopped and turned to give Feenix a look of disgust.
            “You can not demand anything, human.  You can only obey.  I will not tell you again.  And my name is Lala.”
            Without waiting for a response, she turned and resumed her walk down the stone corridor outside Feenix’ cell.  Again the guard pushed Feenix from behind to get her moving.  She gave the guard a dirty look, and then followed Lala.
            “Well, fine.  But I work better with a full belly.”
            Her captors ignored the comment.
Feenix tried to memorize her location and where they were taking her, but without any distinguishing landmarks, such as rooms, doors or windows, it was difficult.  The corridor seemed to be one long hall carved from the living rock.  The stone was pale gray with chips of quartz glistening from its hard surface.
            The procession of elves and captive bore no torches, and there were none mounted on the walls.  An eerie greenish-yellow light emanated from the floor, which allowed enough light to see.  The entire corridor was like walking in a mist-shrouded twilight world.  It gave her the creeps.
            The same musty, forest floor smell she had noticed w hen L’Garn had first carried her into Cragimore was still present.  She thought that a bit odd since the entire stronghold seemed to be made of rock, swept free of any leaves, dirt or other debris, except for the stuff growing on the floor that made the weird light.  Maybe that’s what caused the odor.
            “Where are we going?”
            This obeying stuff was getting on her nerves.  She didn’t like walking into something she knew nothing about, and hated not knowing what to expect.
            “Silence,” Lala replied without a backward glance.
            Feenix noted that Lala’s clothes were of a better quality than the rag she wore, although both were a grayish-mud color.  In fact, now that she thought about it, she hadn’t noticed much color on anyone’s clothes.  No gold or brilliant blue; no bright yellow or deep red.  Even the prince, L’Garn, wore no decorations or color on his clothes.  It was as if the people were as washed out and bland as their surroundings.  How boring.
            Waling with her wrists chained to the ring around her neck was awkward.  She preferred to have her hands free and swinging as she walked.  Not being able to lower them further than her waist made her feel like she was waddling like a duck.
            “How much further?”
            She stumbled to her knees as the guard behind her hit her with the handle of the whip.  Damn, at this rate her pounding head would never survive.
            “No more talk, human,” the guard growled.  “Just walk!”
            “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”  She found it difficult to stand without her arms for balance.
            Again the butt of the whip slammed her in the back of her neck.  This time she fell to the ground completely, lying on the floor of the hall.  Since her face hit the light-giving growth, she learned that indeed the musty smell came from the fungus growing on the path.  Close up, it stank!
            “Get up,” the guard growled.
            Feenix wondered what they would do if she pretended to be unconscious again.  She didn’t have long to wonder.
            “Pick her up,” Lala commanded the guard.
            Feenix felt her attacker grab the iron ring behind her head and haul her up without much trouble.  The metal band bit into her neck, and it felt like her windpipe would snap in two.
            She tried to stand, but her legs were wobbly, and her head so dizzy she had trouble focusing her eyes.  The only thing that kept her from smelling the foul path again was the guard’s hold on her collar.
            “Now, move,” the guard ordered.
            As battered, sore and dizzy as she felt, Feenix took no orders from any enemy.
            “Make me,” she choked.
            The guard lifted her off her feet and shook the iron collar like a dog with a bone.  She thought the metal would sever her head, and it would roll right off her shoulders.  A broken sound – half hysterical chuckle, half groan of pain – escaped her lips as she imagined the sight of her head rolling down the corridor, her long hair wrapping around it like a ball of yarn.
            “Enough,” shouted Lala.  “His Highness will flay us alive if you kill her.  Bring her.”
            “I do not care a rat’s tail what the ‘Breed wants,” the guard holding Feenix replied.  “I would like to have a go at t his human myself.”  She tried to push his groping hand away as he squeezed her right breast painfully.  The other guards agreed and someone made a comment about stopping and trying her out.
            “Get your filthy hands off me,” Feenix croaked in a painful gruff voice.  That damned collar would be the death of her.  He merely shook her again and laughed.
            “Holdert,” Lala spoke in a mollifying tone.  “His Highness wants this new slave in one piece.  Let us bring her and have done with the job.”
            The guard dropped Feenix to the floor and turned to the little elf.
            “I am a member of the King’s Guard.  I do not take orders from a slave.”
            Lala bowed to him, casting a wan smile his way.
            “Of course I would not presume to order you, Master Holdert.  However, the prince gave orders to us both to see that the new slave is prepared.”
            In a flash, his hand struck Lala across the face.
            “I do not need you to tell me my duty, slave!”  Lala wiped a trickle of blood from her lip.  “The ‘breed will get his slave when I have finished with her.”
            “That would not be wise, master.  The prince expects you to do your job, just as he expects me to do mine.”
            Did the stupid woman not know enough to keep her mouth shut, Feenix wondered?  She tried to sit up, racing her back against the wall, but it wasn’t easy fettered as she was.
            Holdert took a step towards Lala, and the old slave backed into the wall.  “You may be the chief slave, Lala, but your rank holds no weight with me.”
            “Easy, Holdert,” one of the guards said.  “She holds high favor with the princess.”
            “The royal whore, you mean,” he said without turning away from the cowering old slave before him.
            Although he stood with his back to Feenix and the gloomy light in the caverns did not allow her to see his face, she knew how he must look as he intimidated his prey.  She knew his kind; always ready to take out their inadequacy on the defenseless.  The light of power would be gleaming in his eyes; lips pulled tight in a grimace of anticipation while intoxicating strength surged through his blood.  With a flick of his wrist, he could kill an old woman like Lala in a second and enjoy the feel of brittle bones snapping.  The fear and terror in the eyes of his prey would only fuel the power and prove he was strong and virile.
            Feenix’ tired and battered body groaned in protest as she raised her right leg and kicked Holdert in the back of his left knee.  Unfortunately she didn’t connect cleanly, and instead of breaking the bully’s knee, she merely bruised it.  His leg gave out and he dropped to the ground.
            Her victory was short lived as another guard drew his sword and placed the tip, none too gently, at the base of her throat.  These elves seemed to have a fascination with her neck and throat.
            “You will live to regret that,” Holdert said as he stood with the help of a guard.  “Lala is right.  You need to be taught the proper behavior of a slave.  Pick her up and bring her,” he ordered as he limped down the corridor.

CHAPTER TWO









            Feenix decided it was too bad for the half elf that he hadn’t killed her.  Merely rendering her defenseless and unable to move was not enough to dampen her bloodlust.  Her body felt as limp and supple as a pair of well-worn leather boots, unable to stand or function without support.  But her determination remained as firm as a steel sword; the elf-man would die.
            She should have recognized the magic before it hit her.  Hadn’t she smelt the spell as he prepared it?  Hadn’t she known he was silvan?  Well, at least part silvan.  That kind could never be trusted in honest battle without some sort of trickery.  Even the Sea Elves, with which she had a contract and understanding, dealt with deceit and underhanded maneuvers more than honest, face to face warfare.
            Although to be fair, Rendolin’s people did have a code of honor they adhered to, if a human had the wits about them to figure it out.
            No matter.  Because the half elf had made the mistake of taking her captive rather than killing her, his death at her hand would be slow, painful and very, very satisfying.
            The fact that she could not stir a muscle did not remove all feeling from her.  Feenix was acutely aware of every bounce, jiggle and firm step the elf-man took.  She could not help it.  His bony shoulder dug into her stomach with the unyielding firmness of a rod of iron.  The man could do with some meat on his bones.
            From her unique perspective, the rocky cliffs were her sky, and the only direction she could look was down his trim legs or through his muscular thighs.  However, in order to get a clear view of those long legs, she first had to gaze past the firm mounds of his posterior.  Quite a mesmerizing sight in itself as the large muscles moved and carried her to his stronghold.
            She wished she could shut her eyes for a moment.  The motion of his strides, and the reversed position of her head and stomach were making her feel nauseous.  Vertigo was not usually something that affected her, but from this angle, every step caused her head to spin.
            Her eyes burned with the need to close them.  Her eyeballs felt as if they had been rolled around in the sand for a day or two.
            Long strands of her hair trickled over her shoulders to drape past his calves and occasionally snag on a jagged rock or grasping bush.  It was going to take hours to work all the snags and snarls out of the tresses.  Just one more crime to lie at the half elf’s feet.
            She wanted to scream and yell, and run him through with her sword.  How dare he abduct her in this manner!  Just who in Mac Lir’s back yard did he think he was, dropping nets on unsuspecting women and forcing them to go with him to who-knows-where?  If she had her gear, this never would have happened.  Rendolin and his brother had a hell of a lot to answer for, if she ever got out of this predicament.
            This was not the first time she had been at the complete mercy of a man, but she had sworn never to be in such a situation again.  Until now, she had pretty much kept that promise to herself.  She was ten years old when she made that vow.  Seconds later she had liberated herself and experienced her first taste of death engineered by her own hand.  The beauty of driving a deadly dagger into an enemy’s heart had been a sensation she never forgot.  It wasn’t something she took joy in, but it was something she was good at.
            However, these days she used her skills for the benefit of her employers, rather than her own thrills.  A girl had to work for a living, and she would be damned before she lay down and sold her body for money.  That was just another way for a man to control her, and Feenix refused to give that control to any man.
            Somehow she had forgotten her vow; had lost her instinct for survival there on the beach, in those moments after recovering from the Change.  The god’s curse made her weak.  She made a pact with herself to do whatever it took to have the curse removed.
            The first thing was to survive this torturous journey on the elf-man’s shoulder to the enemy’s camp in Cragimore.
            The blood pounding in her ears camouflaged the sounds that should have told her the ocean was left far behind.  She could hear the man’s breathing, but it didn’t seem to be overly labored.  He carried her as if she weighed no more than a sack of grain.  A small sack of grain.
            His pace did not slow and he never stumbled, although the rocks and the steep climb made the journey painful to her.  His muscular arm held her legs firmly against his chest, like a wooden bar securing a criminal in the stocks.  Her already flushed face burned at the thought of what she must look like – her bare backside protruding to the sky; dark hair flying wild like seaweed in the surf; and her captor looking like a pirate hero bringing home the booty.
            Finally, just when she was beginning to wonder if her navel could actually make a permanent impression on her backbone, he stopped and rolled her off his shoulder, dropping her in a patch of grass.  At least he didn’t dump her on her head into a pile of rocks.  But that small kindness wouldn’t save him.
            Since she landed on her side, she was able to watch him pull a length of cloth from one of his pouches.  Then he bent over her limp body and patted her cheek.  His ice-blue eyes scanned her body in an impersonal inspection that was more insulting than if he had tried to rape her.  His face was smooth and unlined.  It was as if his face had never held any emotion; no tiny wrinkles around his eyes from squinting in the sun, no hint of frowns between h is ebony eyebrows, no laugh lines around his sensual lips.  For a moment she almost wished to know if those full lips were as smooth and soft as the rest of his skin.
            “By Mac Lir’s beard,” she raged at herself, “you act like you haven’t been with a man in years!  He is your captor, woman!  Show a little restraint!”  Disgust at herself and anger at the half elf for causing her body to respond to his masculinity made her brain burn with rage.
            She put all the anger, hate and intimidation she could muster in her gaze as he loomed over her.  If she couldn’t speak or move, she was determined to communicate her loathing for him in the only way she could.
            He didn’t seem to notice.
            “I will blindfold you now, slave.  Although you will never be free to see the entrance to Cragimore again, still it is a law that no outsider shall know our secrets.”
            By Mac Lir’s baby teeth, if she could just get one finger to do her bidding, this half elf would be screaming for her mercy.
            “If you were ever good for anything, Mac Lir,” she stormed in her head, “just let me spit in his eye!”  Her mouth remained slack and the elf-man completed his task without any hindrance from Feenix.
            “Damn, god!  The only thing you’re good for is causing trouble to poor, innocent women!”
            This time her captor picked her up in his arms and did not throw her over his back.  Her head lolled over his arm, and he moved it to his shoulder, in a more comfortable position.  He smelled of autumn leaves and lemons.  She was surprised to feel a little thrill of something slice through her belly.  It was almost, but not quite, like the feeling she got when a new lover touched her for the first time.
            That magic spell must have addled her wits.
            She knew exactly when they entered Cragimore; the air was cool and damp and smelled like wet earth and fungus.  It reminded her of a deep forest where the trees were dense and tall, and the leaves had been moldering on the ground for so long, entire generations of salamanders and small rodents had lived and died within their sheltering haven.  It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t something she thought she’d want to live with forever.
            The change in atmosphere was more than just the smell and temperature.  There was something heavy and ominous in the air.  Like a beast lurking in the dark, a starving entity drooling in its lair waiting to be fed.  Even the hushed silence of the stone cavern echoed with a sluggish rhythm that brought to mind a panting monster, hot and hungry, existing on the lifeblood of the inhabitants of Cragimore.
            How could someone choose to live buried in this place of death and decay?
            “Halt!”
            The command was delivered with a menacing tone Feenix felt was common in such a dismal place.  The half elf paused.
            “Sorry, Highness,” the voice said.  “I did not know it was you, Prince L’Garn.”
            “Carry on,” her captor said.  He adjusted her body, and again swung her up over his shoulder.  Her chin banged against his shoulder blade, and her teeth slammed together with skull-jarring force.  Taking a firm hold on her legs, he trotted through the cavern, his hard heeled boots ringing on the stone floor.
            Prince.  The guard had called her elf-man a prince.  That would explain the proud bearing and the rude way he refused to answer her questions.  Killing a prince of the Night Elves would do more than just appease her lust for revenge.  It might even prove to be a deciding factor in the coming war between the Sea Elves and these foul creatures.
            She became aware of another change in the atmosphere of the cavern.  It had been growing increasingly warmer, and the humidity in the air caressed her naked body like a warm, damp blanket.  It seemed the deeper they went into Cragimore, the more the chill melted away.
            The blood pounding in her ears slowly gave way to the unexpected sound of chatter and laughter.  Mocking laughter.  The shoulder she was slung over gradually became more tense and firm, if such a thing were possible.  She felt him draw himself straight and stiff, as if he were preparing to face an enemy.  But such a thing was ridiculous.  He was among his own people.
            “What have you there, Prince L’Garn?”
            “Look!  Our Prince has caught himself a large fish!”
            “Out plundering without your mates, L’Garn?  Is that why you sent us back without you?”
            She couldn’t see the scorners, of course, but she felt their malevolence and disrespect as keenly as if the words were sharp edged daggers thrust into her side.
            By the god’s left earlobe, what was going on here?  Soldiers didn’t speak to their leaders – let alone princes – in such tones.  If she were in command, those voices would be silenced forever.  That would prove an effective lesson for any others who thought they could get away with such disrespect.
            “Back off, Karden, or I’ll shove my fist down your throat.”
            The Prince’s words rumbled through Feenix’ belly.  At least he talked a good game.  Somehow she didn’t think he was bluffing.
            “Threats from our Prince, L’Garn?” the man snarled.  “Have a care with your tongue.  Your grandfather, Zimpher, is not here to protect you.”
            Feenix listened to the snickers and snide whispers and wondered what her captor would do.  L’Garn seemed to be oozing anger from every pore, but he remained mute to the taunts.
            “I say we deserve a reward for keeping you out of harm by following you around and obeying your commands.  No one should be forced to do the bidding of the likes of you, Outbreed.  Even if you are a royal bastard.”
            She heard the footsteps of many men, and the cavern filled with hostility as well as opponents, most of who were murmuring agreement to Karden’s words.
            “I say hand the female over to us and we will let you pass.”
            The half elf’s body became very still.  She felt him tense even more.
            Ignoring Karden’s demand, L’Garn spoke.  “Where is the king?”  Although his words were not loud, they were spoken with a threat and menacing quality that made the hair on the back of Feenix’ neck rise, despite her inability to move her muscles.
            “He and the priests are on a pilgrimage,” a voice answered.  She thought she detected a trace of unease in it.
            “And the Princess?” L’Garn demanded.
            A harsh bark of a laugh echoed around the chamber.  Feenix supposed it came from Karden.
            “Your lady mother is in her quarters sleeping off yet another bout of drunken indisposition.”
            Feenix felt or sensed the speaker move himself into a more defensible position.
            “One can only suppose another bastard such as you, our noble Prince, will be the result since she couples with any male like a bitch in heat.”
            L’Garn pulled his sword effortlessly; pivoted to his left and sliced at Karden with a smooth, clean backhand.  Feenix couldn’t see it, but she had been in enough battles to understand what the ensuring sounds and movements meant.
            Chaos broke out in the cavern like a din from hell.  Her captor parried, thrust, stepped and lunged with a grace and speed she could only admire.  And he did it all, thankfully, without dropping her or even allowing her to be nicked.  She thought he fought two opponents, although it sounded like a thousand.  Screams, chants, thuds and cheers accompanied the clamor of ringing swords and labored breathing.
            The warm, metallic smell of blood coated the air.
            Feenix herself began to have trouble breathing until she learned to gasp in time with his steps.  Exhale on the downbeat; inhale on the lope.  If only she could raise her neck so her head would stop banging against his back as he parried and thrust.
            Abruptly, L’Garn made a driving lunge, dipping down on one knee and thrusting forward and up.  The cavern suddenly became silent except for an amazed groan.  As she felt the half elf withdraw his sword and stand, she heard a body hit the stone floor.  For two full heart beats the cavern range with an eerie silence.
            “Clean this mess up,” L’Garn ordered.  She felt him wipe his sword on a fallen body, then sheath it in its scabbard.
            “What shall we do with the bodies, Highness?”  Feenix noted that the voice held respect and a good measure of fear.
            “Let the sun and the birds have them.  Throw them from the cliffs.”
            L’Garn adjusted Feenix more firmly on his shoulder, and resumed his journey deeper into the hold of Cragimore.  Behind him, she heard whispers and chatter, but she didn’t doubt his orders would be obeyed.
            During the melee, her hair had become even more wild and free.  She felt him try to gather it and pull it back over her body.  He tucked it under his arm holding her legs and continued walking as if he hadn’t just killed at least two opponents and carried her for miles up steep cliffs and through stone caverns.  All without working up more than a light sweat.
            The man may be only a half elf, but he had her attention.
            She croaked an involuntary chuckle, and was surprised that her stomach muscles obeyed her brain’s command to tighten and bounce.  She was thrilled to realize she could control the movement of her head against his back.  She blinked and her mouth twitched in a sudden grin.  She was beginning to regain control of her muscles.  Now, if she could just find a weapon …
            “I see my spell is beginning to wear off,” L’Garn said as he moved even faster.  “No matter.  We will be in the slave hold soon.”
            “Damn you, Mac Lir,” she yelled silently.  “Can’t you even grant me the slim chance of escape?”  In her imagination she heard a deep rumbling laugh.  The god had a strange sense of humor.
            Before she could regain control of the rest of her muscles, he stopped and swung her off his shoulder onto what felt like a pallet on the floor.  She remained limp enough to offer no resistance to the maneuver.  Or the wall where her shoulder came to rest.
            Without warning, he tugged the cloth from her eyes, and she blinked like an owl from the torch glare in the room.  Feenix was mortified that her eyes decided to resume their complete function at that exact moment.  Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks, washing the sand away, and easing the dryness.  He wiped a pool of moisture away with the pad of his thumb.
            “I will send someone in with clothing.  I will be back later to instruct you in your duties.”
            The half elf turned from her and left the room, leaving the torch, and closing the door behind him.  She heard the doom of a heavy wooden beam as it dropped into place on the other side of the door, sealing her in the cell.

*     *     *

            The rage eating at L’Garn was slow to subside.  He had been worried he would lose complete control as he carried his captive from the skirmish in the gathering hall.  But he made it to the slave quarters without encountering anyone else who would challenge him.
            Killing Karden had not appeased the beast inside.  Killing never did.  But while in the act of violence, the power and control over death became a sensual high.  There was beauty in death; the graceful thrust of shining steel; the burning power of mortal muscles; the crimson flow of fresh blood.  But the aftertaste of the rage left his head and heart pounding, and a deep ache in his gut.
            And then the guilt started.
            He should not feel remorse at killing an enemy.  He was the grandson of a king.  The great grandson of the greatest king in the history of Cragimore – Meedrion!  The warrior king who single-handedly slew the hated Leondrilik of Shalridoor.  He was bred for strength, stamina and war.  It was all he ever knew.  To feel shame for the bloodlust in him only proved that Karden was right.
            He was an Outbreed.  His tainted human blood prevented him from being a true Night Elf, worthy of the title, Prince, and the respect of his people.  He would never measure up to his heritage, but he tried.
            By the gods, how he tried.
            L’Garn was surprised to find he had reached the main slave quarters without remembering how he got there.  He ordered a set of house garments to be given to the woman in the cell, and arranged for the old slave woman, Lala, to deliver them.
            He enjoyed thinking about the naked spitfire waiting in the holding cell.  The spell should be all but worn off by now.  He did not envy Lala the greeting she would receive when she arrived with the garments for his captive.  He was sure the woman’s tongue would flay the white hair off Lala’s head.  But the new woman would soon learn obedience and how to keep a civil tongue in her head.  It was merely a matter of training.
            Of course, a name needed to be chose for her.  Something light and feminine, L’Garn thought, to fit her character.  Something like, “Holi” or “Teela.”  He would see to it personally, so as to be assured of just the right name for her.
            Sembali had no talent for names, and if he didn’t name the woman himself, his grandfather would devise something.  No, he would not leave it to chance, or the king.
            When he was small, he had captured a baby rabbit and wanted to make a pet of it.  Zimpher had allowed him to keep it, but insisted he name it.  L’Garn had agreed, anticipating the joy of having a pet, a friend, all to himself.  He would have agreed to anything.
            Zimpher named the animal Roast, and insisted everyone call the pet by the ridiculous name.
            Roast had been L’Garn’s constant companion.  It followed the young boy all over the caverns, coming when called, and even relieving itself in a special area easy to keep clean.  It did not matter that the other boys ridiculed the young L’Garn for being odd and keeping a pet rabbit; it was worth the snide comments, insults and hidden punches and kicks.  He had a real, living being that loved him, and relied upon him for protection and survival.
            One day, Roast did not come when L’Garn called.  He searched everywhere, but he could not find his friend.
            That night, the royal cook served roast rabbit for dinner.  L’Garn had vomited all over the china and crystal, in front of the entire court.
            As the adult prince relived the humiliating memory there outside the slave quarters, his palms became damp and his stomach clenched with dread.  It had only taken three days of beatings for him to learn how to eat roast rabbit without regurgitating.  It was merely a matter of training.
            A royal prince should never disgrace his title, family or heritage.  The young prince had vowed he never would again.
            L’Garn shook his head to clear the old images, and hurried to his quarters.  He had to clean himself before paying his respects to his mother.  She would be expecting him to stop in and visit, no matter the severity of her illness.  The drugs and spells had become second nature to her for the past hundred years, and only L’Garn could charm her out of her fitful moods.
            The new slave and the choosing of her name would have to wait for a while.  Sembali needed him.
           

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

CHAPTER ONE





            Feenix’ head rose above the churning waves.  She spat out a mouthful of salty water, struggled awkwardly to her feet and waded ashore.  The water-worn rocks bit her bare feet and provided no purchase for her unsteady gait.
            Dawn washed the coast in golden-red hues as it broke over the towering cliffs.  The world was on fire with the sun’s glory.  Gulls wheeled overhead screaming their hunger for the new day.  Feenix’ belly rumbled in agreement.
            Brushing dripping wet hair from her eyes, she scanned the boulder-strewn beach anxiously.  Time was of the essence, and she had none to waste.  Many lives depended on her returning to Shalridoor before the noon meal.
            “Where did that elf put my clothes?”
            The sun’s rays promised to blister her tender flesh if she didn’t cover her exposed skin soon.  The sea breeze raised chill bumps all along her body, but it would be no match for the full power of the Tylana sun.
            Searching the shoreline for a flutter of material, she couldn’t find her belongings.  She looked west and then east, noting the position of the sun and the cliffs.  Rarely was her sense of direction wrong.  Her irritation increased as she realized she was wasting valuable time.
            “By the god’s right toe, I’ll fillet that priest and his brother as soon as I find my clothes, if I have to hunt them down forever!”  She threw a fist-sized rock and it exploded against a boulder.  “I have a war to lead, and I need my gear!”
            The ocean breeze dried the sea from her naked body, puckering her nipples and sending goose bumps chasing each other as she scanned the shadows.  Her teeth chattered a counterpoint to the wash of the waves against the rocks.
            The feeling of being totally vulnerable and assailable should an enemy happen along made Feenix jittery.  Not that she couldn’t protect herself, even in her state of undress.  She was Feenix of Port Marcus, Captain of the High Priest’s Guard of Sasheena, after all.  But by the god’s left eye, she hated feeling so exposed.
            She lifted her eyes to the cliffs then scanned the shoreline at their feet, and could see nothing more dangerous than two gulls fighting over a bit of fish.  Again her stomach rumbled.
            “Why didn’t I eat that fish when I had the chance?”
            It was going to be a glorious day, but the sun hadn’t yet touched the boulders tossed across the beach.  As she searched among the rocks for her missing gear, the shadows thrown by the cliffs made the area seem like twilight rather than day.  She didn’t know which was worse, the chill of the shadows or the expected heat of the sun.  Either way, she would combat the elements better if she had her blasted clothes on!
            “Mac Lir, you son of a sea whore,” she screamed at the sea.  “The very least you can do since I had no choice in your cursed Change, is show me where those damned elves left my clothes!”
            She thought she heard the god laugh at her, but it was merely the distant cry of the gulls.  She picked up another rock and threw it at one of the birds dancing in the waves.  The gull easily avoided the missile and few away, screaming a protest.
            Feenix hated every aspect of the Change, but especially this part when she was naked and exposed to the world while she hunted for clothing and weapons.  The feeling of being out of control was intolerable.  The fact that Mac Lir’s high priest, Rendolin, knew about the Change was almost more than she could endure.  It seemed as if Mac Lir couldn’t wait to pass this little tidbit of Feenix’ weakness on to the elf.
            Rendolin’s brother, Thelorin, also needed to know about her disability because he was the leader of the Sea Elves.  But if they ever told another living soul, Feenix swore she’d have their livers for dinner.
            She had no control over the Change.  Once a month, during a waning crescent moon, the warrior woman would magically transform into the graceful shape of a dolphin.  It happened regardless of where she was at the time, and that could be dangerous.  And terrifying.
            Some years back, when she had first been afflicted with the god’s curse, she’d been stationed in the middle of a desert training raw recruits, when the warnings of the Change made themselves known to her.  If she hadn’t stolen a Teleportation medallion from the barracks’ priest, she’d be bleached bones right now.  No one would have been able to explain a dead dolphin in the middle of a desert, or where the drill commander had gotten to.
            “Blasted god,” she swore as she continued to search the crevices and rocks for her missing outfit.  She turned and glared out to the sea and the wind whipped her long black hair around her like a legendary medusa come to life.
            “You think you’re so damned smart, don’t you, Mac Lir?  Just because I refused to bow down and worship you, you had to go and curse me with this Change!  Well, it won’t work, you sorry excuse for a god!”
            She shook her fist at the crashing waves, and it seemed as thought the gulls mocked her with their cries.
            “As soon as this blasted war is over with the Night Elves, I’m going to take my share of the bounty and find me a sorcerer of great power to remove this curse!”
            She turned her back to the sea and stepped heavily around the rocks tumbled in her path.
            “Feenix of Port Marcus worships who and what she wants, and nobody – least of all YOU – is going to tell me differently!”  She tripped over a lose rock, but caught herself before pitching face first into the sand.
            “To hell with you, Mac Lir!  And to hell with your cause!  If I ever get myself some clothes again, you and your precious silvan children have seen the last of Captain Feenix!”
            Expecting no reply, she continued on with her task of locating her things.  At least the effort of the search warmed her muscles and kept the early morning chill at bay.
            “Damned elves were supposed to leave my clothing and weapons in the crack of the largest boulder!  They promised they would not fail me.”  She shook her head in disgust.  “That priest, Rendolin, is probably still abed with his new bonded mate.  If she has anything to say about the matter, I’ll be hiking home in nothing more than blistered skin!”
            Panting a bit from her angry search, Feenix climbed up on a smooth boulder, hoping to spot something from the higher perspective.  She gathered her long hair in her hands, and tried to run her fingers through the thick mass, but the seawater was sticky and the strands clung together in tangled black ropes.  Twisting the strands, she wrung as much salty water as she could from the thick mass.
            “Don’t even have a blasted pin to put up my hair!  I must look like a damned Port Marcus whore!”  Lifting her head, she again yelled to the silent sea, “And it’s all your fault, you miserable god!”
            Feenix would rather face ten goblins with battle axes and pikes than admit to herself that she was on the brink of tears.  That’s what the Change did to her; reduced her to a blithering female idiot concerned about how she looked and who was going to see her.  If she didn’t get a grip on herself, she’d start hoping for someone to come along and rescue her.
            “Ha!  That has about as much chance of happening as a Night Elf has of loving his mother!”
            She shook out the long tresses and draped them over her back and shoulders.  They made a sort of curtain that would conceal most of her body from the rising sun and any prying eyes.  Not that there was anyone to see, of course, she fumed.  But the wet strands gave her a false sense of protection, which was somewhat comforting.
            She scanned the beach from her perch, hoping she had missed something.  Neither a flutter of cloth, nor a glint of steel met her gaze.  Did she have the wrong cove?
            “Impossible!  My sense of direction’s never failed me.  Those elves are probably lost!”
            By the position of the sun, morning was coming on fast, and she had to get back to the ruins of Shalridoor soon.  It was dangerous to be out without her weapons, although the danger from the Night Elves was slim to non.  They could not stand the light of the sun and only raided during the night.
            For the past two weeks Feenix and the band of Sea Elves from the magical island of Sasheena had been reclaiming the ancient, ruined city of Shalridoor from the wilderness and sea, while simultaneously planning a ware against the hated Night Elves.  Preparations for the attack were almost complete, and she needed to be there to lead the offensive.
            “By Mac Lir’s beard,” she swore.  “I suppose I’d better get moving or my skin will burn to a crisp just sitting here waiting for those elves to show up with my gear.”  She dusted a layer of fine sand from her hands.  “Although I have half a mind to walk away and leave those high and mighty elves to their own incompetence!”
            As she rose, she heard a soft whirling sound to her right.  Her war-honed senses creaming a warning, Feenix crouched and reached for a sword that was no longer strapped to her side.  She had time to see the face of her attacker before a rank fishing net dropped over her head.
            Branded in her mind were ice-blue eyes glaring with an inner fire; a strong nose above firm lips pulled back in a sneer of contempt; and cropped black hair exposing ears tipped as only a silvan’s could be.  But it was the lean, pale face that held her in shock.  This elf wore a trim, dark beard along a jutting jaw line.  No elf she had ever seen had facial hair.
            She raised her arms and ducked to ward off the entrapping mesh, but was caught fast in the net.
            “Oh, damn!”

*     *     *

            L’Garn ordered his men back to Cragimore.  The sun was due to come up shortly and they would be no use to him then.  Night Elves could not survive long in the sun.  He, on the other hand, was an outbreed – one who had human blood running through his veins, polluting his silvan heritage.  While he did not like the sun, he could tolerate it for short periods.
            His men obeyed without the usual resistance and slightly veiled disrespect that always accompanied an order from him.  It seemed they did not want to be caught in the deadly rays of the sun.
            The only reason they followed him, L’Garn knew, was because he was the royal prince.  His grandfather would have them staked in the sun and whipped if their insolence ever came to his ancient, royal ears.  L’Garn himself would rather be staked on his back, naked in the sun with his eyelids removed than tell King Zimpher that his grandson could not control the few men in his command.  No, L’Garn would continue to ignore his men’s defiance as long as they eventually obeyed him and did their jobs.
            The dawn was just breaking, but the cove would be in partial shadow for another hour or so.  As long as the rays of the sun did not touch him directly, he could survive the daylight without much inconvenience.  He had plenty of time to do some reconnoitering before going home.  He was in no hurry.
            It was not often he was able to get away from the crowded conditions of Cragimore.  Rarer still was the opportunity to be alone for any length of time.  His duties as a royal prince prohibited a luxury like solitude.  His allegiance to the throne was an effective chain, keeping him from leaving and satisfying his curiosity about his tainted blood.  His human heritage.
            He forced his mind away from such forbidden thoughts, and found a comfortable spot below the rim of the cliff, where he could watch the beach and ocean without being observed.  While L’Garn did not expect to see anyone, it was always wise to prepare for the worst.
            One of the scouting parties returned yester eve and reported that a band of Sea Elves were living in the ruins of Shalridoor, which lay east of Cragimore on the coast.  Zimpher was almost insane with rage at the news, sure that the sea scum had been eradicated all those years ago.
            Many fine Night Elves had lost their lives during that time, including their great King, Meedrion.  But L’Garn’s people had been victorious in the end, enslaving many of their enemies, and killing the rest.  They had not had to deal with that menace for a long time.  Before L’Garn’s own birth, in fact.
            If the scouts’ reports were correct, it looked like another war was in the making.  Perhaps he would be able to prove to his grandfather, and the rest of the people of Cragimore that his tainted blood did not mean he was worthless and beneath contempt.  After all, the blood of his royal mother, Sembali, flowed through his veins just as much as the hated human blood.  That had to count for something.
            His wandering thoughts were abruptly interrupted as a woman stood in the waves and scrambled out of the surf.  Where had she come from?  He had not noticed anyone swimming in the swelling waves.
            The woman’s long black hair picked up the rays of the morning sun and glistened like wet obsidian.  The black tresses reached past her knees, blanketing her complete body from his gaze, but as she moved, attractive glimpses of smooth flesh captivated him.  Enticing mounds of creamy flesh, tipped with dusky nipples, peeked from behind the dark curtain of hair, and his muscles suddenly tightened.
            All thoughts of war and Sea Elves left his head as he pondered this unusual sight.
            At first glimpse he thought perhaps she was a mermaid, stranded on the shore.  But as she made her awkward way out of the water, he could see that she had a pair of long and lovely legs, well muscled and strong.
            Not a mermaid then.  Perhaps a selkie?  But there was no evidence of seals around the cove.
            “By the jewels!  Could it be a Sea Elf, delivered into my hands by some fickle god?”
            He heard her shout and watched her throw a rock against a large boulder.  The smaller rock crashed against the larger, exploding into tiny pieces and dust.  She certainly did not sound like a magical being.  Or very silvan-like.
            She turned and scanned the feet of the cliff where he lay hidden, looking for the gods only knew what.  It was the first clear glimpse of her L’Garn had.  With his keen elfin sight, he could see that her eyes were a startling blue; not the pale ice of his own, but neither the deep, jewel tones of a fine sapphire gem.  Rather, their color was something in between.
            Her full lips had a petulant set to them, but he had no doubt they would be soft and sweet if he were to taste them.  And he suddenly had a need to lick the salt of the sea from that mouth.
            The woman’s square chin and full features disproved his Sea Elf theory.  Even without seeing her ears, he knew this firebrand was a human.  There could be no other explanation.
            At the thought of the word, ‘human’, L’Garn’s heart lurched, and a deep ache he never felt before spread through his chest.  He almost doubled over with its intensity.
            What would it be like to talk to a human?  To be able to observe one in close quarters?  The need to know was a thudding ache in his chest.
            L’Garn watched her duck behind a boulder, then emerge on the other side, swearing and yelling at no one.  She raised her fist and shook it towards the sea; his lips twitched.  It was obvious her people had abandoned her, probably as some punishment for a crime.  Her fit of temper showed she had no self control.
            Perhaps she was an unfaithful mate and her male had dumped her here at the mercy of the sea and the elements.  L’Garn had heard stories about humans and their strange customs of fidelity and morality.  Although it was obvious their loyalty did not include elves.  His mother was proof of that.  Yes, that had to be it; abandoned and left to die.  Why else would someone dump such a lovely female without a stitch of clothing?
            He shook his head as if to clear it from so many unanswered questions.  It did not matter why she was there alone on the beach.  It did not matter that she was a human, or a Sea Elf.  The only thing that mattered was that she could have valuable information that he, L’Garn, would use.  His grandfather would be grateful.
            He would enjoy interrogating her, even if she proved to be resistant to his questions.  There were always ways of learning what one wanted to know.  After he had picked her brain clean of any useful bits of information, perhaps he could find another use for her.  Sembali would celebrate her birth night soon.  A new slave would be a welcome addition to her household.  His mother’s household was conveniently close to his own chambers.
            L’Garn licked his dry lips and began a silent descent from his hiding place to the beach below.
*     *     *

            “Get this damned thing off me!”
            Using her most intimidating tone, Feenix ordered the man as if he were one of her recruits.  Trouble was, he didn’t respond like one.
            Her captor ignored her as he drew a thin cord from one of the many pouches around his waist.
            “Did you hear me?  I said release me, immediately!”
            He shook out the cord and, using a thin dagger from his boot, cut off a length about as long as his arm.
            Through the net’s mesh Feenix couldn’t help but notice that the arm he used to measure the rope was firm and very muscular.  It looked like the arm of a warrior.
            She watched as he tucked the unused portion of the cord back into his pouch, and then calmly coiled the smaller length into a palm-sized circle.  He looked up towards the cliffs and seemed to be measuring, or considering, some great problem.  Still without a glance her way, he hunkered down on his thighs, balancing on his toes.  He reached down and began to draw circles in the soft sand.
            “Hey!  Are you deaf?  What are you going to do with me,” she shouted, trying again to push the netting over her head.  The more she moved, the more tangled she became in the cording.  Bits of long dead fish flaked off where they had stuck to the net, and fell on her shoulders and feet.
            She jumped to the side to try to dislodge a crusty fin from her foot, and land on her bottom.  A rock protruding from the sand jarred her tailbone, causing agonizing pain to her lower back.
            She screamed in frustration, anger and pain, and still the elf-man drew circles with his long fingers.
            She managed to roll to her hands and knees, but the net was wrapped even more firmly around her, pulling her hair and rubbing against her unprotected skin.
            “Are you just going to sit there all day, or do you have something in mind for me?”  His finger never stopped its methodic circles.  “Come over here so I can look at you before I kill you!”
            He sprinkled something blue and glowing over the pattern he had been making.
            “If you were half a man, you’d release me and let me go!”
            His pale blue eyes never left the sand in front of him.
            “I’m no threat to you.  What, but Mac Lir’s ears, do you want with me?”
            “Much.”  His voice seemed rusty and unused, as if he rarely spoke.  As he continued drawing in the sand, Feenix felt her anger and frustration reach a new high.
            “What the hell are you doing in the sand?  Are you an idiot that you play like a child at the beach?  Release me right now so I can knock some brains into your head!”
            “Be still,” he ordered.  “I must concentrate.”
            “Don’t give me orders, fool,” she yelled, barely able to keep from toppling over again as she moved towards him.  “Do you know who you are speaking to?  Obviously not,” she answered her own question.  “If you did, you’d understand the world of trouble you’re going to be in as soon as I get out of this damned net!”
            “You speak too much.  It is obvious that your mate abandoned you to the sea because he was tired of your grating voice.”
            “By the god’s brass balls,” she sputtered.  “Nobody talks to me like that!  Give me a dagger.  Your death will be swift and very painful!”
            He finally looked up from the sand and gazed calmly into her stormy eyes.  “Now who is the fool?”
            Feenix couldn’t believe it.  How could she have dropped her defenses long enough to have this … this male! sneak up on her and capture her with a stinking net?  Who the hell did he think he was?
            “Who the hell do you think you are?”  She took a faltering step towards him, trying to get out of the sun that was steadily taking over the entire cove.  The only place of refuge from the burning rays was the shadows where her captor drew in the sand.
            “Where did you come from and why do you have ears like a stinking elf and a beard like a real man?”
            A change came over his face, etching marble-like lines into his already stern and hard expression.  He narrowed his icy eyes and a hood seemed to drop over them, as if he were trying to hide from her gaze.  But she was rocked to her soul at the pain and misery she thought she saw there, a second before his expression became as blank as a stonewall.  She lost her balance and landed with a plop in the soft, hot sand.
            She tried to stand again, but the net wouldn’t let her, so she decided to try to get comfortable.  Besides, she needed a moment or two to erase from her mind the pain she thought she saw in his face.
            Fine.  She would bide her time and when he came to release her from the net, she’d use some of the skills she’d learned over the years.  Given half the chance, Feenix was capable of killing a man with her bare hands.
            She flexed her fingers in anticipation of putting them around his throat.  She looked to where he hunkered in the sand, and wondered if he was ever going to come close enough for her to get her hands on him.
            She thought she detected a faint scent of lemon as he returned to his scribbling in the sand.  Her mind must be playing tricks on her.  The only smell she was fully conscious of was the sun-dried fish from her corded prison.
            “Patience, girl,” she said to herself.  “He’s giving you an opportunity to study your enemy.  Wait.  Watch.  Learn where his weakness is.  Then when the opportunity comes, kill him!”
            Forcing herself into the familiar battle-ready breathing exercises, she slowed her breathing and watched, making mental notes of his slightest movement.
            She had to look past the interesting face, past the wide shoulders and muscular chest, bare except for a leather vest, open to the ocean breeze and her gaze.  She must ignore the trim waist and firm thighs where his arms rested easily, as if he were playing a childhood game and had all the time in the world.  Ignore the fact that the thought of those ice-blue eyes looking at her again caused her pulse to race and her mouth to go dry.  It was merely the bloodlust in her, preparing for battle.
            She forced her brain to concentrate.   Look.  Learn.
            The first thing she noticed was that while he gave the impression of ignoring her, he was in actuality acutely aware of her struggles and movements.  The involuntary clenching of his jaw; the minuscule quirk of an eyebrow; even the slight flare of his nostrils when she moved all told the story.  He was watching her very closely.
            What did he want?  Was he waiting for her to tire herself out before lifting the net?  Well, he could wait until Mac Lir stopped in for a bite to eat!  Feenix knew how to conserve her strength.
            She knew how to watch and wait.  She had the patience of a great cat stalking its prey.  The strength of ten fighting men, and the stamina of a rock troll.  She would just make herself comfortable here in the sand, with the sun’s rays beating down on her and she would show him just how strong and patient Captain Feenix of Port Marcus could be.
            It didn’t matter that the sand and pebbles were beginning to bite into her exposed flesh.  She was a warrior and could put such annoyances far from her mind.  Had she not trained for hours in the searing heat of the Great Tylana Desert until her arms ached and quivered with the pain of wielding fifty pounds of iron, thrusting into the quintain over and over again?  Had she not survived the attack of thirty hobgoblins in the marshes of Siravo, taking seven arrows and never once murmuring at the pain?
            She blinked once.
            The smell of dead fish in the hot sun was stomach turning.  She forced her churning belly to obey her command and subside.  Had she not headed up a burial detail to dispose of the bloated remains of a trader caravan in that same desert, and never once flinched at the flies, maggots and smell of blood and exploded entrails?
            Her elbow discovered a shell.  A moving shell.  A hermit crab crawled across her forearm.  Like a reddish-brown spotted spider.
            “By the god’s hold beard!” she screamed and doubled her efforts to stand.  “If you don’t release me at once, I will kill you where you stand!”
            This time her struggles were rewarded.  Pulling herself up beside the boulder, Feenix was able to gain her feet, although the net kept her from stretching to her full height.
            The man took a great breath of air and released it in a long, steady sigh.  He continued to mark the sand.  Again the faint scent of lemon wafted to her.
            “Aaiieee!” she yelled.  “You must be deaf, although with those ears I don’t know how you could be!”
            A soft sound came from between the man’s lips, slow and melodic.  The circles in the sand continued to multiply.
            “Who are you?”
            The sound from his throat grew a notch.  The scent of lemon intensified.
            “WHAT are you?”
            The man’s finger stopped.  His body became still as a stone.  As she held her breath, he raised his head and those ice blue eyes pierced her with a glare that brought to mind lightening.
            Then she knew.
            “By the god’s left ear lobe,” she mocked.  The wind carried her words around the cove and to the cliffs.  “You ARE half a man!”  Her laughter made her stomach clench for some strange reason.  “You’re a damned half elf!”
            She watched his eyes flicker, and a deep pink flush rose from his neck to fill his face with color.  She wasn’t sure if it was from anger or shame.  Slowly he stood, his left hand clenched.
            “That tongue of yours will be the first thing to go, once you are inside Cragimore.”
            The timber of his voice touched a chord deep inside her, but she ignored the sensation, thinking it was a finger of dread racing down her soul.
            “If I go into the stronghold of those filthy Night Elves, it won’t be a social call, elf-man!”
            He raised his arm.  “You have no choice.  You are now my slave.”  He tossed the sand in her direction and uttered a strange word.
            “You bastard!” she yelled, as the full scent of lemon reached her on the breeze.  “Magic!”
            Feenix of Port Marcus slipped to the ground in a lifeless heap.
            L’Garn walked to the boulder and, with a quick flick of his hand and word of Power, easily released the woman from the net.  Upon closer inspection he could see she was indeed a human and not an elf.  No matter.  His mother would still receive a new slave for her birth night.  And perhaps the new slave knew something of the Sea Elves.
            Without wasting any more time, he bound her hands behind her back, then picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.










CHAPTER ONE


            Feenix’ head rose above the churning waves.  She spat out a mouthful of salty water, struggled awkwardly to her feet and waded ashore.  The water-worn rocks bit her bare feet and provided no purchase for her unsteady gait.
            Dawn washed the coast in golden-red hues as it broke over the towering cliffs.  The world was on fire with the sun’s glory.  Gulls wheeled overhead screaming their hunger for the new day.  Feenix’ belly rumbled in agreement.
            Brushing dripping wet hair from her eyes, she scanned the boulder-strewn beach anxiously.  Time was of the essence, and she had none to waste.  Many lives depended on her returning to Shalridoor before the noon meal.
            “Where did that elf put my clothes?”
            The sun’s rays promised to blister her tender flesh if she didn’t cover her exposed skin soon.  The sea breeze raised chill bumps all along her body, but it would be no match for the full power of the Tylana sun.
            Searching the shoreline for a flutter of material, she couldn’t find her belongings.  She looked west and then east, noting the position of the sun and the cliffs.  Rarely was her sense of direction wrong.  Her irritation increased as she realized she was wasting valuable time.
            “By the god’s right toe, I’ll fillet that priest and his brother as soon as I find my clothes, if I have to hunt them down forever!”  She threw a fist-sized rock and it exploded against a boulder.  “I have a war to lead, and I need my gear!”
            The ocean breeze dried the sea from her naked body, puckering her nipples and sending goose bumps chasing each other as she scanned the shadows.  Her teeth chattered a counterpoint to the wash of the waves against the rocks.
            The feeling of being totally vulnerable and assailable should an enemy happen along made Feenix jittery.  Not that she couldn’t protect herself, even in her state of undress.  She was Feenix of Port Marcus, Captain of the High Priest’s Guard of Sasheena, after all.  But by the god’s left eye, she hated feeling so exposed.
            She lifted her eyes to the cliffs then scanned the shoreline at their feet, and could see nothing more dangerous than two gulls fighting over a bit of fish.  Again her stomach rumbled.
            “Why didn’t I eat that fish when I had the chance?”
            It was going to be a glorious day, but the sun hadn’t yet touched the boulders tossed across the beach.  As she searched among the rocks for her missing gear, the shadows thrown by the cliffs made the area seem like twilight rather than day.  She didn’t know which was worse, the chill of the shadows or the expected heat of the sun.  Either way, she would combat the elements better if she had her blasted clothes on!
            “Mac Lir, you son of a sea whore,” she screamed at the sea.  “The very least you can do since I had no choice in your cursed Change, is show me where those damned elves left my clothes!”
            She thought she heard the god laugh at her, but it was merely the distant cry of the gulls.  She picked up another rock and threw it at one of the birds dancing in the waves.  The gull easily avoided the missile and few away, screaming a protest.
            Feenix hated every aspect of the Change, but especially this part when she was naked and exposed to the world while she hunted for clothing and weapons.  The feeling of being out of control was intolerable.  The fact that Mac Lir’s high priest, Rendolin, knew about the Change was almost more than she could endure.  It seemed as if Mac Lir couldn’t wait to pass this little tidbit of Feenix’ weakness on to the elf.
            Rendolin’s brother, Thelorin, also needed to know about her disability because he was the leader of the Sea Elves.  But if they ever told another living soul, Feenix swore she’d have their livers for dinner.
            She had no control over the Change.  Once a month, during a waning crescent moon, the warrior woman would magically transform into the graceful shape of a dolphin.  It happened regardless of where she was at the time, and that could be dangerous.  And terrifying.
            Some years back, when she had first been afflicted with the god’s curse, she’d been stationed in the middle of a desert training raw recruits, when the warnings of the Change made themselves known to her.  If she hadn’t stolen a Teleportation medallion from the barracks’ priest, she’d be bleached bones right now.  No one would have been able to explain a dead dolphin in the middle of a desert, or where the drill commander had gotten to.
            “Blasted god,” she swore as she continued to search the crevices and rocks for her missing outfit.  She turned and glared out to the sea and the wind whipped her long black hair around her like a legendary medusa come to life.
            “You think you’re so damned smart, don’t you, Mac Lir?  Just because I refused to bow down and worship you, you had to go and curse me with this Change!  Well, it won’t work, you sorry excuse for a god!”
            She shook her fist at the crashing waves, and it seemed as thought the gulls mocked her with their cries.
            “As soon as this blasted war is over with the Night Elves, I’m going to take my share of the bounty and find me a sorcerer of great power to remove this curse!”
            She turned her back to the sea and stepped heavily around the rocks tumbled in her path.
            “Feenix of Port Marcus worships who and what she wants, and nobody – least of all YOU – is going to tell me differently!”  She tripped over a lose rock, but caught herself before pitching face first into the sand.
            “To hell with you, Mac Lir!  And to hell with your cause!  If I ever get myself some clothes again, you and your precious silvan children have seen the last of Captain Feenix!”
            Expecting no reply, she continued on with her task of locating her things.  At least the effort of the search warmed her muscles and kept the early morning chill at bay.
            “Damned elves were supposed to leave my clothing and weapons in the crack of the largest boulder!  They promised they would not fail me.”  She shook her head in disgust.  “That priest, Rendolin, is probably still abed with his new bonded mate.  If she has anything to say about the matter, I’ll be hiking home in nothing more than blistered skin!”
            Panting a bit from her angry search, Feenix climbed up on a smooth boulder, hoping to spot something from the higher perspective.  She gathered her long hair in her hands, and tried to run her fingers through the thick mass, but the seawater was sticky and the strands clung together in tangled black ropes.  Twisting the strands, she wrung as much salty water as she could from the thick mass.
            “Don’t even have a blasted pin to put up my hair!  I must look like a damned Port Marcus whore!”  Lifting her head, she again yelled to the silent sea, “And it’s all your fault, you miserable god!”
            Feenix would rather face ten goblins with battle axes and pikes than admit to herself that she was on the brink of tears.  That’s what the Change did to her; reduced her to a blithering female idiot concerned about how she looked and who was going to see her.  If she didn’t get a grip on herself, she’d start hoping for someone to come along and rescue her.
            “Ha!  That has about as much chance of happening as a Night Elf has of loving his mother!”
            She shook out the long tresses and draped them over her back and shoulders.  They made a sort of curtain that would conceal most of her body from the rising sun and any prying eyes.  Not that there was anyone to see, of course, she fumed.  But the wet strands gave her a false sense of protection, which was somewhat comforting.
            She scanned the beach from her perch, hoping she had missed something.  Neither a flutter of cloth, nor a glint of steel met her gaze.  Did she have the wrong cove?
            “Impossible!  My sense of direction’s never failed me.  Those elves are probably lost!”
            By the position of the sun, morning was coming on fast, and she had to get back to the ruins of Shalridoor soon.  It was dangerous to be out without her weapons, although the danger from the Night Elves was slim to non.  They could not stand the light of the sun and only raided during the night.
            For the past two weeks Feenix and the band of Sea Elves from the magical island of Sasheena had been reclaiming the ancient, ruined city of Shalridoor from the wilderness and sea, while simultaneously planning a ware against the hated Night Elves.  Preparations for the attack were almost complete, and she needed to be there to lead the offensive.
            “By Mac Lir’s beard,” she swore.  “I suppose I’d better get moving or my skin will burn to a crisp just sitting here waiting for those elves to show up with my gear.”  She dusted a layer of fine sand from her hands.  “Although I have half a mind to walk away and leave those high and mighty elves to their own incompetence!”
            As she rose, she heard a soft whirling sound to her right.  Her war-honed senses creaming a warning, Feenix crouched and reached for a sword that was no longer strapped to her side.  She had time to see the face of her attacker before a rank fishing net dropped over her head.
            Branded in her mind were ice-blue eyes glaring with an inner fire; a strong nose above firm lips pulled back in a sneer of contempt; and cropped black hair exposing ears tipped as only a silvan’s could be.  But it was the lean, pale face that held her in shock.  This elf wore a trim, dark beard along a jutting jaw line.  No elf she had ever seen had facial hair.
            She raised her arms and ducked to ward off the entrapping mesh, but was caught fast in the net.
            “Oh, damn!”

*     *     *

            L’Garn ordered his men back to Cragimore.  The sun was due to come up shortly and they would be no use to him then.  Night Elves could not survive long in the sun.  He, on the other hand, was an outbreed – one who had human blood running through his veins, polluting his silvan heritage.  While he did not like the sun, he could tolerate it for short periods.
            His men obeyed without the usual resistance and slightly veiled disrespect that always accompanied an order from him.  It seemed they did not want to be caught in the deadly rays of the sun.
            The only reason they followed him, L’Garn knew, was because he was the royal prince.  His grandfather would have them staked in the sun and whipped if their insolence ever came to his ancient, royal ears.  L’Garn himself would rather be staked on his back, naked in the sun with his eyelids removed than tell King Zimpher that his grandson could not control the few men in his command.  No, L’Garn would continue to ignore his men’s defiance as long as they eventually obeyed him and did their jobs.
            The dawn was just breaking, but the cove would be in partial shadow for another hour or so.  As long as the rays of the sun did not touch him directly, he could survive the daylight without much inconvenience.  He had plenty of time to do some reconnoitering before going home.  He was in no hurry.
            It was not often he was able to get away from the crowded conditions of Cragimore.  Rarer still was the opportunity to be alone for any length of time.  His duties as a royal prince prohibited a luxury like solitude.  His allegiance to the throne was an effective chain, keeping him from leaving and satisfying his curiosity about his tainted blood.  His human heritage.
            He forced his mind away from such forbidden thoughts, and found a comfortable spot below the rim of the cliff, where he could watch the beach and ocean without being observed.  While L’Garn did not expect to see anyone, it was always wise to prepare for the worst.
            One of the scouting parties returned yester eve and reported that a band of Sea Elves were living in the ruins of Shalridoor, which lay east of Cragimore on the coast.  Zimpher was almost insane with rage at the news, sure that the sea scum had been eradicated all those years ago.
            Many fine Night Elves had lost their lives during that time, including their great King, Meedrion.  But L’Garn’s people had been victorious in the end, enslaving many of their enemies, and killing the rest.  They had not had to deal with that menace for a long time.  Before L’Garn’s own birth, in fact.
            If the scouts’ reports were correct, it looked like another war was in the making.  Perhaps he would be able to prove to his grandfather, and the rest of the people of Cragimore that his tainted blood did not mean he was worthless and beneath contempt.  After all, the blood of his royal mother, Sembali, flowed through his veins just as much as the hated human blood.  That had to count for something.
            His wandering thoughts were abruptly interrupted as a woman stood in the waves and scrambled out of the surf.  Where had she come from?  He had not noticed anyone swimming in the swelling waves.
            The woman’s long black hair picked up the rays of the morning sun and glistened like wet obsidian.  The black tresses reached past her knees, blanketing her complete body from his gaze, but as she moved, attractive glimpses of smooth flesh captivated him.  Enticing mounds of creamy flesh, tipped with dusky nipples, peeked from behind the dark curtain of hair, and his muscles suddenly tightened.
            All thoughts of war and Sea Elves left his head as he pondered this unusual sight.
            At first glimpse he thought perhaps she was a mermaid, stranded on the shore.  But as she made her awkward way out of the water, he could see that she had a pair of long and lovely legs, well muscled and strong.
            Not a mermaid then.  Perhaps a selkie?  But there was no evidence of seals around the cove.
            “By the jewels!  Could it be a Sea Elf, delivered into my hands by some fickle god?”
            He heard her shout and watched her throw a rock against a large boulder.  The smaller rock crashed against the larger, exploding into tiny pieces and dust.  She certainly did not sound like a magical being.  Or very silvan-like.
            She turned and scanned the feet of the cliff where he lay hidden, looking for the gods only knew what.  It was the first clear glimpse of her L’Garn had.  With his keen elfin sight, he could see that her eyes were a startling blue; not the pale ice of his own, but neither the deep, jewel tones of a fine sapphire gem.  Rather, their color was something in between.
            Her full lips had a petulant set to them, but he had no doubt they would be soft and sweet if he were to taste them.  And he suddenly had a need to lick the salt of the sea from that mouth.
            The woman’s square chin and full features disproved his Sea Elf theory.  Even without seeing her ears, he knew this firebrand was a human.  There could be no other explanation.
            At the thought of the word, ‘human’, L’Garn’s heart lurched, and a deep ache he never felt before spread through his chest.  He almost doubled over with its intensity.
            What would it be like to talk to a human?  To be able to observe one in close quarters?  The need to know was a thudding ache in his chest.
            L’Garn watched her duck behind a boulder, then emerge on the other side, swearing and yelling at no one.  She raised her fist and shook it towards the sea; his lips twitched.  It was obvious her people had abandoned her, probably as some punishment for a crime.  Her fit of temper showed she had no self control.
            Perhaps she was an unfaithful mate and her male had dumped her here at the mercy of the sea and the elements.  L’Garn had heard stories about humans and their strange customs of fidelity and morality.  Although it was obvious their loyalty did not include elves.  His mother was proof of that.  Yes, that had to be it; abandoned and left to die.  Why else would someone dump such a lovely female without a stitch of clothing?
            He shook his head as if to clear it from so many unanswered questions.  It did not matter why she was there alone on the beach.  It did not matter that she was a human, or a Sea Elf.  The only thing that mattered was that she could have valuable information that he, L’Garn, would use.  His grandfather would be grateful.
            He would enjoy interrogating her, even if she proved to be resistant to his questions.  There were always ways of learning what one wanted to know.  After he had picked her brain clean of any useful bits of information, perhaps he could find another use for her.  Sembali would celebrate her birth night soon.  A new slave would be a welcome addition to her household.  His mother’s household was conveniently close to his own chambers.
            L’Garn licked his dry lips and began a silent descent from his hiding place to the beach below.
*     *     *

            “Get this damned thing off me!”
            Using her most intimidating tone, Feenix ordered the man as if he were one of her recruits.  Trouble was, he didn’t respond like one.
            Her captor ignored her as he drew a thin cord from one of the many pouches around his waist.
            “Did you hear me?  I said release me, immediately!”
            He shook out the cord and, using a thin dagger from his boot, cut off a length about as long as his arm.
            Through the net’s mesh Feenix couldn’t help but notice that the arm he used to measure the rope was firm and very muscular.  It looked like the arm of a warrior.
            She watched as he tucked the unused portion of the cord back into his pouch, and then calmly coiled the smaller length into a palm-sized circle.  He looked up towards the cliffs and seemed to be measuring, or considering, some great problem.  Still without a glance her way, he hunkered down on his thighs, balancing on his toes.  He reached down and began to draw circles in the soft sand.
            “Hey!  Are you deaf?  What are you going to do with me,” she shouted, trying again to push the netting over her head.  The more she moved, the more tangled she became in the cording.  Bits of long dead fish flaked off where they had stuck to the net, and fell on her shoulders and feet.
            She jumped to the side to try to dislodge a crusty fin from her foot, and land on her bottom.  A rock protruding from the sand jarred her tailbone, causing agonizing pain to her lower back.
            She screamed in frustration, anger and pain, and still the elf-man drew circles with his long fingers.
            She managed to roll to her hands and knees, but the net was wrapped even more firmly around her, pulling her hair and rubbing against her unprotected skin.
            “Are you just going to sit there all day, or do you have something in mind for me?”  His finger never stopped its methodic circles.  “Come over here so I can look at you before I kill you!”
            He sprinkled something blue and glowing over the pattern he had been making.
            “If you were half a man, you’d release me and let me go!”
            His pale blue eyes never left the sand in front of him.
            “I’m no threat to you.  What, but Mac Lir’s ears, do you want with me?”
            “Much.”  His voice seemed rusty and unused, as if he rarely spoke.  As he continued drawing in the sand, Feenix felt her anger and frustration reach a new high.
            “What the hell are you doing in the sand?  Are you an idiot that you play like a child at the beach?  Release me right now so I can knock some brains into your head!”
            “Be still,” he ordered.  “I must concentrate.”
            “Don’t give me orders, fool,” she yelled, barely able to keep from toppling over again as she moved towards him.  “Do you know who you are speaking to?  Obviously not,” she answered her own question.  “If you did, you’d understand the world of trouble you’re going to be in as soon as I get out of this damned net!”
            “You speak too much.  It is obvious that your mate abandoned you to the sea because he was tired of your grating voice.”
            “By the god’s brass balls,” she sputtered.  “Nobody talks to me like that!  Give me a dagger.  Your death will be swift and very painful!”
            He finally looked up from the sand and gazed calmly into her stormy eyes.  “Now who is the fool?”
            Feenix couldn’t believe it.  How could she have dropped her defenses long enough to have this … this male! sneak up on her and capture her with a stinking net?  Who the hell did he think he was?
            “Who the hell do you think you are?”  She took a faltering step towards him, trying to get out of the sun that was steadily taking over the entire cove.  The only place of refuge from the burning rays was the shadows where her captor drew in the sand.
            “Where did you come from and why do you have ears like a stinking elf and a beard like a real man?”
            A change came over his face, etching marble-like lines into his already stern and hard expression.  He narrowed his icy eyes and a hood seemed to drop over them, as if he were trying to hide from her gaze.  But she was rocked to her soul at the pain and misery she thought she saw there, a second before his expression became as blank as a stonewall.  She lost her balance and landed with a plop in the soft, hot sand.
            She tried to stand again, but the net wouldn’t let her, so she decided to try to get comfortable.  Besides, she needed a moment or two to erase from her mind the pain she thought she saw in his face.
            Fine.  She would bide her time and when he came to release her from the net, she’d use some of the skills she’d learned over the years.  Given half the chance, Feenix was capable of killing a man with her bare hands.
            She flexed her fingers in anticipation of putting them around his throat.  She looked to where he hunkered in the sand, and wondered if he was ever going to come close enough for her to get her hands on him.
            She thought she detected a faint scent of lemon as he returned to his scribbling in the sand.  Her mind must be playing tricks on her.  The only smell she was fully conscious of was the sun-dried fish from her corded prison.
            “Patience, girl,” she said to herself.  “He’s giving you an opportunity to study your enemy.  Wait.  Watch.  Learn where his weakness is.  Then when the opportunity comes, kill him!”
            Forcing herself into the familiar battle-ready breathing exercises, she slowed her breathing and watched, making mental notes of his slightest movement.
            She had to look past the interesting face, past the wide shoulders and muscular chest, bare except for a leather vest, open to the ocean breeze and her gaze.  She must ignore the trim waist and firm thighs where his arms rested easily, as if he were playing a childhood game and had all the time in the world.  Ignore the fact that the thought of those ice-blue eyes looking at her again caused her pulse to race and her mouth to go dry.  It was merely the bloodlust in her, preparing for battle.
            She forced her brain to concentrate.   Look.  Learn.
            The first thing she noticed was that while he gave the impression of ignoring her, he was in actuality acutely aware of her struggles and movements.  The involuntary clenching of his jaw; the minuscule quirk of an eyebrow; even the slight flare of his nostrils when she moved all told the story.  He was watching her very closely.
            What did he want?  Was he waiting for her to tire herself out before lifting the net?  Well, he could wait until Mac Lir stopped in for a bite to eat!  Feenix knew how to conserve her strength.
            She knew how to watch and wait.  She had the patience of a great cat stalking its prey.  The strength of ten fighting men, and the stamina of a rock troll.  She would just make herself comfortable here in the sand, with the sun’s rays beating down on her and she would show him just how strong and patient Captain Feenix of Port Marcus could be.
            It didn’t matter that the sand and pebbles were beginning to bite into her exposed flesh.  She was a warrior and could put such annoyances far from her mind.  Had she not trained for hours in the searing heat of the Great Tylana Desert until her arms ached and quivered with the pain of wielding fifty pounds of iron, thrusting into the quintain over and over again?  Had she not survived the attack of thirty hobgoblins in the marshes of Siravo, taking seven arrows and never once murmuring at the pain?
            She blinked once.
            The smell of dead fish in the hot sun was stomach turning.  She forced her churning belly to obey her command and subside.  Had she not headed up a burial detail to dispose of the bloated remains of a trader caravan in that same desert, and never once flinched at the flies, maggots and smell of blood and exploded entrails?
            Her elbow discovered a shell.  A moving shell.  A hermit crab crawled across her forearm.  Like a reddish-brown spotted spider.
            “By the god’s hold beard!” she screamed and doubled her efforts to stand.  “If you don’t release me at once, I will kill you where you stand!”
            This time her struggles were rewarded.  Pulling herself up beside the boulder, Feenix was able to gain her feet, although the net kept her from stretching to her full height.
            The man took a great breath of air and released it in a long, steady sigh.  He continued to mark the sand.  Again the faint scent of lemon wafted to her.
            “Aaiieee!” she yelled.  “You must be deaf, although with those ears I don’t know how you could be!”
            A soft sound came from between the man’s lips, slow and melodic.  The circles in the sand continued to multiply.
            “Who are you?”
            The sound from his throat grew a notch.  The scent of lemon intensified.
            “WHAT are you?”
            The man’s finger stopped.  His body became still as a stone.  As she held her breath, he raised his head and those ice blue eyes pierced her with a glare that brought to mind lightening.
            Then she knew.
            “By the god’s left ear lobe,” she mocked.  The wind carried her words around the cove and to the cliffs.  “You ARE half a man!”  Her laughter made her stomach clench for some strange reason.  “You’re a damned half elf!”
            She watched his eyes flicker, and a deep pink flush rose from his neck to fill his face with color.  She wasn’t sure if it was from anger or shame.  Slowly he stood, his left hand clenched.
            “That tongue of yours will be the first thing to go, once you are inside Cragimore.”
            The timber of his voice touched a chord deep inside her, but she ignored the sensation, thinking it was a finger of dread racing down her soul.
            “If I go into the stronghold of those filthy Night Elves, it won’t be a social call, elf-man!”
            He raised his arm.  “You have no choice.  You are now my slave.”  He tossed the sand in her direction and uttered a strange word.
            “You bastard!” she yelled, as the full scent of lemon reached her on the breeze.  “Magic!”
            Feenix of Port Marcus slipped to the ground in a lifeless heap.
            L’Garn walked to the boulder and, with a quick flick of his hand and word of Power, easily released the woman from the net.  Upon closer inspection he could see she was indeed a human and not an elf.  No matter.  His mother would still receive a new slave for her birth night.  And perhaps the new slave knew something of the Sea Elves.
            Without wasting any more time, he bound her hands behind her back, then picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.