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.
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