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.
