Author's Note: okay, I'm not feeling well (I actually called into work because I was sick at one point; I hate doing that) and my husband's not feeling well (he had to get a tooth pulled, poor baby, right after getting over the flu) and my beta doesn't feel good either. So to make me happy, I'm posting this chapter early. So I may or may not have another chap on Valentine's Day. It might end up being, like, the 21st instead. But whatever. At least you guys get the next installment, right?
Now, cue the famous announcer/narrator voice.
Last time on Once Upon a Time—Dylan was taken prisoner by Sréng the Douche Canoe Bandit Leader, who revealed that he and Nuada have some unfinished business between them. Nuada was forced to choose between his heart and his honor, leaving Dylan in Sréng's clutches in order to protect the people of Lallybroch. At Zhenjin's request, the mad prince Shaohao agreed to help him warn Nuada of a conspiracy involving a high-ranking noble in the Bethmooran Court. Polunochnaya, one of Princess Nuala's ladies-in-waiting, revealed her part in the conspiracy to Nuala, who ordered her imprisoned. With rumors circulating that Dylan carries Nuada's child, enemies prowl on all sides. And now to continue…
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Chapter One-Hundred-Fourteen
Death of a Lady
that is
A Short Tale of a Cold Princess, Hard Questions, Petra's Offer, Shared Agony, Breaking Bones, Vengeance Between Brothers, a Second Offer, a Flogging, Rage, a Little Knife and a Lot of Luck, Nuada's Loss, and What Shaohao Found in the Snow
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Princess Kamaria of Nyame despised the cold. Let men with no brains freeze to death trying to invade northern kingdoms and get a good case of frostbite while fighting ridiculous battles in the wind and snow. Not for the crown princess of Nyame, thank you. She preferred the dry, clear cold of a desert night and the deliciously hellish heat of Nyame during the day. But she had come with her twin brother, Kagiso, and her older brother Farai to Bethmoora for midwinter, to act as envoys from their kingdom to Bethmoora, even though Bethmooran winters could be brutal.
A big reason had been to investigate the rumors about Nuada Silverlance. Kamaria had been friends with Bethmoora's crown prince for centuries, ever since she'd been thirteen-hundred or so. She'd been in love with Nuada once upon a time—or at least, infatuated with him. They'd even been betrothed for a few hundred years during their youth, before she'd asked her mother to break the betrothal. Nuada had been a little relieved as well. She'd known he had feelings for someone else, though she'd never been able to figure out who, and she'd lost interest. Their union wouldn't have been the most politically savvy to begin with. But the man certainly looked good wielding a spear. She'd always had to give him that. Hmmm…
But rumors had come to Nyame a couple months shy of the winter solstice that the Silverlance, the bane of humanity, had fallen in love with a mortal. News of the prince's flogging by his father for slaughtering a group of humans had circulated the Twilight Realm quickly, followed by detailed (and often outlandish) reports of Nuada's antics with his new supposed lady-love. Tales of truancy, direct disobedience to the king, kidnapping, assassination, betrothal…One of the Nyame spies in the palace of Findias had even reported that when Nuada had asked the mortal to marry him, she'd refused. Kamaria could hardly fathom that. True, he was pasty as a dead fish's belly and he spent far too much time on what he'd once referred to as his "flowing locks," but he was an honorable man, and brave. The mortal was lucky to have him.
And then there was the duel between Zhenjin Azurefire and Nuada Silverlance over the honor of Zhenjin's only sister, because Nuada had been promised to Emperor Huizong's daughter—back before the emperor had sired over sixty sons and no girls at all, and the mad Dragon Emperor had believed the Bethmooran prince still bound by that promise—even though Princess Mïng Xiàn was barely three-hundred years old. Normally Nuada would have simply agreed to be betrothed to the little princess and then come up with a way to honorably step aside later.
The human's presence had made that an impossibility. What surprised Kamaria even more was that Zhenjin hadn't begrudged either Nuada or his mortal for forcing him into that duel.
"Penny for your thoughts, Kamaria?" Günther Wolfjarl's rumbling voice broke through the princess's reflections. She glanced over at the massive Viking Elf astride his wolf-horse mount, snowflakes and ice chips in his golden beard, seemingly immune to the cold. And no wonder—in Álfheim, Günther's kingdom, this was a simple spring frost. Their winters were more often than not quite deadly. Blizzards howled across the kingdom, the nights practically burned with bitter killing cold, ice wraiths and winter fae preyed on the unwary, and even the wolves rarely ventured from their dens in winter. Günther's people typically spent the season either frolicking around bonfires like asylum escapees and drinking mead and bashing each other over the head, or hibernating in their great mountain halls like bears and furthering the expansion of the next generation in order to keep warm.
"Thinking of Nuada's mortal," she replied as they turned their mounts back the way they had come. Now that they'd dealt with the humans that had attacked and splintered their group, they had to go back for Zhenjin. Somehow he'd become separated from them. "About why we all came to Bethmoora."
Günther grinned. "To see Silverlance's bane, of course. A woman that could bring him to heel? It would have been an entertaining spectacle. And a mortal, to boot? Perfect. And you saw them together at the banquets and such. She had him eating out of her hand. Metaphorically speaking."
"What did she say to make him laugh that one time?" Prince Taran, heir to the throne of Annwn, asked. "Did anyone hear?"
"She compared him to pastry," Prince Dastan replied with a grin.
"I was there at the tailors when she came out in a new gown Silverlance had purchased for her," Gaôzu said. "His jaw nearly smacked the floor. And then she somehow managed to keep up a conversation with Mashkapaeu's daughter, even when the chit babbled a league a second."
"Silverlance and his mortal…The pair of them are so in love it's almost disgusting," Günther said. "Ah, if only the Red Dragon and his assassins hadn't interrupted our fun."
Fun. Kamaria had to admit it had been quite pleasant to see Nuada so relaxed and happy. He'd been taciturn and often gloomy when they'd been young, and he'd confided in her on some occasions, but after he'd gone into exile following the last war…she couldn't remember seeing him smile in the last five or six centuries. And nearly seventy years ago, word had reached Nyame through the spy network set up in Bethmoora that Nuada was very ill, near unto death. Even after he'd recovered, he'd become morose. Almost fatalistic. That was when the darkness around his eyes and mouth had first appeared. To see Nuada with his mortal at midwinter had been a refreshing change.
"What do you think Nuada will do when the next war comes?" The crown princess asked. Günther raised a bushy, blond brow. Frowned. Kamaria added, "You know it will come. It must, if we are to survive. He once sought dark means to win the next war. We've all heard the stories of ensorcelled armies of metal and steam and magic. Do you think he will still seek such things now that he has found a mortal he can love?"
"Do you think she will let him?"
"I do not know. I only know that—" She broke off as the wind shifted and a howling, full of anguish and fear, shattered the stillness of the winter night. It echoed off the trees, a phantom cry of heartache that ripped through her like claws.
Kamaria opened her mouth to say something, then noticed Günther. The hair on the exposed portions of his arms stood erect and his nostrils flared. As she watched, his ears twitched ever so slightly. They'd often teased him for that little habit as children. But the ljósálfar, the Children of the Wolf, did not come by that name by accident. Günther rose upright in the stirrups as the howl faded and then picked up again.
"What in the thirteen hells is that?" Prince Dastan stared off to the east, toward the harrowing sound.
"Wolves?" Gaôzu suggested, though he didn't look convinced.
Taran shook his head. Brown eyes as keen as any hawk's scanned the forest. "If that was wolfsong, then I'm Bethmooran. No, that was a dog. No wild beast, either. Someone's hound."
Kamaria straightened. "A call for help, do you suppose?"
"Yes," Günther growled so low the princess almost didn't hear him. "Something is not right. Do you smell it?"
She nodded. She smelled it well enough now that the wind had turned—death. Ash and blood, grief and hate like a haze of shadow smeared across the night. A call for help, indeed. Whatever had happened, it had left its mark on the world this night. For her to be able to smell blood at such a distance…human blood mostly, but also fae…whatever it was, it would be terrible. But she didn't even have to look at her comrades to know that they'd all come to the same decision.
People—civilians—might be in danger. If humans were involved, the fae could very well be defenseless, thanks to Balor's stupid laws and the stars-cursed treaty. They would have to go and see what help was needed. Zhenjin would have to fend for himself a little while longer. Yet, if Shaohao roamed the forest…
"Is there no one we can send to seek Zhenjin?" Kamaria asked, scanning their group. Most of their guards were dead, but…"Hôu Junjï, you are skilled in the woods. Can you go?"
The Dilong prince exchanged a look that spoke volumes with his older brother Gaôzu before Hôu Junjï said, "Zhenjin is perhaps the only person who can take care of himself while Shaohao roams this forest. Those people need our help. Zhenjin does not."
Kamaria nodded toward the source of the howling and that awful stench of slaughter. "Let's go.
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Dylan's kin were waiting when Nuada returned to the tavern. Her sisters huddled in a private room in back, pressing close like a litter of kittens seeking comfort from each other, with John standing apart from them by the window. The Elven prince bit back a growl. He didn't want to deal with the humans just now. He didn't have the strength to bear their venom when they learned what honor and duty demanded of him. Ice water chilled his blood; dread chilled his heart. Dylan's name was a mantra in his skull and a silent prayer on his lips. The room stank of fear so sharp it threatened to bleed him dry. The dogs had been howling for nearly half an hour and he—
"Are you all right, Your Highness?" Francesca ventured. Nuada stopped dead in the doorway and stared at her. The human woman's pallor made her concern and fatigue obvious, but she stood up and came toward him. Pulled out a chair at the table where they all sat. "Here, you should sit down. You look beat. Want some beer?"
He frowned. "You…" She sought to care for him. Dylan would have done the same. The thought nearly undid him, but he forced himself to bear up. "Yes," he muttered, despising himself for admitting to such weakness in front of the harpies and the whelp, but too tired and too preoccupied with what he was supposed to do to care about facades just then. Wink, Lorelei, and Erik came into the room behind the prince and took up guard positions. The Butchers were left out in the hall.
Francesca pushed a mug of wheat bear in front of him, then took a healthy gulp from her own mug of whatever the tavern owner had brought her in Nuada's absence. "I could get used to this stuff," she said.
Petra frowned. "What is that?"
"Licorice root beer." Francesca took another swallow. "Candy is dandy—"
"But that," her twin said, eyeing the mug like it might jump up and tap dance, "has got to be the most disgusting thing I've ever heard of."
Nuada cleared his throat, and was vaguely surprised when the two women focused on him immediately. He fixed his gaze on Petra. "How go things here?"
After a moment of uncertain silence, Petra rattled off a concise but detailed report on casualties from both the battle with the bandits and the injuries from previous attacks and the illnesses suffered by some of the villagers, an accounting of supplies used and what was left, and even conjectures about the costs and timetables for continuing the repairs (since she had actually taken some initiative and spoken to some of those fae who knew about such things). When it was over, Nuada wondered absently if perhaps Petra ought to come to Bethmoora once he and Dylan wed, to serve as one of Dylan's ladies-in-waiting. Her no-nonsense attitude and efficiency would be incredibly useful. He imagined the less savory ladies of the Bethmooran court trying to square off against Dylan and her sister, and finding themselves soundly trounced like the obnoxious chits they were.
Except Dylan was…the bandits had…
Nuada's hands convulsed into fists so tight his knuckles creaked beneath the table. He wouldn't think of what might be. He couldn't let himself choke on the fear that Dylan might already be dead. He had to believe he would know if it were so. He would feel her passing.
"What do we do about Dylan?" Victoria ventured into the silence that followed Petra's report. "Is she…? Do you know if she…?"
Wink rumbled behind Nuada, "We can go after her, my prince. Lorelei and I, perhaps, or—"
Nuada hated himself for it, but he shook his head. "You are needed here, my friend. You all are. Only I can go after her, but the village defenses must be upheld in case those vermin decide to attack again—"
"I'm not needed," Petra broke in. Nuada's eyes slashed to her face. The eldest Myers sister looked a bit tired, but calm. Eerily calm. Her eyes, so similar and yet so different from Dylan's, were as cold as twin stones. The prince raised an eyebrow. "As decimated as the bandits are, one sniper isn't going to make a huge difference. I can help you track them. I can help you find her. I was almost Special Forces in our military; I know how to move through a forest without being heard or seen. Take me with you."
Victoria and Francesca exchanged worried glances while Mary and Pauline stared at their sister in shock. "Petra," Pauline murmured. "You can't just…waltz into a pixie forest or whatever. Tinkerbell might try to suck out your soul. You could end up dead."
"I could end up dead here," Petra said softly. "I knew that going in. We all did. But if we don't go after her, Dylan will die. She's our sister. We owe her."
"Dylan didn't drag us out here so we could get killed," Mary protested. "You don't know what kind of weird monsters might be out there—"
"A monster has our sister right now!" Petra surged to her feet, slamming her fists on the table. John jumped. "Don't you four remember when she was taken? We can't stand back and do nothing!"
Mary frowned. "We weren't there when the bandits took her—"
"That's not what Petra's talking about." John pushed away from the window and scanned his sisters' faces. "She means when Mom and Dad sent Dylan away. When those men came and dragged her into their van. Petra tried to help, don't you guys remember?"
Nuada's gaze drifted over the Myers siblings' faces as they each glanced at Petra and then dropped their eyes to the table. It was Victoria who said, "Mom and Dad said to stay in our rooms."
"Well, I didn't," Petra said. "I tried to save her, and I couldn't, and look what happened. Look what that place did to her. I would rather drop dead right now then let anything like that happen to my baby sister again. Not when I can help her. Not when I could be the difference between saving her or letting her die." Locking eyes with Nuada, xanthous gray versus icy gunmetal, she added, "I'm going with you. Try to leave me behind, and I'll follow you."
The prince drew a deep breath and let it out. She was right. One sniper would make little enough difference. And the thought of this particular human trailing along behind him like a devoted but unwanted puppy left a sour taste in his mouth. He nodded curtly. "Very well. We leave in five minutes."
Before he left, he had to explain a few things to Tsu's'di, A'du, and 'Sa'ti about what had happened to Dylan.
Just as he was crossing the threshold to the rest of the tavern, Nuada stumbled. Fell hard against the door frame as inexplicable pain ripped through him. Wink roared his name as he sank to his knees. Lorelei and Erik were at his side in an instant, but he paid them no mind as he struggled to turn back around. His entire focus was on John, who gripped the table with shaking hands to keep from sinking to the floor. The mortal's face had gone white as a corpse the instant Nuada felt that strange agony.
"Did you…?" John sucked in a breath, staring at the Elven prince with wide, glassy eyes. "Did you feel that?" Nuada nodded, forcing himself to remain upright as his knees threatened to buckle and his chest went tight. John wheezed, "What was that?"
"Dylan," Nuada whispered. "It was Dylan. She's alive."
They locked eyes, and Nuada knew exactly what the whelp was thinking. Dylan was alive now…but for how much longer?
At that moment, Acting-Steward Gawain raced down the hall and skidded to a halt just behind the prince. Nuada jerked his head around to stare at the dullahan. "What is it?"
"Riders! Strangers approaching the village!"
Nuada's heart sank into his belly. Another attack? Already? His hand flew to the spear at his back and unsheathed it in one smooth motion just as, from out in the cold night, Eimh and Sétanta began to howl anew.
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The plus point of her hands being completely numb was that she couldn't feel the rope biting into her flesh. Only the trickles of blood dripping down her arms to sprinkle her shoulders told her the ropes had cut deeper with each passing minute. Only a very dull ache in her arms told her that serious damage had been done in the last hour as Sréng had beaten her nearly unconscious. Blood still dripped down from her nose and seeped from the split in her puffy lip. Every inch of her face throbbed. Tingling numbness danced around the edges of patches of fire covering most of her body. Fire seared beneath her skin. The breath burned in her throat and chest. Shivers ripped through her body as her ice-cold, wet clothes leeched away her warm.
Sréng rolled his neck until the vertebrae cracked and smiled. He'd cleaned his own blood off his face. Now, except for his slightly swollen and bruised nose, he looked the same as when he'd doused Dylan awake with ice water. He smiled. "Hmmm…I'd wager the little worm is dead in your belly already, wouldn't you say?"
She couldn't speak. Moving any part of her face sent agony washing through it and back into her skull like a wave of vicious heat. She just closed her eyes and tried to pull into herself, the way she'd done as a child. If she could just shut herself off…
But Sréng had seemed to anticipate her trying to escape inside her own mind. That was why another corpse lay on the ground beside Eoghan, this one an elderly man the bandit had beaten to death in front of her while she screamed and begged him to stop, to turn his fists on her again instead. Her throat was still raw from screaming. Just when she'd been about to succeed in locking herself inside her skull away from the pain, he'd dragged out the old man and used his murder to keep her here.
Two dead from this men. Helpless fae, a young boy and an old man. Who would be next? How could Balor have let this happen? How could the king refuse to protect his people from a monster like this?
This was going to get worse. She knew that. Torture was a wave—you started out in the trough and your enemies dragged you up to the crest. If they kept it up, you stayed at the plateau. You could black out, or at least gray out. Your body would shut down some pain receptors, drain away some of the adrenaline, and the pain would slip into the distance. Amateurs did it that way. Dylan had known a few—Patrick and Xander Blackwood, for instance—who hadn't known better.
Sréng knew better. He knew that in order to give her pain, true pain, he couldn't let her stay on that plateau. He would let her slide back down from the crest of the wave into the trough, let her body normalize, and then come back again. Put her in chains of agony again. Drag her back up that wave of jagged glass and brutality to the top again. Let her fall back into the trough. Repeat as needed.
The bandit smiled and patted her cheek. Dylan flinched away from him. Pain spasmed through her entire body. Her shoulders screamed; they'd taken her weight nearly an hour ago when her knee gave out.
"If…" She had to say this. Even though the words scraped in her throat like sand and broken glass. Even though her mouth burned shaping each syllable. "If you're going to rape me…just do it. And then kill me." Sréng arched an eyebrow. Somehow Dylan managed to smirk at him. "Or do you need this to perform with a woman?" She coughed. "Erectile dysfunction hits a lot of men your age. Perfectly natural. You get old, performance issues start cropping up—"
He threw his head back and laughed. The smirk fell away from Dylan's face as she struggled to follow what was happening. Everything hurt. The pain was a shadowy haze wrapping her in a cruel vise. She couldn't shake it off and it dulled her thoughts. Why was he laughing?
"Rape you?" Sréng demanded, still laughing. "You? Oh, that is…If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a court jester in another life. Me, rape a human? Ha! First of all, you think I'd lay an amorous finger of Silverlance's leavings? And secondly, you're not my type, slut. I prefer my women a little more Elven. Red hair, green eyes. Fomorian."
Nuada's mother. She had to fight not to throw up when she realized he was describing Nuada's mother. Was he toying with her? Or was Sréng serious? "You're sick. You might benefit from some therapy." She licked her bleeding lips. "Or my dirk in your eye."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"I can add it to the prince's collection," she wheezed. "Putting down madmen is something he excels at. Of course, he excels at everything. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Since the only way for you to find partners is to kidnap them."
He hit her in the back, right in the liver, and pain blasted like a blowtorch through her body. After her scream died away, he murmured, "I'm quite fond of liver, you know."
Somehow she scraped together the gumption to smile and say, "I'm sure the prince would be quite eager to cut yours out. You won't even have to ask nicely."
"Still so much spirit," he marveled, drawing close again. "I'll say that much for you."
She coughed. "Say what you want. Just don't breathe on me. Ugh. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to forage in a pigsty?"
"Maybe if I broke some of your teeth, you wouldn't have the nerve to insult my mother."
"I'd still be prettier than you."
He smiled. Canted his head as if in modest acceptance of a compliment. Then he drove his fist into her side with enough force that the world went dark and his laugh faded to a distant murmur. When she surfaced again, she couldn't draw a full breath.
"I just broke two of your ribs." Sréng smiled wider and punched her again. Agony rammed her back into darkness. Only distantly did she hear the bandit add, "Oh, sorry. Make that four," before oblivion took her.
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Zhenjin felt Shaohao's gaze stabbing like needles every time the exhausted Dilong prince stumbled in the snow. He knew what his older brother was thinking, that trying to reach the village of Broch Toruch was a fool's errand. Love. What did Shaohao know about love, the fire of it driving men to madness in order to protect those they carried in their hearts? Shaohao had murdered more than one of his wives. Thank the gods, he wasn't wearing those red dragon-hide boots that always sent nausea rolling through Zhenjin's belly. Shaohao had actually skinned one of his wives—alive—to preserve her beauty after punishing her for some perceived transgression.
But that was a thought Zhenjin couldn't let sit in his head for long. Not that thought, or the memory of Shaohao cradling an infant Mïng Xiàn to his chest, her screams of fear and pain echoing off the palace walls, her blood dripping golden down his chin after taking a savage bite out of her little arm. He'd been trying to—
Zhenjin shoved the thought away before it could fully form. He couldn't stomach it, not even after all this time. He wouldn't think of it.
Shaohao halted abruptly. His head shifted slowly back and forth, reptilian bronze eyes scanning the dark woods. He opened his mouth, baring venom-slick fangs, and breathed deep of the darkness. Let out a slow, hissing breath. "Oh, fun times ahead, di-di. There are enemies nearby. Close. Let's sneak up on them. We'll find out if they've ever seen their own spleens before."
The younger prince lifted his head and scented the air. His nostrils flared as the myriad odors hit his nose and the scent organs in his mouth. Underneath the sharpness of ice and winter air and evergreen trees came the smell of humans, their stink so pungent it nearly burned his nose. Old blood, still acrid with fear. The foul reek of despair and slaughter. It had to be bandits; who else would carry such sick scents in the Bethmooran woods? And Shaohao was right, they were close. Adrenaline pumped hot through Zhenjin's blood as his fangs lengthened and venom flooded his mouth. His chokutō was in his hand in a blink of Elven bronze.
"Bandits. They're between us and the village," Zhenjin growled.
Bandits. The humans that, according to his brother, meant to kidnap Dylan and hurt her, kill her. The bandits employed by a Banquet Keeper who worked for Bethmoora's king. These wretches wanted nothing but to rain despair on the Bethmooran people, to rob them of their only chance at a good life—Nuada and his lady. Without the Silverlance and Dylan, the Fair Folk of this kingdom had no chance of surviving humanity's foul reach. The fae needed Dylan and the prince and these beasts would rob Nuada's people of their hope.
"Shall we kill them?" Shaohao asked in a tone that made it obvious what he expected the answer to be. "Father need never know. It's not as if his whims about the mortals have ever stopped us before. And just think what pretty colors the flames will make. You've always liked playing with fire, Zhen-Zhen. After all, look what fool's errand we're on now. Imminent death on either side, marching through a forest cold enough to freeze our best attributes, and all for the sake of a mortal who somehow resembles moonlight. You still haven't explained that to me, by the way."
"It doesn't matter. Forget it," he replied.
"I can't. You're in love with a human who's betrothed to your best friend and brother-in-arms, a mortal who looks like someone played a bad game of knife-toss with her face, and you don't think this is the juiciest thing to come at me in the last two-hundred years? I've been aching for gossip, little brother. This is even better."
Zhenjin scowled. "So pleased I could amuse you with my broken heart."
Shaohao rolled his eyes. "If the girl can't realize what a fine male specimen she's found in you, Brother, she's obviously not that bright. She'll come around eventually. Who could resist those scales and fangs? Now, let's go slaughter the humans who want to steal your…precious moonlight. It will be fun," the elder prince wheedled.
After a moment's hesitation, Zhenjin nodded. Yes. Kill the monsters before they could hurt anymore innocent people. Put an end to them, as a gift to Nuada. An apology, the prince thought with a pang, for that lightning flash of an instant of recklessness when he'd betrayed Nuada's trust by kissing the other man's betrothed. It was the least he could do.
Tension creaked through his fingers when Zhenjin gripped his sword. His breath steamed on the air like silver smoke and he wished, suddenly, that he could breathe fire the way his father and Shaohao could. He wished with a burning like dragon flame that he could simply set the bandit camp ablaze and listen to the beasts scream while watching them all burn to char and black ash.
Luckily for you, Lady Dylan is as merciful as she is beautiful…Words snarled in a drunken nobleman's ear weeks ago when Dylan had begged Zhenjin to spare an inebriated idiot after the wretch had insulted her. Even though the fool had said vicious things to her, tried to put his filthy hands on her, she'd pleaded with Zhenjin not to hurt the idiot, but only to send him on his way. Would she relish watching the bandits burn? Or would she ask for mercy from their judges? Imprisonment, perhaps…
He gritted his teeth. Dylan's mercy was one of the things both he and Nuada loved best about her, but it had no place here. Compassion had no place on the battlefield. Not with demons like these.
"Come, Brother," Zhenjin snarled. "We have work to do."
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The moment Nuada caught sight of a massive Elven man on a shaggy wolf-like beast riding toward the tavern, hope splintered the icy crust of rage and fear chilling his heart. Prince Günther Wolfjarl reined his beast to a halt a dozen paces away from the tavern where the people of Lallybroch had taken refuge. Behind the Elf came other fae on horseback—a group of perhaps a half a score. The Tuathan prince recognized Zhenjin's two brothers just under him in age, Gaôzu and Hôu Junjï, as well as Prince Taran of Annwn, Prince Dastan of Shahbaz, and Princess Kamaria of Nyame.
Leaping to the snow, Günther's massive stride eating up the distance between them, he went to Nuada and embraced him. "Silverlance! When those beasts started howling, we feared the worst!"
Nuada swallowed hard. Eimh and Sétanta still cried plaintively to the night, a song of dread and grief for their lost mistress. Their song had called Günther here? A blessing, then. From the gods, from the Fates, from the Star Kindler—he didn't care. Here were some who could help him, who could protect the village or go with him to rescue Dylan, depending on their kingdoms. Nyame, Shahbaz, and Álfheim did not support the treaty. King Arawn, Taran's father, didn't either. They could join his rescue efforts. And the Dilong princes and their soldiers could stay to protect the village; the Jade Dragon Emperor wouldn't look kindly on his sons looking for fights with humans, but unlike Balor, Huizong did not forbid self-defense.
"Cousin," Prince Taran said, dismounting and approaching to clasp Nuada in a warm embrace. The young prince had always called Nuada "cousin" after he'd rescued Taran's father from being trampled to death centuries ago by an angry twrch trwyth. Rescuing a king from an infuriated, rampaging, magical wild pig usually had that effect. Taran studied the Elf's face with dark brown eyes. "Something is wrong. What is it? Why do your hounds sing such lamentation?"
Dingy yellow eyes squeezed shut. Nuada sucked in a breath that made his tight chest ache. "The human vermin who attack my people have kidnapped my truelove." Taran's eyes widened. Behind him, the other five royals exchanged shocked glances. Nuada ignored the looks. "They will kill her if I do not do something, but I need help, and I cannot ask my people. And I need others to stay and help defend this village. The bandits may yet return and my people are forbidden by that blasted treaty to defend themselves."
"I will go with you," Kamaria declared. She still sat astride her scaly, fiery-eyed inkanyamba. The serpentine horse's long muzzle bristled with barracuda-like teeth and its pinprick eyes rolled in their sockets to take in the fae around it. Its claws ripped through the snow to dig into the frozen turf beneath. Nuada had never been comfortable with the inexplicably hot-blooded water beasts, but Kamaria handled her mount with ease. "We," she patted her mount, "will help. And it will be fun to watch you destroy your enemies."
Taran nodded. "Agreed. I will come to watch the fun. Er, I mean help."
Günther inclined his head. "For a lady as beautiful as your truelove? A mortal nearly as lovely as my own lady? Quests such as these are what warriors live for. I, too, will go. It will be fun setting my wolf among the human sheep."
"Of course I will come, my friend," Dastan added.
The two Dilong princes exchanged a long look before Hôu Junjï nodded to Gaôzu. The older prince said, "We will help you defend your people, Silverlance. You are our brother's dearest friend, and he is fond of the Lady Dylan. He would want us to help in any way we could."
Then Nuada realized something. He scanned the group of assembled Elves and other fae in their service, noting one marked absence. This group had come out so far to hunt down a rogue royal. And yet the leader of the envoy was missing.
"Gaôzu, Hôu Junjï…where is Zhenjin?"
The princes exchanged glances dark with meaning before Gaôzu replied with only one word. "Shaohao."
.
For a long while, there was only silence punctuated by grunts of effort, the thud of flesh impacting flesh, the drip-drip of blood striking the ground, the rattling wheeze of the breath in her burning chest. There was only the dull, aching, arrhythmic beat of Dylan's heart.
Sréng had stopped hitting her face after her left had swollen shut. "We want Silverlance to recognize your corpse," he'd said with a bright smile she'd glimpsed through her other eye. Then he'd taken almost excruciating care to slice his knife along the scars on her face, ripping them open one by one, flooding her with old and new fear as blood dripped into her mouth and eyes from the fresh slashes. After that, he'd focused on beating her again; mainly her torso, occasionally hitting her legs with a broad stick he'd brought in just for that purpose.
Now he lashed out, the stick cracking against her bad knee. Dylan's spine bowed and she strangled on the scream that squeaked out between her clenched teeth. Sréng chuckled.
"Good, you've come back to the land of the living at last."
Dylan swallowed a sob, a plea for him to stop. He wasn't going to stop. She'd already tried begging. The thought made the tears rolling down her cheeks come faster and harder. Nuada would've been ashamed of her for doing that. Her guards, Tsu's'di, her family, her fae friends…they all would've been sickened by her pleading. The part of her not focused on the burning and throbbing and fire and terrifying numbness warring through her body was disgusted with herself, too. She'd begged this monster. She'd sworn never to beg again, but he'd made her beg.
She'd make him pay for that. Somehow.
"Well, my hands are getting a bit tired, so we're going to try something different. Brace yourself, traitor." He swooped around behind her with the quickness of a snake and grabbed the neck of her blood-soaked tunic. He yanked and the collar bit into her neck. She gagged, coughed until her broken ribs spasmed and screamed. Until she retched from the pain.
When she was finished, Sréng had ripped open the back of her tunic from collar to hem. Fear managed to dig its icy claws into her heart and guts even through the haze of pain. He was going to do it now, she realized. He'd been lying before about preferring Elves. Or maybe he hadn't, but he would do it anyway to hurt Nuada and to make her suffer. Now she was too weak to fight back, and Sréng was going to rape her.
But, the small part of her mind that was still half clear wondered, why the back of her shirt?
"Huh." The bandit leader stepped closer, running leather-gloved fingers slick with blood over the column of her spine. Dylan jerked away instinctively and nearly blacked out when her ribs ground together. Sréng waited for her to be still before he touched her again, tracing over the scars on her back. She trembled as the tears burned her cheeks, the salt stinging in the cuts. "What have we here? Where did all these come from?" He slipped a finger beneath the clasp of her bra. She held her breath. "Hmmm. Is this what human women wear for undergarments in the mortal realm? Rather revealing stuff."
He pushed his finger along her back beneath the fabric. Her heart leapt into her throat as disgust sent her stomach roiling. Sréng pressed against one of her intact ribs and she realized how close he was to having his hand on her breast. Her skin tried to crawl off her battered bones at the thought. Gritting her teeth, somehow Dylan managed to get enough breath to spit, "Get your hands off me or I will make sure you don't have hands anymore."
To her surprise, he stepped back. She could breathe again—somewhat.
"I could tell even with your clothing intact you had a well-formed body," Sréng said. "After all, Silverlance would never let an ugly harlot in his bed. But as I said, you're not my type."
"And that," she muttered, "is why he has class and you don't."
"I believe you've hurt my feelings."
"Come closer so I can kick them better," she said, trying not to choke on her bravado.
Leather creaked. Whispered softly against leather. She heard Sréng's boots slide ever so slightly over the ground as he shifted position. Ice spilled down her spine as she realized why he'd ripped open the back of her shirt, as she understood what he was going to do. Fear returned in full force, sharp and bitter on her tongue. Her stomach clenched. If she'd had anything left in her stomach, it would've been on the ground at her feet. No. No, he couldn't do that. She'd seen what Eamonn had done to Nuada, and though Sréng was no Elf, Dylan wasn't an Elf, either.
This is how I die, she realized as her mouth trembled. I thought he'd beat me unconscious. I thought I'd fade away before…but no. This is how I die. Heavenly Father…Heavenly Father, I'm scared. She tried to grip the ropes with numb fingers and wasn't certain she'd succeeded. She couldn't feel the rough hemp biting in her fingertips. Nuada…Nuada…Please don't leave me here.
She'd thought she was ready to die. She'd thought she could handle whatever pain Sréng decided to fling at her. She'd experienced it all before: beatings, starvation, rape, broken bones. But not this. She'd never been whipped before.
I'm scared. Nuada, help me, I'm scared, I—
An explosion burst beside her ear. Fire ripped a line across the side of her neck. She flinched and screamed as hot blood trickled down her collarbone from the line slicing her skin where the whip had flicked her.
"Oh, good," Sréng said. "You can still scream. Nice and loud. I'm recording this, by the way." He laughed. "A recording crystal. So that your precious prince and your treacherous family can all witness your last moments under my lash. Now, brace yourself, you traitorous whore. Because this is really going to hurt."
He carved her back with fire, lines of agony etching through skin and muscle to find bone. Screams tore her throat as iron-tipped leather ripped into her. Sréng laughed as the blood dripped down her back and the ropes wrenched at her distended arms and the pain nearly knocked her unconscious as her broken ribs screamed and her knee screamed and her back screamed and she screamed, so much screaming, and the blood and the pain rained down her back in a flood.
And then someone else was screaming and the whip no longer ruptured the air with its concussive crack. Sréng muttered something obscene about interruptions while he was working and circled around to her. Dylan hung from her bonds as limply as if she were dead.
"It seems something requires my attention," he murmured, patting her bleeding cheek. The touch roused her a little. She needed to do something. Just one thing. Anything, so long as this bastard realized she wouldn't just let him get away with this. Her back burned like hellfire and her muscles spasmed from shocks of pain, but she was going to do something. "But I'll be back, and then you'll bleed for me some more."
Dylan blinked. Swallowed. Somehow she managed to work up a mouthful of spit to swallow again so she could speak. Focusing on a spot between Sréng's eyes, she croaked, "You're going to bleed for this. For me."
"Silverlance isn't coming to—"
She shoved herself upright for the split-seconds needed to ram her forehead against his face. Her leg gave right after and the ropes yanked one arm from its socket as she fell. But it didn't matter. She'd felt cartilage crumble under the blow. Sréng roared and staggered back, clutching at his face. Blood poured in a red fountain down his face and chin to soak his shirt and the ground. It was nice, she reflected a little drunkenly, to see someone else's blood for a change.
"You bitch," he snarled. "You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!"
Sréng lunged for her, his hand jerking at his belt. Torchlight flashed on metal and she flinched instinctively. Agony speared her shoulder a scant two inches from her heart. Blood welled up and dripped around the knife he'd buried in her shoulder. Dylan screamed.
"I'll carve you into pieces," Sréng roared in her face. Spittle flecked her cheeks. He twisted the blade and she screamed again, gagging on the pain, her chest spasming as air and blood and pain knotted in her lungs to choke her. "I'll cut you into pieces, you bitch! You traitor! How dare you call yourself human?! I'll kill you!" He let go of the knife and wrapped his hands around her throat, squeezing. Dylan's eyes bulged as the bandit gripped her tighter. "You whore. I'll kill you for this. And then I'll kill your prince. I'll grind him up into dog meat, you little—"
The knife, a sharp voice snapped in her mind. The knife!
The knife. It was in her shoulder, it hurt so much, a counterpoint to the ragged fire blanketing her back and clutching at her chest. The blade grated against bone as she scrambled to try to pull it out, try to dislodge it, try to smack at Sréng, try to stop him from throttling her to death, anything.
Sréng lifted her off her feet, held her up as she gagged and choked in his grip. He bared his blood-stained teeth. "Look into my eyes. I want to see the light fade as you die." He turned to grin over his shoulder. "Look well, Silverlance. We can watch her die together."
Lights exploded in her head but she could reach now, she could reach, and Sréng wasn't looking, he was watching whatever was behind him, whatever he was using to record himself torturing her. Her fingertips brushed the knife, though she only felt a distant bump, she couldn't make her twitching fingers work. I can't do this, I can't, I'm going to die, I can't, I can't—
Faces flashed through her mind: A'du and 'Sa'ti, Tsu's'di, her family, Nuada, her Sight kids. All the people she loved, the people who depended on her. She couldn't just die…She couldn't let herself just die!
Grab the knife! Now, Dylan! That voice, she knew it, it flooded her burning cold chest with warmth, pushed through the frigid terror. Curl your fingers around it. It's right there. Grab it. Grab it!
She grabbed it as Sréng turned back to her, lifting her so that they were nose to nose. The breath gurgled in her throat and her pulse flickered in the corner of her as she struggled, struggled to stay focused, struggled to rip the knife out but it was so hard, she couldn't feel her hands and the blade scraped her bones and sent black dots swirling across her eyes.
"Go ahead," Sréng hissed, his lips brushing hers with every word. "Go ahead and grab it. Take it. I care not." She twisted her nerveless fingers, trying to catch the blade on the ropes. It sliced only air. Sréng whispered, "You can do nothing. You will die right here, right now."
Kick him.
Dylan didn't hesitate. As pain ripped through her shoulder, she rammed her knee as hard as she could into Sréng's groin. He jerked, grunted. Lost his grip on her throat. Dylan started to fall…and the edge of the Elven blade caught on the rope. Jerked at her hands. She nearly lost her grip but the heat suddenly flooding her body and the air rushing into her lungs helped her hang on while the world spun in sick circles. The knife sliced through several strands of rope before Sréng socked her in the stomach.
Her fingers spasmed. She lost her grip as the air rushed out of her lungs again. Gasping, groaning, she hung from the rope, toes scraping the blood-soaked ground as agony sheeted down her back and a scream wrenched from her throat. The knife fell to the ground, slicing a long cut down her leg.
Sréng picked it up. "Fine. You want to be on the ground for this? Easier for me anyway." In seconds he'd sawed through the rope. He threw the knife to the ground. Dylan dropped to the ground. Her vision went black as her broken ribs grated and her back wept blood. More blood oozed from the knife wound in her shoulder. Get up, had to get up, but she couldn't, it hurt, she couldn't. Her fingers dug into the ground as she tried to pull herself away from Sréng.
"Traitor!" His boot hit her kidney. Pain lanced through her back as another scream tore from her throat. "Bitch!" Sréng kicked her again, catching her in the hip as she tried to crawl away. "Whore!" His fist rammed into her spine and she hit the ground in a sprawl. He kicked her again and again. "Get up! Get up! You earned this! Get up! Whoring yourself to a killer, betraying your own kind! Get up, you traitorous bitch! Get up!" Dry heaves racked her body when his foot hit her stomach. Finally, when she stopped trying to get away—when she couldn't even try to crawl anymore—Sréng knelt beside her.
"I should leave you like this," he whispered. "Dying in your own blood like an animal."
The knife. The voice of the Holy Spirit in her mind. You must. You're strong. You must. She couldn't reach it, she couldn't move. You must try. No, she wanted to just lie here. It was over now. The world was nothing but pain. Dylan tasted blood in her mouth. It crusted her face, seeped from her body into the earth. Better to just like here and fall asleep. Drift into the pain and let go.
She closed her eyes.
Dylan. Wake up. Fight back. Grab the knife.
Please, she wept silently. Please, I don't want to. It hurts.
You must. Help is close.
Her eyes snapped open. Help? Help was…? But that was impossible. No one could help her, it was impossible…but the Spirit would never lie to her. And she had sworn an oath long ago to always obey her King. She was dying and she knew it, but that didn't matter now.
Desperately clinging to consciousness, her fingers crept toward the glint of metal she noticed at the corner of her eye.
"She's dying, Silverlance," Sréng said. Dylan's gaze flicked back to her tormentor and she realized he was speaking to a small, translucent crystal set on a wooden stand a few feet away. It was a recording crystal. The mind-healer in Bethmoora had a set of similar crystals in her workroom, except they played music. But Dylan had heard that the fae recorded sound and images with enchanted crystals instead of cameras and phones and computers. Sréng was recording every moment of this. "She's dying here, at my feet, drowning in her own blood. So bruised and broken. She begged for her life but you weren't here to ransom it for her."
He hadn't noticed. He didn't realize what she was doing. What an idiot. Had to think. Had to focus. She couldn't pass out. She couldn't. Once she had the knife, then what? The feeling was returning to her hands one agonizing needle of fiery ice at a time. Now Dylan could feel the raw, vicious burning in her wrists where the ropes had cut into her. But soon…soon she would be numb again. That would mean death was too close. She had to get the knife before that happened.
"Can you hear her breathing? Your precious beloved? Are you counting each breath as it escapes her? Soon it will stop, and there is nothing you can do. Nothing. She'll die right before your eyes and you will have failed. The great warrior, the mighty Silverlance…Did you promise you would protect her? Did you swear to guard her and the little abomination you sired? Your brat is dead, and your whore will soon follow."
Dylan scrabbled at the blade. Somehow managed to wrap her fingers around the hilt. Stay awake, she screamed silently as her eyelids drifted down. They snapped open again. The breath hitched in her lungs. Stay…awake…
His throat…she couldn't reach his throat. Couldn't reach his heart or his kidneys. Where to stab him? The thigh? The first spike of adrenaline surged through her. His thigh. He wouldn't be able to chase her. She couldn't kill him, but if she cut him in the right spot, she could get away. Get to this help that was so close.
On a fuzzy sort of hunch, she drew as deep a breath as she could and then held it. Her eyes fixed on the tent ceiling. Sréng went still. He leaned close, crouching on one knee. He stared at her.
"She's dead, Silverlance," he murmured almost wonderingly. "Your truelove is dead." He chuckled. "I did it. I cut out that bastard's heart and—"
Her good arm whipped around and drove the blade right into Sréng's thigh just north of the kneecap, then yanked it out and rammed it back into the middle of his thigh. Twisted the blade. He screamed and fell back, writhing on the ground as he clawed at the knife buried hilt-deep in his leg.
Somehow she got to her feet. Blood trickled from her mouth. She couldn't breathe very well. Everything felt numb, distant. But help…there was help somewhere. And her chest was warm. All through her chest and down her spine, it was warm. She had to…had to walk…Dragging her bad leg like a lame wolf, she trudged drunkenly toward the tent entrance. Had to get out. Had to get help. Had to…had to…
The knife Sréng threw sank into her back and she staggered forward. Choked. Hit the snow outside on her knees. Somehow she crawled as gold and crimson light flooded across the snow like blood. She didn't feel the cold. Didn't feel the scrape of steel against bone as she moved. It was all numb now. All emptiness and blood as bright as holly berries against the white, white world. She heard roaring in the distance. Didn't have enough energy to wonder what it was. But the gold and crimson light danced and she thought vaguely that it was quite pretty, and it was such a nice thing to see before she died.
Help. There was help…somewhere. But she was too tired now. Too weak. It felt like someone pulled her to her feet, gentle but firm hands drawing her up, and she didn't feel quite so weak anymore, but she was still tired. So tired. Dangerous lightning bolts of pain shocked through her chest and torso with every move, raked her back and shoulder. Dylan lifted one foot. It sank into the snow. She tripped across the white ground, with those firm but careful hands always holding her upright, as men screamed around her and died, but she heard nothing but a voice in her mind, Keep going. Don't stop. Saw nothing but the glowing snow under her feet and the blood dripping into her eyes. It steamed when it fell on the snow. She walked. Trudged. Stumbled. Nearly fell more than once. Somehow she managed to keep going.
Finally she fell at the edge of the bandit camp. Ash and snow rained down from the night sky overhead. She didn't hear men screaming for mercy, screaming as the flames devoured them like hungry dragons. She didn't realize she'd stumbled through a growing inferno. She only lay on the snow, still and silent, and closed her eyes as her blood turned the snow bright red.
A shadow fell over her.
.
Nuada felt it just as he, the hounds, Petra, and his newly-arrived friends reached the outskirts of Lallybroch—a wrenching and a tearing, as if something had been ripped away. A sharp knife plunging into his chest, slicing through him as if cutting away something precious. He felt something tear loose, felt intangible blood gushing from a soul-wound. His heart stuttered. Skipped a beat. Another.
No, he gasped silently, staggering to a halt. All around him voices called to him, demanding, concerned and irritated and confused, twining together like brambles. He did not answer them. He only grabbed his chest as his heart continued to shudder, as the strength left his legs, as black ice flooded his veins. No…no…
Was this what it felt like to die? Was this emptiness, this sudden jarring aloneness, what it felt like to lose part of you in death?
Was Dylan dead?
No…no! Dylan, no! Wake up! Dylan, answer me! Nuada lunged to his feet, snarling under his breath as he tried to fix on that familiar butterfly brush of warmth that always touched his mind when she was near. He thought of rose perfume and the scent of lilies. He remembered burying his face in the wealth of her dark hair.
He thought of the cold and the darkness before she had rekindled his hope.
She couldn't be dead. She couldn't be.
Dylan!
But only silence and emptiness answered him as the first tears burned trails down his cheeks and the Elven warrior sank to his knees again.
.
Zhenjin watched the last tent flutter in ragged burning strips to the snow as his breath steamed on the air. These monsters…He'd found their captives. Set those with any hope left free. He'd delivered mercy strokes to those who were already dying. He had no healing magic, no power to mend broken bodies, and there were no healers near enough to be of help. Those persecuted dead, he had honored with dragon fire—though a weakened form, only enough to create proper funeral pyres. But the bandits…They had died by the blades and fire of the Azure and Red Dragon Princes for their crimes.
"Zhenjin!"
The crown prince turned toward Shaohao, who crouched at the far edge of the camp amidst the smoldering rubble and corpses. His sword dripped crimson onto the snow. Zhenjin's chokutō left its own bloody trail as he trudged toward his elder brother. "What is it?" So much death had left him empty. Aching. When would the slaughters end? Was war, and exterminating the humans, the only way?
"Zhenjin, come quickly!" At the sound of something like panic in Shaohao's voice—what in all the realms could make his insane brother panic?—the Dilong Elf broke into a sprint. He skidded to a halt a few feet from Shaohao, kicking up a spray of snow. He stared at the thing in his brother's arms. The world became cold and still.
Bruises and sluggishly bleeding cuts marred the face, but he had already memorized the shape of it. The eyes were swollen shut, but Zhenjin knew they were blue as autumn lakes brushed with silver rain. He didn't recognize the ripped tunic, but another man's memories helped him map out the exposed scars barely visible through the blood.
Shaohao said softly, "She's not breathing, Zhenjin."
Not breathing. Not. Breathing.
He took a step. His legs nearly buckled. Another step. And then he was beside his brother, kneeling in the snow, gathering Dylan into his arms. The hilt of a knife lodged in her back dug into his thigh.
"No," Zhenjin whispered. He smoothed back her hair from her bloodied, battered face. She was warm yet. Her wounds still bled a little. It must have been mere moments since she had…"No, no, no. Gods, no. Please. Dylan, wake up." He cradled her to him, cupped her face with one gentle hand. The stench of iron-laced blood burned his nose. "Dylan. Dylan! My moonrise, please, look at me. Open your eyes, Dylan. Dylan!"
She didn't stir. He couldn't feel her chest rising and falling, couldn't hear the whisper of breath in her lungs. But there was life there. There had to be life there. She couldn't be dead!
"Dylan! Dylan, wake up! My moonlight, my love…My love…" Zhenjin gritted his teeth against the sob in his throat. "Dylan, you cannot leave me. You cannot leave us. What about Silverlance? What about Nuada? He needs you. I…" He didn't care that Shaohao was watching him as tears spilled down his cheeks, hot enough to scald. Zhenjin dropped his forehead to hers. The sob escaped, raw with pain, the anguish flaying him from within. "Dylan, I need you. Dylan, please. Please. Gods, please. You said we were friends. You cannot…you cannot…Wake up, you selfish human! You can't do this! You can't leave me…Don't," he wept, "don't leave me, don't leave me. You can't…please…please…"
But she did not wake as the ash and snow swirled through the night.
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Author's Note: DO NOT GIVE UP ON ME NOW! Have faith, everybody. Just trust me. Wait a couple more chapters before you decide to abandon me. Huggles for everyone!