12 FROM THE SHADOWS
THE BLADE NEVER bit. Instead, something heavy crashed into her back, knocking her flat.
Winded, Lara gasped as she tried to suck in a breath. Meanwhile, the clang of blades rang out behind her. Scrabbling along the ground, she reached for the dagger at her side. Then, managing to draw air into her lungs now, she rolled onto her back, blade raised.
Alar was fighting her assailant.
In the light of the flickering cressets, a young Shee female wielding a longsword dueled with vicious determination.
Long hair, the color of a raven’s wing, streamed behind her as she struck at Alar repeatedly.
Black leather encased her tall, lean form, and she moved with the fluidity that Lara had seen in Bree when she’d been Shee.
No Marav could move like that.
However, Alar matched her. He’d drawn both his long fighting daggers and circled the Shee, pushing her away from where Lara still lay.
The sound of running feet—boots slamming against stone—intruded then.
Heaving in a lungful of air, Lara rolled to her feet and backed away from the dueling pair.
“Lara.” Bree was at her side, weapon drawn. Her gaze tracked Alar and the Shee warrior. “Where the fuck did she come from?”
“From the shadows,” Lara replied breathlessly, watching as Alar drove the warrior back farther. The fountain was now behind her. “She must have hidden herself amongst the roses.” Indeed, the banks of carpet roses were thick in places. Nonetheless, it would have been a thorny hiding place.
Steel clattered against stone as Alar bested his opponent. An instant later, the Shee warrior was sprawled on her stomach, writhing as he held her down, a knee pressed into the small of her back.
Two Marav guards were at his side then, helping him subdue her.
The Shee’s vicious curses rang against stone, shattering the peace of this rose-scented courtyard. They were binding her wrists behind her, and she wasn’t taking kindly to it.
Sheathing her dagger, Lara shivered. “She almost had me.”
Beside her, Bree was silent. She tore her gaze from the struggling captive then and looked at her warder. “I thought you had retired for the evening.”
Bree’s lips thinned. “No.”
Murmuring an oath, Lara pushed strands of hair off her face.
Her attention shifted then to where Alar had risen to his feet.
He stared down at his snarling captive before bending to retrieve his fighting daggers.
He didn’t sheath them though. His tall, lean form tensed then, his fingers flexing around the grips of his weapons.
Meanwhile, the Marav warriors hauled the dark-haired Shee female to her feet.
“What do you want us to do with her, My Queen?” one of them grunted.
Lara hesitated, observing her would-be assassin. “Who sent you?” she asked after a pause, relieved that her voice was steady.
The Shee’s face contorted, and she spat on the ground.
Heat flared under Lara’s ribs. However, before she could answer, Alar stepped forward, the flat of his iron blade pressing down upon the female’s bare bicep.
This hiss of iron on flesh followed, and the Shee choked out a curse, struggling in her captors’ holds.
“Answer the High Queen,” Alar commanded. “Or this blade will kiss your throat.” He then lifted the fighting dagger from her skin.
Panting, the Shee glared at him. “The commander bade me to wait,” she gasped.
Lara’s lips thinned. Even dead, Gavyn Frostshard was dangerous. “You were waiting for me?”
The female sneered. “I was hoping for the chief-enforcer, but you’re a much better prize.”
“What is your name?” Bree demanded.
“Fuck off, Marav bitch.”
Alar brought the flat of his blade down once more, and the female shrieked, writhing under the contact. “Answer.”
His ruthlessness was shocking, and Lara averted her gaze. She reminded herself then that this Shee had tried to kill her. She didn’t deserve mercy.
“Fern Sablebane!”
Alar jerked the dagger away, as if scalded. He then took a rapid step back from the captive. In the flickering light of the surrounding torches and braziers, his face had gone pale and taut.
Focusing on the Shee once more, she studied the proud, haughty lines of her face. Even in pain, she was defiant. An angry red welt of blisters had come up on her smooth upper arm. “I have some more questions for you, Fern,” she said finally. “And I suggest you answer them.”
“Mor divides her time between Sheehallion and Cannich.” Seated at the long table upon the high seat, her fingers wrapped around a cup of warm broth, Lara surveyed her council.
“She leaves her trusted commanders to control her conquered territory. She’s in Cannich at present …
but will leave at Gateway.” She paused then, giving a soft snort.
“Our winters are too bitter for the Raven Queen.”
“Did your prisoner tell you anything of Mor’s plans?” Cailean’s expression was hard this morning, his big body tense.
Lara could guess the reason.
There were eight—rather than the usual seven—members of her council this morning, for Alar had joined them.
Her chief-enforcer wasn’t the only one who didn’t want the Half-blood present.
Roth wore a deep scowl, and Gregor’s mouth was pursed as if he’d just taken a sip of horse piss rather than broth from his cup.
Despite that Doure was now theirs, none of her council looked that happy this morning.
Alar ignored their displeasure. One elbow resting on the table, he trailed his fingertips lazily upon the tabletop, tracing the whorls in the oak. His expression was shuttered.
“It took more iron to convince her,” Lara answered, even as her mouth soured.
The char of burning flesh had lingered in her nostrils for a while after the questioning.
Alar had seemed reluctant to touch the prisoner with his blade again, so a guard had done it.
Torture had been Talorc mac Brude’s favorite pastime, but it wasn’t his daughter’s.
All the same, she’d allowed it. “And even then, she gave us little. We did learn though that Mor intends to make Albia hers within the turn of the next year.” Her pulse started to race then.
“And that she’ll burn every druid. Earth magic will be outlawed … as fire magic is.”
Cailean sneered at these words. However, a few yards away, Ren swallowed audibly. The chief-bard’s eyes were large upon her sharp-featured face. Lara was inclined to share Ren’s concern. She’d known Mor wouldn’t be content with The Uplands. This was proof.
Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t agreed to Alar’s plans to wait before striking north. What if Mor attacked first?
“What have you done with the prisoner?” Annis asked, speaking up for the first time.
“She’s still alive … just nursing some nasty burns,” Bree replied.
“Aye … she’s with the other captives now,” Lara added. “And will return to Duncrag with us.” She glanced over at Alar then, to find him watching her.
“Are you going to tell them what we witnessed from the walls last night?” he asked, gaze sharp now. “Or shall I?”
Heat flushed over Lara. “I’ll do it,” she muttered before shifting her gaze to the others. A pause followed before she spoke once more. “We saw the Slew.”
A breathless hush fell.
“Outside the fort?” Gregor asked, leaning forward.
“In the sky … above the woods to the north,” Alar replied.
The chief-sacrificer snapped upright, his eyes narrowing, while next to him, the chief-seer’s long face pinched. Cailean growled a curse.
“We’ve all seen how the Slew have changed over the past years.” The broth and oatcakes that Lara had just consumed churned in her belly. “They’re more vicious at Gateway than they’ve ever been.”
“Aye … but what if they start hunting more than one night a year?” Alar answered.