Dockalfar (35 page)

“And what will Azeral do, little human? You’re not his guest. You’re his captive. Just because he’ll whip a slave at your behest does not mean he will lift a finger against a member of his court.”

She took a step backwards. There was debris on the ground. She could feel it through the thin soles of her boots.

Twigs and leaves, pebbles of weathered mortar and stone from the terrace above. It spoke of the disuse of this place. The lack of upkeep. It spoke of just how solitary her chosen place of retreat was. And suddenly that distance from the rest of the keep was not a boon.

“You’re wrong,” she whispered.

“You don’t know what he wants of me.”

“I know what I want of you.”

That did it. Her courage snapped and she turned to flee. She had taken two steps towards the interior door when a short stout figure stepped inside it. She skidded to a halt and felt Deigah come crashing up behind her. He caught her arm in a painful grasp, wrenching her about. But not before she had recognized the newcomer.

Desperation fought with relief. She screamed his name.

“Bashru!”

Deigah threw her backwards. She stumbled against a tree and caught her balance, even as the sidhe cast a furious finger at the startled spriggan.

“Get out of here!” The screamed command was accompanied by a searing line of white hot fire that tore into the masonry above the spriggan’s head.

Bashru let out a startled squawk and disappeared from the doorway. Victoria sobbed, her miraculous chance of succor now gone.

“Damn you!” she cried. “Leave me alone.”

“I think not, lady,” he sneered, returning full attention upon her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bashru ran as fast as his short legs could carry him. Mistake. He knew it had been a mistake to go hunting for the wench. But his damned curiosity had gotten the better of him. It had to know why she had been looking for him. Just could not leave well enough alone. Now look at the trouble he was in. A high sidhe throwing magic missiles at him. And the damned wench screaming his name loud as day just so the sidhe might not mistake him later. And him running towards…what?

He skidded to a stop before a servant’s stairway. A step, dark passage that led straight down to the lower levels.

As soon as he hit the level floor he started yelling for the Ciagenii. He knew Dusk was down here somewhere. The damned assassin preferred the dark lower tunnels to the sidhe-populated upper levels.

Gnomes and bendithy stared at the spriggan as if he had lost his mind as he stomped down the passages, screaming at the top of his lungs. It was useless anyway. The assassin was probably out of the keep or to far away to be of any help.

The human wench would have to live with what the sidhe wanted to do to her. Many a lesser sidhe or bendithy wench certainly had.

Bashru slowed, feeling a stitch in his side. If only she hadn’t looked so damned relieved to see him. Then he wouldn’t be feeling guilty over failing her. A hand clamped down on his shoulder and Bashru screamed. He whirled and swung at the same time, reflexes getting the better of him. His fists hit empty air. The shadows danced back from him and coalesced a few feet away.

“Are you insane?” The question was low and somewhat dubious. He was surprised Dusk had voiced it to him at all.

He almost sagged with relief. With one stubby finger he pointed at the ceiling. “Girl. In trouble. Bad trouble. Old north garden. Opal wing.”

He blinked sweat out of his eyes and stared into the shadow. It covered the walls and ceiling like ink. It was featureless and flat and hesitantly he reached out a hand to feel for any solidity.

All he felt was cold wall and the mildew of underground dampness. Very carefully he straightened, holding his aching side and turned back the way he had come.

~~~

It was a game to Deigah. A merry chase for his entertainment. He stalked her and caught her, ripping her dress here, tearing it there. Fondling her or ruthlessly stealing a kiss, then letting her escape so he could take up the hunt once again. It was a cold, merciless game and Victoria felt very much the terrified prey. She felt every inch the weak, helpless victim and it debilitated her rationalization. All the strengths she had developed, all the staunchness of will withered under the physical assault. Her presence of mind was limited to the frantic efforts of dodging her attacker’s taunts and feints.

The calculated places where his long fingers brushed against her as he almost caught her.

She dodged through the garden, using the scant protection of trunks to elude him.

Getting close to the door in a heart wrenching moment of hope only to have him dash it by leaping in her path. He played her like a fine instrument. All to familiar with the desperate patterns of a victim’s attempt to escape.

Ridiculously, he assumed this was still a part of the seduction. That it was as much a game to her as to him. It took her nails raking a set of furrows down his cheek to wipe the smirk of amusement off his face. He shook her savagely, then glared into her pale terrified face. He spat on her in derision of her humanity, her mortality. For her stupidity in denying one of his ilk. He bore her backwards into ferns and moss off of the garden path. Her hysterical screaming was an irritant. With a casual display of power, he magically gagged her. He did not bind her limbs for that would have deprived him the physical dominance he craved. Her twisting and writhing under him were erotic stimulus.

With a violent tear he destroyed the bodice of her gown, baring youthful, human flesh. She was crying. Tears coursed down her face, wetting the hair at her temples. Strands clung to her cheeks.

In her very imperfection she was lovely.

With one hand he reached between them to loosen his trousers. And was rather abruptly jerked backwards by his tunic. Deigah landed ungracefully on his back. He drew power for defensive magics even before laying eyes on the one who had dared to lay hands upon him.

His spell on the girl had withered in his surprise. She was sobbing out loud again, still cowering where he had tumbled her. Whipping about in search of his attacker, Deigah gained his feet. At first he saw no one. They had fled or were hiding then. He flung out a net of telepathic radar, seeking the offender. He sensed nothing.

“Knave!” he screamed in indignant fury, a tiny bit of unease creeping up to unnerve him. The girl was powerless, thanks to Azeral’s binding. It could not have been her. If that binding was slipping he trembled to think of the consequences.

He turned back to the girl and suddenly stopped in shock as his eyes registered a man in his path. The colors blended so very well, green and browns of the garden behind him, that Deigah had overlooked his presence. It took only a second’s thought to register who blocked his path.

Azeral’s Ciagenii. The soul stealer.

Deigah might have lashed out at any other, save maybe Azeral himself, without thought. But the shadow assassin gave him pause. A Ciagenii was not one to trifle with. Had Azeral set him to guard this girl?

“You dare to lay hand to a member of the high court?” Deigah growled. Magic would not touch the Ciagenii, but he had no magic of his own save his unnerving ability to kill. And to kill in such a way that the soul could never return to the lands of the living. To be trapped forever in the hellish regions of lower Annwn was a fate no sane being would tempt. At the moment, however, Deigah’s sanity was tempered by the demand of frustrated hormones and injured dignity.

“Out of my way, soulless one,” he demanded. “Go to your master, if you wish and tell him the wench is in good company.”

The Ciagenii did not move. He was uncloaked, apparently weaponless and half a head shorter than the high sidhe.

“Leave the woman,” the whisper was as calm and cold as an icy breeze. The assassin’s green eyes did not waver. The audacity of the command was infuriating.

That this servant of Azeral’s would dare to confront a sidhe of the highest order.

Perhaps because the creature was Azeral’s and owed loyalty to Azeral’s cause and court, Deigah held the belief that he would hesitate to harm one of his master’s favorites. Deigah held no such restraints. The insult was too grave.

He moved to brush past the Ciagenii, shoving with his shoulder to win forward.

The assassin let him. Deigah’s fingers wrapped about the hilt of his dagger and turned in passing to pierce the Ciagenii’s back. Only Dusk was not there. He melted away like water parting around a rock. He slipped out of the blade’s path and all Deigah saw was a flash of hair and a sharp pain that quickly turned to numbness, then turned to no feeling at all.

With a frantic desperation, Deigah realized something vital was slipping away from him. Something that had never been threatened before. He clutched after the immaterial with all his mental and magical power. It still trickled away.

Deigah went with it. With the realization of that ultimate failure, he screamed. Not a physical scream. That was beyond him, but a pining mental one that reached every sensitive mind in the keep and into the land beyond.

A high sidhe had died the final death.

~~~

The steps of the servant’s stair were not made for comfort or ease. They were steep and narrow and harsh on short legs.

Going down was considerably easier than rushing up. The sweat was glistening on Bashru’s skin by the time he slammed into the hidden door and burst out into the more austere hall of the Opal Wing. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, a great dread trickling through his veins. He felt it deep down in the center of his soul. In his moment of panic, in his thoughtless decision to oppose Sidhe will, catastrophe would follow. He had never been one for intuition or prophesy, but sure as he breathed foul things would come of his actions.

He padded down the hall to the garden, each breath a pain in his chest. In the doorway he stumbled to an ungainly halt just in time to see the lifeless body of the high sidhe crumple to the garden path.

He took in the scene with watering, narrowed eyes. The girl a huddled mass in the midst of broken foliage. The assassin standing over an unmoving Deigah, who Bashru desperately hoped was not a dead Deigah. Then the despairing thought descended. How much chance was there of a Ciagenii striking and ‘not’ killing?

Damn little.

The spriggan scrambled across the garden, pushing past the assassin to crouch by the body. The eyes were wide and staring, an expression of exquisite surprise in their too clear depths. Most definitely dead. Bashru groaned. He cast a glare up to Dusk.

“Idiot! You’ve killed a high sidhe. Azeral’ll have all our hides.”

Dusk looked past Bashru to the girl, then back to the body. There was little regret in his hooded eyes. Did a Ciagenii ever regret? Bashru cursed loudly and inventively, grabbed a handful of Deigah’s tunic and started to haul the body towards the stone balcony. The sidhe, despite his height, was not more than the spriggans wiry muscles could handle.

“Don’t just stand there,” he growled at Dusk. “They’ll be here soon. Get the girl out of here.”

The assassin hesitated, the first sign of uncertainty crossing his features. For a creature whose main purpose in life was to kill, covering up a death, or the need to, was not a natural reflex. When he killed it was to send a message or avenge a slight to his master. Bashru thought it was suddenly occurring to him that this death would not be appreciated by Azeral. The spriggan felt no pity over the dilemma.

“I’ll take care of it. Get her out of sight!” he practically screamed the last, whipping an arm out to indicate the direction of the door in case Dusk had forgotten in the excitement. The assassin stood for a moment longer, then whirled and scooped up the girl in one fluid motion. She half fought him, her eyes unreasoning. There was blood on her face.

Bashru took no more time to examine her. He trusted the assassin to spirit her out of the area with no one the wiser. His job was harder. The other sidhe would know of this one’s death. They would be rushing to find him even now. The spriggan hefted the limp form up to the top of the balcony, then pushed it over the other side. He did not wait to see it fall, but immediately stepped back and began to kick with all his might at the crumbling stone. Pieces at the top broke off, spilling to the garden path, splintering over the outer edge. Frantically he put more effort into the destruction, until larger chunks of masonry tore out of place. A block fell, accompanied by a shower of stone powder. What may have been a large enough opening for a body to fall though, gaped.

Spriggan ears picked up the sound of hurrying footsteps. He looked about frantically, then dashed to the thickness of the garden, scurrying up the thickest, tallest tree until his fingers could grasp the lower edge of the decorate balcony above.

He pulled himself up and flattened himself to the keep wall.

Sidhe burst into the garden, looked about and spotted the crumbled balcony. They rushed to it, peering over the side.

They must have seen the spot of color far below, for one let out a keen wail of dismay. The other gasped in shock and turned and gestured as others ran into the garden. Bashru closed his eyes and tried to make himself as small as possible. He called in every favor fate might owe him and wished that no one of them chanced to look up, or scan the area mentally for sign of a perpetrator.

But they were too caught up in their grief. They milled about and cried, holding each other or peering down at the body that was bound to have dashed itself on the rocks far below. More came, until the spriggan thought half the court must have crowded onto the small garden balcony and finally, amid wails and speculation, Azeral himself cut through their ranks like a stallion though a herd of milling mares.

Bashru shrank down to his haunches, as deep in the shadow of the overhang as his small body could fit. His mind frantically ran through all the things he might say if they discovered him. He would blame it on the assassin and the girl. He would plead for a quick death. Oh please, a quick death. He would say he tried to stop it and when he could not, hid out of panic. It would not quite be a lie.