Crown of Vengeance

Centaurs, Minotaurs, Gryphons, Bearwards, Hippogriffs, Aesalions, Elves, and more. Each provided special delights to the Endarkened. It was their greatest delight to capture any of the Winged Ones, to drag them beneath the earth, to rip the wings from their bodies. The Winged Ones never lasted, but their suffering was beautiful to their enslavers.

Those creatures of deep forest were nearly as fragile. Bearwards pined for the cool green life that was taken from them. Fauns died quickly of grief. Pixies and fairies, trapped away from their fields of flowers, starved slowly, their bodies glowing beautifully in their death agonies.

Centaurs and Minotaurs lasted much longer, prized by the Endarkened as much for their strength as for the torture they could withstand.

But the greatest prize in any Endarkened slave hunt was the Elves.

The Elvenkind were hard to take without suspicion. The creatures called themselves alfaljodthi—Children of Stars—and their shape was a mockery of Endarkened beauty. Their skin was grub-pale. Their long pointed ears only made more obvious the lack of beautiful golden horns. Their mouths were filled with stubby pointed teeth, their toes and fingers were blunt and soft. They had neither wings nor tails.

But they were durable—as much as any Brightworlder was—and they suffered beautifully.

The first Elves the Endarkened took as slaves cried out to Aradhwain the Mare, and wept for their herds, and the vast openness of the Goldengrass. Time passed in the Bright World, and the new Elven captives lamented for their beautiful palaces among The Teeth of the Moon, and cried out to Manafaeren Law Lord to deliver them. Time passed, and they cried out to Amrethion and Pelashia, to the Sword-Giver and the Bride of Battles, to the Starry Hunt.

None of their Brightworld powers saved them.

And Virulan had been confident none of them ever would.

* * *

“What is your name, little Elfling?” Rugashag purred. The Royal Consort’s eyes glowed gold with anticipation; her scarlet skin was flushed brilliant with lust. All around her, King Virulan’s favored courtiers murmured in anticipation of the treat about to be presented.

The captive’s face was contorted with terror—for Rugashag had been careful to bring him to the Heart of Darkness by a way that made him fully aware of the horrors of his fate—but there was no other mark on him. Rugashag had found him in the western reaches of the Goldengrass, and followed him carefully for a long time to be certain he could be taken in secret. The Elfling had been so concerned with hiding from his race’s many enemies that he had not noticed one more hunter.

Fool, Virulan thought.

Rugashag had brought him directly to the Heart of Darkness, knowing King Virulan took special pleasure in watching new captives’ realization of their fate. He knew that she hoped by these shows of submission to lull him to the point she could destroy him. He cherished each spark of her futile rebellion, just as he had from the beginning. One day—if he grew bored enough—he would end it.

“What are you?” the Elfling whispered, his voice shaking with beautiful terror.

“We are death and pain and darkness. We are your masters,” Virulan said, smiling hideously. “Kneel.”

Virulan rose to his feet, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. He had grown used to the stink of soil and sun upon the flesh of new slaves over the centuries. But this was … different.

Irritating.

“No!” the Elfling shouted. He flung himself away from Rugashag, the tatters of his green robes swirling about his limbs. “I will never serve you! Never!”

Rugashag laughed mockingly, spreading her wings and baring her fangs.

The stink Virulan had sensed grew stronger. He took a step forward.

“The simplest spell…” the Elfling whispered. Tears glittered in his eyes.

And then his body erupted in flame.

The Endarkened sprang back in surprise, though mere flame had no power to harm them. The captive began to scream in agony, and the sweetness of the sound held Virulan transfixed for a fatal moment. By the time he doused the flame with a spell, the captive was dead.

“I swear to you, my king, I would never—” Rugashag babbled, throwing herself to the floor in terror. No one else in the chamber dared to move so much as a wing.

“Magic,” Uralesse hissed. “The maggot-things have magic.”

“Yessss…” King Virulan said broodingly. “It is weak, compared to ours. But you did not know that when you brought me this Elven Mage, did you, my dear Rugashag?”

“I swear to you— My king— I swear—” she babbled, scrabbling backward, her mouth hanging open in horror.

“Indeed you do,” Virulan said. “Let us see what else you will swear—with the proper inducement.”

He gestured languidly, and two of the Lesser Endarkened came to bear his consort away.

His former consort.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE WAY OF THE SWORD

A commander is often faced with two bad choices and no good ones. One gains the victory by concealing that truth from the enemy.

—Arilcarion War-Maker,

Of the Sword Road

For days Vieliessar’s dreams had been troubled, filled with the clash of swords, the screams of the dying, images of a vast battlefield upon which thousands fought. When she drifted from sleep to waking, it took her long moments to realize that the sounds had followed her into wakefulness.

No battle should come here! she thought, scrambling through the narrow tunnel of her sleeping-place into the clearing. But that was custom, not law. Only the Sanctuary itself was sacrosanct. She kilted up the skirts of her green robe and ran toward the sound. She must see.

When she reached the edge of the Forest and looked out over the winter-bare fields of Rosemoss Farm, she saw that the fields were as yet unplowed and the snow that lay on them was patchy and thin. Empty. The sky was clouded, the air was heavy and wet, and she could smell woodsmoke. Somewhere a dog barked.

There is no battle, she told herself in exasperation. I have mistaken dreams for Farseeing, nothing more.

She was about to turn back into the trees when she saw a bright flash in the distance: pale sunlight on armor. She heard shouting and the mellow, demanding call of warhorns. A moment later she felt the faint trembling of the ground as it resounded to the beat of hooves. Destriers. Many of them.

The first of the riders thundered into view. She saw the white-and-silver of Penenjil—the grey stallions marking their riders as the feared Silver Swords of Penenjil, never defeated in battle—the tawny and gold of Enerchelimier, the tawny and marron of Calwas.

But the Silver Swords of Penenjil never ride to battle outside Penenjil’s lands—and Calwas has never made alliance with Enerchelimier in all the history of the Hundred Houses!

She barely had time to form her thought before their pursuers became visible. Purple and gold: Haldil, its House colors almost indistinguishable from the tawny and marron of Calwas. Deep blue and green: Bethros, barely distinguishable at this distance from Hallorad’s green on green. She knew the colors and blazons of all the Hundred—and she knew Haldil and Bethros to be enemies as often as allies.

There were perhaps a dozen who fled, and twice that number pursuing. When they reached the open field, the fleeing komen wheeled their destriers and stood to battle.

Vieliessar had read hundreds of songs of great battles but had never seen one. As if she were a songsmith, she marked how the bright blood slicked the silver blades, how droplets seemed to trail in the air after a blow. She heard the hard dull sound, like an axe upon wood, as a sword struck through armor into flesh, the high, ringing bell