Moon Shadows (19 page)

He fitted his mouth to hers and took the kiss deeper, drawing her into a swirling blur of heat and pleasure. Their tongues caressed, battled, stroked. Keir's hands thrust through her hair, crushing the curls, even as he crushed Gwynna against him. Exquisite sensations rushed through her. Pressing closer, her body sang, tingled—feeling alive in a way it never had before. Joy dazzled her as she wrapped her arms tightly around him and the hungry kisses flew between them like sparks. He was so strong, so demanding and yet so tender. His touch sparked fire.

Gwynna wanted to kiss him forever. She wanted more, needed more.

More, and more, and more . . .

Then the horses screamed and reared up, and they broke apart in shock, turning to see a looming figure with a bloodless face and twisted features ducking into the mouth of the cave. Another bobbed behind the first, fangs bared and a burning hunger glittering in its soulless eyes. And yet another followed on its heels.

“Vampires.” Swift as fury, Keir thrust her behind him and swept out his sword.

A
S
the three vampires fanned out and began to advance upon Keir from different directions, Gwynna scooped up a stray stick lying alongside the fire and plunged it into the red-hot flames. Even as the torch burst into a blaze, she grabbed another stick and did the same. A moment later she was at his side, a burning torch in each hand.

“They don't look so dangerous,” she murmured, but her heart was pounding. She had just found love and it had found her. She wasn't going to lose it—or the one man in the world she would ever love—because of some undead creatures with a blood-lust from hell.

“Run—or die again,” she ordered them. The creatures' grotesque laughter echoed through the cave.

Keir leaped forward, gripping his sword like a stake and driving it through the first vampire's heart.

Gwynna sprang at the same instant and thrust the burning torch into the second vampire's throat, eliciting a spew of purple bile that narrowly missed her cloak. But the third vampire dodged aside quicker than a blink. Before she could pivot, he
was on her with a growl, pouncing low, knocking her backwards to the ground. Then she felt his hands, powerful as bear claws, holding her shoulders down. His bared fangs dropped toward her throat and she smelled the vile tang of fresh blood on his breath.

“
Morafusken
—get back, get off!” she cried desperately, hoping against hope some shred of the spell would take effect, but it did not. She was too deep in the Valley of Org, and her magic could not help her here.

The vampire merely laughed again, a sound like teeth grinding against bones. Its fangs sank against her throat, but just as they began to bite down, Keir hauled the creature back by its lank hair and sent it crashing into the cave wall. Before the vampire could spring up, Keir's sword plunged clear through the vampire's heart, the blade shoving up against the solid rock wall as it penetrated clear through the beast and protruded out its back.

Purple goo flew from the wound, spattering near the horses, who whinnied and pranced and huddled together.

Three vampires dead. How many more to come?

Keir spun toward the mouth of the cave.

No more vampires approaching—yet. He knelt beside Gwynna and helped her to her feet.

To his horror, there were scratches on her throat, but no blood. He'd reached her just in time.

“We need . . . a circle of protection,” she gasped, knowing there was not a moment to lose. “Help me . . . we must make a circle of fire that blocks off the mouth of the cave—quickly, before others arrive!”

Moments later, it was done. Keir had dashed outside and gathered more sticks. These they'd spread out in a wide circle, edging close to the mouth of the cave, blocking the entrance. Fire blazed around the circle, the flames dancing and swaying as Keir and Gwynna and the two horses huddled within the cave.

“You should rest. I'll keep the fire going until morning.” Keir held her close as they sat within the protective circle of fire.

“How will we know when morning comes? There's no light here in this terrible place.”

“The sky becomes less black, returns to gray. And the
vampires, who hate even a tinge of dawn, will flee. Even though Ondrea's fog of twilight and murk blots out the sun, stars and moon, they're all still there, far above. We just can't see them. But the vampires know when the sun shines, even if its brightness cannot reach this wretched place. They'll be gone.”

There will be more enemies, more challenges ahead
, Gwynna thought wearily. But she wouldn't despair. Keir was with her and she'd find a way to protect him. And to save Lise.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Despair is the sword of evil.” The words tumbled from her lips. She had no idea why she'd spoken them.

Keir leaned back, staring down at her. “What was that?”

She blinked. Suddenly the words echoed in her head.
Despair is the sword of evil
.

“Antwa,” she breathed. She sat up, glancing around. It had been Antwa's voice in her head, whispering those words. Antwa was here.

“How is it possible?” She turned in amazement to Keir. “My teacher is here. I heard her voice within my head. Or perhaps, within my heart. She told me those words. She's with me—with
us
. Look!”

And in the low wall of flames farthest from the cave entrance, an image shone within the fire, a woman's gentle face wavering within the blaze.

Gwynna, do not despair. I've found a way—a way to help you.

“Tell me, Antwa!” She flew forward, crouching near the flames, gazing at the blurred image of her teacher.

I have called forth the powers of those from ages past
. Antwa's voice was a faint crackling murmur within the flickering circle of light.

The Sisters of the Moon, the Great Ones of ancient days join together with you, my brave Gwynna, to fight the Evil One. Your magic alone has no power in the Valley of Org. But what the Great Ones made is far stronger than the murk and darkness of Ondrea's conjuring. Look, look, Gwynna, within the fire. A weapon of the ancients, a magic more powerful
than any you or I have touched. A gift of goodness to pierce the evil. Take it, Gwynna, take it now. Now!

Gwynna scrambled closer, peering into the heart of the flames.

Something glittered—
there
!

She reached into the fire. It glanced off her flesh and she felt no heat—only a cool smoothness as she gripped the glittering object and pulled it from the flames.

Antwa was gone and her voice was silent. Only the half-moon of magical silver carved with tiny runes remained in Gwynna's hand.

“You could have been burned!” Keir spoke roughly beside her, grabbing her arm, yanking her away from the fire. But Gwynna never glanced up from the half-moon talisman resting across her palm.

She was staring at the talisman curiously, a thrilling, refreshing coolness racing through her.

“What in thunder is that?” Keir glanced from the talisman to Gwynna and stared in wonder at the expression of calm determination upon her face.

She looked different. Every bit as beautiful, but even more ethereal, as if she heard music no one else in the universe could hear.

“It's a talisman from the ancients. Our weapon against darkness.” She smiled at him. Her eyes were brighter than the flowers of the highland meadows. “Our weapon against despair.”

“Do you know how it works? What it can do?”

She shook her head and slipped the glittering half-moon talisman into the pocket of her travel-stained gown.

“When the time comes, I'll be shown.”

“You're sure about that?”

“As sure as I am that I love you, Keir. And I won't let Ondrea destroy our lives or Lise's life. She's the one who must be destroyed.”

“You'll get no argument from me.”

He stood guard, seated within the circle of fire, as she lay before him, her head resting upon his lap. Through the night
the flames danced in the darkness and vampires growled at the entrance to the cave, but eventually they retreated reluctantly into the shadows of night.

Then the grayness came and the fire turned to ash and it was day. Time to leave the cave and the circle of fire and face Ondrea in her fortress of death.

O
NDREA
'
S
stronghold was built of rough black stone that soared high into the sky, a fortress of towers and battlements and turrets overlooking the wasteland of Org in every direction.

Ondrea's servants were many. Some were human captives, men and women whose spirit had been broken; they worked alongside dwarves and rat gnomes and took orders from the armored, helmeted outlaws Ondrea called her Black Knights.

And then there were the elf demons, who prowled the ends of the earth searching for whatever their mistress desired. Even those who possessed the spark of magic couldn't detect their presence until they were long gone. They were as silent and mysterious as the night and they obeyed only one being in the world—the sorceress who knew the darkness of their souls and who could stop their breath with a whisper.

“And where is she now, my love?” Ondrea addressed the question to the tall, gaunt warlock king who was appreciatively sniffing the cauldron filled with snakes' heads, bats' wings, and rabbits' blood that simmered over the hearth.

They were in Ondrea's private chamber, high up in the black fortress. Tall windows opened onto the gray wasteland below, but within this room, a hundred candles glowed. Everything in the luxuriant chamber was black, gold or crimson—the same bright red as the blood bubbling in the cauldron.

“My gazing ball showed her at dawn in a cave near Doom's Point.” Leopold turned from the cauldron and gave Ondrea a slow, anticipatory smile. He had a shrewd, intelligent face and flaxen hair that flowed to his shoulders.

“She and the human known as Keir of Blackthorne should be riding across the bridge over the bog at any moment.”

Ondrea smiled back at him from the golden couch where she reclined, stroking the head of Lipus, her pet rat.

“I think I will feed her to the vampires tonight,” she decided, as Lipus turned and licked her hand. “But Keir of Blackthorne, who has twice invaded my land, shall not live out the hour,” she proclaimed. “I mistakenly allowed him to leave the last time because it amused me to hear how he crawled, broken and lost and desperate, to the very edge of the Wild Sea. But I should have let my Black Knights kill him then.” She stretched languorously.

“They shall use him for target practice today and there shall be poison on the tips of their arrows.”

“Not so quickly, my beauty. You really ought to let me play with him a bit first,” the warlock reproached her with a wicked grin.

He left the cauldron to sprawl beside her, leaning back against the crimson velvet pillows and fondling her breast. The emerald ring upon his finger glittered in the candlelight.

“It was my killing of his blood kindred that brought him into Org in the first place,” he reminded her. “I've been waiting for a chance to finish off the Blackthorne royal line ever since.”

“Of course you have, my love.” Ondrea writhed closer to him, stroking his thigh, and fitting her body to his gaunt frame with a sensuous languor that made the warlock's eyes shine. “That's why I sent word for you to transport yourself here for the grand reception. I knew you'd want to watch Keir of Blackthorne die.”

“But I'd much prefer to have a hand in it myself.” He nibbled at her long, swanlike neck, which smelled intoxicatingly of poison-weed. “I'll tell you what,” he said persuasively, his mouth dipping lower to the white exposed flesh above her shimmering gown. “You can have the moon witch all to yourself, but let me have my bit of fun with the duke.”

“Very well—if you wish.” She sighed, and the warlock leaned over in delight and kissed her pouting mouth.

“You did bring me that lock of Queen Lise's hair that allowed me to do the spell,” she reflected reluctantly. “It was very clever of you to materialize in Callemore Castle while she slept and steal those strands. And it certainly made it easier for my little elf demons to find her since you so brilliantly paved the way.”

“I would do anything for you, my sweet.” Leopold touched her magnificent face with a hand nearly as white and slender as her own. His black eyes glittered. “I'd even dispose of Callemore's princess for you and save you the bother.”

Ondrea pulled away from him and spoke sharply. “That is a pleasure I reserve for myself. Do not touch her, do you hear me?”

Leopold of Cruve laughed. “Don't fret, my sweet. I wouldn't dream of depriving you of such amusement. Don't you know I am just as content to watch you mete out death to her as I would be doing it myself? Your creativity is almost as enticing as your beauty. But might I offer a suggestion?”

Lipus hopped onto Ondrea's shoulder as she smoothed her flame-colored halo of hair. “Suggestions are welcome.”

“Before you decide to turn the pesky princess over to the vampires, you might wish to consider my little concoction over there.”

They both glanced over at the boiling cauldron set within the high stone hearth.

“It is a most painful poison—disintegrates skin and bone. Feeds on blood. In a very short, excruciating period of time, an enemy can be dissolved, completely disintegrated—just like that!” Cruve snapped his fingers and Ondrea smiled, intrigued.

“Really?” Her eyes shone green as river ice. “Now you've given me a dilemma,” she chided, but she held out her hand and allowed him to kiss each of her fingertips and then to press his lips against her palm.

“A delicious choice,” she murmured and stroked her fingers through his limp, biscuit-colored hair. “You're so good to me, Leopold,” she murmured as he leaned closer and bent to kiss her lips.

They drew apart as a Black Knight appeared in the doorway of the chamber and cleared his throat.

“Pardon the intrusion, your Powerfulness, but the trespassers have crossed the bridge over the bog. Is it time for their capture?”

“It is time.” Ondrea stroked a loving hand along the warlock's narrow jaw, then returned her gaze to the burly knight.

“Send the order—
now
.”

The knight crossed to the balcony doors and threw them wide open. At his signal, the raven perched on the stone parapet soared off, cawing across the sky.

“When your troops see the raven, they'll close in upon the trespassers at once,” the knight assured Ondrea as he bowed his way out of the room.

No sooner had he disappeared than Ondrea turned back to the warlock who shifted to lie across her.

“Now where were we?” Ondrea murmured as she sank her teeth into Leopold's neck and Lipus leaped away, skittering across the floor as his mistress and her lover rolled together upon the golden couch.

 

T
HERE
was no warning, none at all.

One moment, the air was still, but for the sudden cawing of a raven—and the next, Gwynna and Keir found themselves surrounded, trapped by a dozen black-helmeted soldiers astride horses nearly twice the size of their own scarred and ragged mounts.

There was no time, no opportunity to fight before twelve spears were pointed at them, and they were quickly overpowered and bound hand and foot. The raven, Gwynna realized
too late, had been cawing, “
Now, now, now
,” but she hadn't recognized its language quickly enough.

Captured, helpless, she and Keir braced themselves as their horses were led off in defeat through the twilight fog. The gloom grew ever denser and the air more suffocating the closer they came to Ondrea's fortress.

As the black towers of the fortress came at last into view, Gwynna's heart began to pound. She feared for Keir, for Lise and for herself.

But she also felt a tingling of hope. She had reached Ondrea's stronghold and now, unless she was much mistaken, she would face the sorceress queen herself.

She was closer to saving Lise than anyone back in Callemore ever could have dreamed. Close to the victory and success that would give her everything she wanted.

But also close to failure
, a fearful voice inside of her whispered, as the great rusted iron gates loomed before her.

She blocked the voice, closed her eyes and pictured the green flowing lands of Callemore. She heard the songs of children, felt the flower-scented breeze of spring dancing down a hillside. And she relived the gentleness and passion of Keir's kiss, which had banished the darkness Org had draped over her heart.

If despair was the sword of evil, then she must cling to the shield of goodness.

Hope.