Sorceress (2 page)

At the crest of this hill, the trail split as neatly as a snake’s tongue and, if she was far enough ahead, she might be able to tear off a bit of bloody clothing to lead her pursuers on the wrong course. She glanced over her shoulder and saw no one, none of the dark horsemen following.

Had she lost them?

Nay.

They would not give up. Their purpose was too strong. She dug her heels into the gasping gray’s sides and wound through the trees. Blood sang through her veins when she caught sight of the fork in the path, one trail leading downward toward the village and river, the other following the backbone of these sheer mountains. Surely those behind her would expect her to take the lower path to the town. . . .

Suddenly her horse shied.

Stumbled.

Kambria’s heart clutched.

She fell forward, nearly toppling over Tempest’s bowed neck. Bristly black hairs from her jennet’s mane stung her eyes and blinded her for a heartbeat. As the horse regained her footing and Kambria’s eyes focused again, she saw him: a single dark predator upon a white steed. His head was covered with a black cloak, only the cleric’s collar visible in the darkness, but she felt his eyes upon her, sensed his hideous intent.

She tried to pull her horse around, but it was too late. The others had closed in and she was trapped upon her panting mare.

Doom, it seemed, had found her.

“There is no escape for sinners,” the horseman blocking the fork stated bluntly.

“I’ve not sinned.”

“Have you not?” His dark eyes were slits deep in his cowl as he pointed a long, accusatory finger at the ground, where blood stained the icy snow. “Proof of your perfidy, Kambria, descendant of Llewellyn,” he said. “Of your heresy and adultery. You are a harlot and a whore of the worst order, a daughter of the devil.”

She felt the other horsemen drawing closer, circling her tightly, and for a second she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. The mare beneath her quivered and Kambria laid a calming hand upon the frightened horse’s shoulder. Was there no way out? Could she force her little mare to break through this ring of soulless men? She turned her thoughts inward, to the strength that lay deep in the marrow of her bones, the faith and courage that had brought her this far.
There are ways to defeat these monsters, means not physical, forces you have only to call upon.

As if he read her thoughts, the leader snagged the reins from her hands and dropped to the ground. “Dismount,” he ordered.

When she hesitated, he nodded to one of the others. A large hooded man with shoulders as broad as a woodcutter’s ax hopped lithely off his bay, his boots hitting hard against the frozen terrain. Though she held on fiercely to the pommel of her saddle, it was no use. The big brute of a man dragged her from her horse and pinned her arms roughly behind her back, causing her shoulders to scream in pain. She felt the blood drain from her face but didn’t cry out, determined to confront the fury of these lying thugs with a fire of her own.

The leader was the worst—a zealot who spoke of piety and divinity but was, in truth, an abomination to all of mankind.

He was known as Hallyd, and his cloak was but a disguise to hide the legacy of evil he’d inherited from his father, a man rumored to be half demon himself.

Aye, she knew this man who posed as a priest by day but was known to be quite a swordsman with women in the village by night. Had he not tried to bed her? Even threatened her when she’d refused him? But she’d seen the eerie light in his eyes. She could smell the smoky darkness of his soul. She sensed the yawning abyss of hatred that threatened to devour all light from the sky. She’d known what he really wanted, and she could not let it fall into his hands, even if she died protecting it.

If only the other hunters knew of his evil . . . but the men seemed all too willing to follow his orders as Hallyd gave a quick nod and they too slid to the ground, surrounding her.

“Hypocritical spawn of Arawn,” she whispered defiantly, “go back to Annwn, the underworld of the dead. May you never see the light of day again!”

He froze, thunderstruck.

“Silence!” Hallyd ordered.

“I know you,” she whispered, holding his gaze. Even as he accused her of practicing the dark arts, beneath his Christian cloak and collar, he, too, was familiar with the old ways. Evil was apparent in the eerie, ethereal glow within his brown eyes—wild, determined eyes of a man who was not yet twenty years. “I know of your own sins, Hallyd, and they be many.”

For an instant he hesitated.

“Harm me now and you will forever look over your shoulder, chased by your own guilt and my vengeance. ” As if to add credence to her words, lightning split the sky. The forest trembled.

“Mother of God,” one of the men whispered nervously.

But the leader would not back down. Through lips that barely moved as the day darkened, he hissed, “You, Kambria of Tarth, daughter of Waylynn, descendant of Llewellyn, are an adulteress as well as a witch. The only way to save yourself is to tell me where you’ve hidden the dagger.”

She didn’t respond, though in her mind she caught an image of a wicked little knife covered in jewels.

“You know where it is,” he accused, leaning closer.

She spat upon his face, the spittle sliding down his cheek and neck, lodging behind his clerical collar.

Enraged, he yanked a rosary from a pocket, then forced it over her head, its sharp beads tangling in her hair. “For your sins against God and man, you are hereby condemned to death.”

She saw it then, the traitorous gleam in his eye. Oh, he was a fraud, a man with a soul black as the darkest night. He was doing this, sentencing her to die, to protect himself and his true mission. Her destruction had little to do with her, but all to do with his ambition to seize the Sacred Dagger.

“No amount of killing will save you,” she said, then closed her eyes and began to chant, conjuring up a dark and deadly spell. She sensed the wind shift as it rattled the branches of the trees and swept across the icy ridge. Without seeing, she knew that thick clouds were suddenly forming, coming together, roiling toward the heavens, turning the color of aging steel. Far in the distance, thunder boomed.

“God in heaven,” one man whispered, his voice raspy, “what is this?”

“Is she really the progeny of Llewellyn the Great?” another asked, and Kambria felt their fear.

“Ignore her cheap tricks,” Hallyd said, though his voice was void of conviction. “She is using your fear against you.”

“Save us all,” the other man cried, falling to his knees and crossing himself.

Lost in her chant, Kambria barely heard their words. Pressing fingertips to her forehead, she prayed, summoning the spirits, whispering for the safety of her child and the destruction of her enemies.

“Stop! Jezebel! Call not your demons!”

And yet her words would not stop, the prayers of the old ones springing from her lips.

“Nay!” the dark horseman cried, enraged at her calm, her inner peace. He wanted to see her fear, to feel her terror. He received no satisfaction from her serenity. “Tell me, witch!”

Through her fluid chant she felt his vexation swell, sensed the growing fear that he couldn’t hide.

“Curse you, Hallyd, and may your darkest fears be known.” Her eyes opened and she stared into the mask of rage upon his face. “Your black soul shall be condemned for all eternity and you shall live in darkness forever, the pain of day too much to bear. From this day forward you will become a creature of the night.” She saw it then—the fear, causing the pupils of his eyes to dilate to holes dark as the blackest dungeon, black swirls that would never shrink. His would be a blindness not only of the soul but of all daylight. And he would be marked, the very ring of color of one of his eyes turning to a pale gray.

Roiling with fury, he curled his fingers into fists until every knuckle turned white.

But she would not be deterred. “Go back to the bowels of hell from whence you were spawned,” she said, staring into his black eyes, dark mirrors that reflected her own image.

“Tell me where the dagger is,” he railed. “Tell me, whore!” Enraged, he struck, his fist slamming into her face.

Her nose splintered. Blood sprayed over the earth, yet she didn’t flinch.

When he saw she was unmoved, he said, “So be it. You are to die, now. Do you hear me, whore? You cannot be saved. Go thee to Satan!” He shook her and more blood spewed from her body, streaking his white collar red, speckling his chin.

Jaw clenched, his pulse pounding at his temple, he reached into the voluminous folds of his robe and withdrew a sharp-edged rock.

In that instant, still chanting, she closed her eyes again and gave herself over to the Great Mother. In a heartbeat, she felt her spirit rise into the tempest of clouds. As she looked down, far below, she spied her body standing defiantly upon the jagged cliff, her skirts billowing. She watched from above as he hurled the stone with a fury born of fear. The rock crashed hard against her face, splintering her jaw, slicing her pale skin. Blood sprayed upon the ground as she stumbled back. Another stone smashed against her forehead and she fell, the group of men upon her, demons dressed in black pounding at her flesh.

There was no pain.

Only peace.

Her child, Kambria knew, was safe.

And vengeance would be hers.

CHAPTER ONE

On hands and knees, Gavyn slid through the undergrowth, moving stealthily, praying dusk would come quickly. His pursuers were nearby, ever closer. He heard the snort of their horses, the rumble of the great steeds’ hooves, smelled their horsehide and sweat. Above all else, he sensed the eyes of his pursuers scouring the woods, searching. Always searching. For him.

But he heard no dogs. No furry sentinels ready to bay to the heavens upon smelling his scent. For that alone he was grateful.

His body ached from the beating, and he knew, if he were to look into a mirror, he would see bruises and welts crisscrossing his skin. They came to him compliments of Craddock, the sheriff of Agendor, a ruthless son of a cur if ever there was one.

And now a dead man.

Gavyn had no time to think of that now. He would not let his mind wander to the fight, the battering of flesh, the smell of sweat or the oaths of fury. He refused to revisit the crack of bone as it shattered and Craddock fell, his head twisted at a horrid angle upon his broken neck.

Fingers digging into the wet earth, he dragged himself beneath the bracken and scrub brush, hoping the shadows of the massive yew and oak trees would hide him as he crept toward the edge of the cliff, where a narrow path cut down the sheer face. No sane man nor intelligent beast would follow, and ’twas all he had, his only way of escape.

Jaw set, he edged toward the ridge where the switchback was perilous, but it was safer than risking close proximity to the Lord of Agendor.

“Hey! What’s this?” a man shouted.

Gavyn froze.

Held his breath and dared not move a muscle.

“What?”

“I thought I saw something in the . . . Ach, ’twas only a skunk.”

A horse neighed in distress and the stench of a skunk’s defenses seeped through the ivy and ferns. Gavyn’s eyes began to water.

“Aye, Seamus. What did ye do? Christ Jesus, that stinks! Oh, fer the love of God.”

“Holy Jesus!” one man cried while another coughed from somewhere close, though he was hidden in the gloom.

Maintaining silence, Gavyn watched the offending skunk waddle quickly into the shadows of a fallen log.

“Shh!” An order.

Gavyn’s heart stilled as the putrid smell settled over the area. He knew his father’s hiss as surely as if he’d grown up with the snake, though of course he’d never set foot in the Lord of Agendor’s keep and had, instead, been raised by one of the old man’s mistresses. He forced back the bile in his throat, for the hatred between them was strong.

“He’s near.” His father’s voice again.

That much was true. Through the dense foliage Gavyn noticed the shadowy outline of a horse’s legs, close enough that were he to reach forward, he could touch the beast and startle it. ’Twas his father’s mount, a stallion with one odd stocking. Gavyn’s heart knocked in his chest at the thought of being mere inches from the man who had sired him, the baron who detested him, the goddamned warrior who wanted him dead.

“Eww, but, m’lord, the smell.”

“ ’Twill not kill you, Badden,” Deverill said impatiently as several men farther away coughed but were smart enough not to argue. Badden, his father’s guard, was a big, burly man who wasn’t afraid to say what he thought, though he’d felt the back of Deverill’s hand or the insidious ridicule from his lord more often than not.

Gavyn took in a quick, hideously smelling breath.

The horse shifted, kicking up dry leaves and dirt as it turned, bridle jangling in the ever-darkening air. Were Gavyn to look up, he was certain he would find the angry countenance of his father, so like his own, glaring at the darkness, defying the night from falling so that he could finish his task.

“Damn but it’s dark,” Deverill admitted. “Find him! Find the murderer, now!”

“Leith should be back soon, with the dogs and fresh torches.” Again Badden had the nerve and lack of brains to speak up.

Gavyn’s heart turned to ice. Fear crawled up his spine. His father’s hunting mastiffs were trained to be vicious. Weighing his chances, he heard the first distant bays of the huge dogs with their long fangs.

He had no choice but to edge closer to the cliff and risk detection. With one eye on the white stocking of his father’s steed, he inched forward noiselessly. Jaw set, body screaming in pain, he dragged himself upward through the twilight and stench.