Page 1 of WarBride

PROLOGUE

The barred door bursts open, screeching in protest like a soul ripped from a corpse. It hits the side of the cage with a bang which reverberates through every bone in my body. I cannot help the scream that escapes my throat as I throw my arms up over my head.

Hands reach inside: large, pale-skinned, and tipped with black talons. Grasping, eager, greedy hands. The last time they reached through that opening, they grabbed a young priest and dragged him forth, struggling and blaspheming like a heathen. None of us tried to stop them, none of us tried to help. We’re beyond such pathetic resistance.

So when those hands latch down hard on my shoulder and the front of my bodice, when those talons dig through the rough fabric of my cloak and into my flesh, I’m not surprised when no one moves to defend me. I don’t bother with either begging or pleading, nor do I cast my fellow prisoners a final, desperate glance. They cannot help me. No one can. Not anymore.

I hold my tongue, my last scream still choked in my throat. My only hope now is that whatever my captors intend for me will be done quickly. I’ve heard tales of the fae and their prisoners, stories of torments and tortures lasting for days on end. Crucifixions and bloodlettings, great burning pyres surrounded by wild figures singing in hideous harmony with the screams of the dying. I used to listen to such stories in my father’s hall, relishing the horror and the gore, hanging on each word from the minstrel’s mouth. Waiting for the moment when the heroarrived on his white horse to topple the pyres, to vanquish the foes, to make right all that was evil.

There are no such heroes left in this world. I learned that bitter truth the hard way. No champion riding in on a white horse to save me. If I cannot save myself, no one will.

But I could not save Aurae. They took her. My sister. They took her, and I could do nothing but listen until her screams were drowned out in savage roars.

Now it’s my turn.

Though I’m determined to face my end with courage, my body rebels. My knees give way as I’m hauled from the cage, and I collapse in a trembling heap. Raucous voices growl in a language I do not know, and the grip on my shoulder releases momentarily, only for those long fingers to snarl in the hair atop my head. A painful wrench, and I’m back on my feet.

“March!” snarls a voice close to my ear. Forced into motion, I stagger through the churning crowd. Strange faces close in around me. Some are hideous, like monsters born of nightmares, all greenish mottled skin, seeping warts, and gnashing teeth. Others are beautiful—pristine masks sculpted to perfection, radiating glamours that dazzle the eye and intoxicate the senses. These beings are more terrifying by far. They speak to each other, monsters and men alike, motioning at me, pointing out my various attributes, while their eyes travel up and down my figure in lewd appraisal.

It's all too much. Too many voices in my ears, too many faces swimming before my eyes, the stench of blood in my nostrils, and bitter terror coating my tongue. We reach the foot of eight crooked steps leading up to a scaffold. They seem so big, so insurmountable. I stop, unable to make my feet obey.

It doesn’t matter. The hand on my head shifts to the back of my cloak and gown, propelling me onward and upward to the top of the scaffold, where I’m tossed roughly forward. The claspof my cloak rips open, and I fall to my knees. Barks of laughter erupt from the crowd. Clenching my jaw, I push upright and swipe wild strands of hair out of my face as I look around. I’m alone up here—no brutalized corpses of my fellow captives for company. No sign of Aurae.

“On your feet,” the taloned creature growls. He stands at the top of the stairs, my cloak still in his grasp. When he takes an aggressive step forward, I hasten to get my feet under me, to stand tall. If this is to be my end, I won’t snivel and shrink from it. I am a daughter of warriors and kings. I will face death with dignity.

So I brace myself before that vicious throng, painfully aware of every rip in my gown, every bruise purpling my body, and the dried blood matting my hair. I draw my shoulders back and lift my chin as though even now I wear a queenly diadem and robes of royal silk. Turning slowly, I survey all those leering faces surrounding the scaffold. They look ready to rend me apart and lap up my blood. I hate them. I hate them for making me so afraid I’m ready to piss myself. I hate them for taking my sister before me. I hate them with all the force and fury I can summon. Hatred is my only remaining shield.

“Here, brothers!” the creature behind me, the one holding my cloak in his awful hands, roars, his voice rising above the din of growls and snarls. “Here is a fine specimen of human womanhood!” He speaks in a strange tongue which I do not know, but which transforms as it strikes my ear into words I can understand. “A tasty warbride for the man lucky enough to win her. What’ll you give for her, my savages?”

“Five silver heds!” a voice bellows back immediately from the front of the scaffold.

“Ten!” another snarls from the right.

Another voice and another, one after the other, and the bidding has gone up to twenty silver before my dulled brainfinally comprehends what is happening. Oh gods. I’m not to be killed. I’m to be sold.

As a bride.

1

ILSEVEL

24 hours earlier

A trickle of goat blood runs across the age-cracked sacrificial stone. I watch its slow progress, oddly fascinated. It oozes to the edge of the slab, seems to pause for a moment, before spilling over in a gory streak to finally pool in the gutter cut around the altar’s base. A stink of copper mingles with the sting of incense in my nostrils. My lip curls faintly, hidden behind my demure prayer veil.

Then I draw a deep breath, close my eyes, and brace for what I know must come next.

It hits like a blow—a whole chorus of holy prayersong erupting all around me, flooding my senses. Wincing, I bow my head. I can only hope I look solemn and reverent rather than nauseated. Of course, in that assembly of two dozen devout voices, there’s one that is justslightlyoff-key. That’s the one I hear, singled out from all others. He might as well be singing a personal solo just for my benefit. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Not for the first time, I bite back curses aimed at the very gods who blessed me with the gift of song on the day of my christening. I’m pretty sure they were having a laugh when they did it, amused at the prospect of how often my ears would be offended by less than perfect pitch. It’s a useless gift as far as I’m concerned. Sure, people like to hear me sing. Sure, I can play any instrument I put my hand to. So what? Anyone could learn to dothe same with a little bit of effort. I don’t see why the gods felt the need to get involved . . . unless it was to spite my father.

They tell me that King Larongar went on a quest when he was young—back when he was just a prince, and a younger son at that, not the sovereign he is today. Supposedly he climbed to the summit of Mount Helesatra, defeated the dragon which sleeps there, and claimed the right of gods-gifts for his future offspring. No doubt he hoped the gods would dole out useful sorts of gifts which he could use according to his ambitions. A war gift, especially. A gift for strategy would have been acceptable as well. Even an affinity for spellcraft would do. Something exciting. Something worthy of divine bequeathal.

Instead he got the lot of us: my older brother, Theodre, who is beautiful as the day; my older sister, Faraine, who gets headaches from other people’s emotions; and my younger sister, Aurae, who dances like a dream.

Then there’s me. When I sing or play an instrument, people see pretty pictures in their heads. Worth a little mountain-climbing and dragon-slaying? Perhaps not.

To say my father was disappointed as each new gift manifested, doesn’t come close to communicating the level of disgust we inspired in his heart. At least my gift he’s always found a bit more to his liking; he can trot me out to perform for courtly visitors on command.

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