Chalice 2 - Dream Stone by Tara Janzen

Author:Tara Janzen [Janzen, Tara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: chalice trilogy, medieval, tara janzen, dragons, Romance, Fantasy, Historical, Epic
Published: 2013-01-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Caerlon followed Redeye Dock through the northern passages leading into Rastaban, cursing him all the way.

“Skraelings.” The word was lodged behind his clenched jaws. “You left him with skraelings. Imbecile! Cretin! The rotting skraelings eat Quicken-tree. If they’ve eaten this one, your hide will be the next one to lengthen Slott’s vest, your rotting thick skull the next one to hang from his braids.”

The threat was real. Caerlon’s hand was ready on his knife. If there was naught left but the young warrior’s bones when they reached the small cavern ahead, Caerlon would drop Redeye like a stone, sever his throat, and let the skraelings chew on him while he bled to death.

They rounded the last turn, and Caerlon held his red-hearted dreamstone high. A rush of relief washed through him. The Liosalfar was still in one piece.

“Grazch!” he ordered, and the two beast-men watching the prisoner backed off from the trussed bundle lying in a heap on the cavern’s floor.

Caerlon strode forth and with a flick of his blade cut the rope securing the hood over the Quicken-tree’s head. He pulled the hood off, and a long dark fall of hair tumbled out over the Liosalfar’s shoulders. Like black silk it was, with a fif braid twisted into one side. Fierce green eyes flashed up at him, and a thrill of nervous pleasure went through Caerlon to his core.

“Get him to his feet,” he ordered, and Redeye hauled the Liosalfar up.

He’d been poorly handled. Caerlon could see it in the bruises marking the boy’s face. His hands were bound behind his back, and he’d been cut, a slash across his chest. The blood had already dried and crusted on the Quicken-tree cloth, proving the wound not too deep.

“When did this happen?” he asked Redeye, pointing to the slash mark.

“In battle, milord. They’ve lost no skill since the Wars. We were hard-pressed.”

Of course they’d been hard-pressed, Caerlon thought in disgust, a skraelpack of fifty men against twenty Quicken-tree.

“Their losses?”

“Two dead, five wounded, and this one captured.” Caerlon hated to ask, but he was their leader and needed to know. “And how did you fare?”

“Twenty-two dead, milord, including the five I finished off myself.”

Caerlon nodded. A badly wounded skraeling was a dead skraeling. ’Twas all Caerlon could do to keep his army in rats. There were no rations to be had for those who could not fight.

“Where’s the elf shot?”

Redeye gestured, and one of the skraelings lumbered toward them with a pack. He spilled the contents on the floor. Naught but elf shot was there, the black, highly lustrous stone used by the Quicken-tree and other clans of tylwyth teg for making arrowheads. Caerlon had harbored a hope there might be more.

“Preparing for war?” he asked the Liosalfar. He expected no answer and got none. “How was Tryfan? Still full of good stone, I see.”

He ran the toe of his boot across the pile on the chance he might have missed something. No, there was only shiny black stone.

“No luck finding the Douvan Throne Room, eh?” Too bad, he thought.

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