Captive Page 2

The dreams skittered, strange half-formed pictures of a dim and forbidding forest, he heard the wind hissing through great leaves, the chatter of animals. Whispers of feeling curled through his chest like smoke, feelings of fear and terrible loss, old resentment and doubt. He shuddered away, fighting, sure the world of pain that waited on the other side would be preferable to these dark hauntings. He did not want to see, he did not want to understand.

  Before he could escape, the musical, high-pitched laugh of a young girl shivered through the trees of his mind and the crushing feeling of loss and fear lifted, banished by the brightest of lights. The trees vanished and a pair of indigo eyes filled the entire vision.

  Khalvir awoke. The visions scattered and fled back to the deep shelter of his subconscious, never to be recalled. The pain was almost enough to send him the same way. He knew at once that his right leg was broken and each breath he took sent jabbing pains through his chest. He wanted to give in to the darkness, to disappear again as he had so many times before but he could not, not this time. He had to focus, his very life could depend on it. He knew instinctively what had woken him.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Without opening his eyes, he breathed evenly, shallowly so as not to aggravate whatever was broken inside. He flexed his fingers, feeling the ground beneath them. It was cold and damp and had the texture of stone.

  Khalvir tensed as his ears detected the softest of treads. The intruder was close. He waited, still feigning unconsciousness. Whomever they were, they were hovering over him. He heard a soft inexplicable snort and then a soft gasp. Of disbelief? Of hope? He was trying to decipher the meaning when he felt hands lifting the leaf leather pouch he always kept tied to his waist. Fury blazed through him at the bold intrusion. All those who knew him knew better than to touch that object. It was time to let his enemy know he was awake.

  Ignoring the agony, he exploded forth, catching hold of a slender wrist and yanking it away. Quick as a cat, he threw the intruder to the rock, grabbing their throat in a choke-hold with his other hand. The spear-cat skull that protected his face fell away with a clatter.

  He glared down into wide indigo eyes, feeling a ripple of shock as he did so. YOU! She was trying to pry his fingers from around her throat as she fought for the breath his grip was denying her. He gritted his teeth and tightened his hold, knowing that if she spoke, she would place him back under her spell.

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune. His elusive quarry had come to him, come to meet her fate. The need for revenge seared above all others, burning away any other thought. Reaching back quickly, he drew his knife and placed the blade against her throat. She would never cast another spell.

  In that instant, she found the strength to pull his fingers a fraction away from her throat. Enough to get the breath she needed to scream: “Juaan! No!”

  It was as if someone had burned his hand. Burned his mind. Suddenly powerless, Khalvir fell back, the knife falling from his fingers. His heart began to thud inside his chest, flaming with an emotion he did not understand. Shocked, he pressed himself against the rock wall of his prison. Only now did he notice he was at the bottom of a deep hole with sheer rock rising all around him.

  He stared across at the being who had bewitched him again. It was like he was looking at her with two separate sets of eyes. To one she was somehow the most precious thing in the world to him. To the other, the most hated. Both perceptions warred against the other. He tried desperately to take back control of his mind. To break the witch’s spell.

  She was coming towards him, stumbling along with her arm outstretched. Her eyes were burning with fervent joy. “Juaan. My Juaan…” She repeated over and over. Each word caused his heart to stutter and leap inside his chest. The call to answer her was almost too strong to resist.

  He had to resist this magic. As she drew closer, Khalvir raised his blade. He could not let her come any nearer.

  Pain flickered through her large eyes at his threatening gesture. She stared at him, askance. “Juaan, it’s me,” she appealed, “It’s Nyri.”

  Another stutter, his head swam. He felt like he should know something, something very important that danced just out of his reach.

  No! This was elf magic. She was trying to trick him, to rob him of his senses so that he would be helpless before her.

  “My name is Khalvir,” he hissed from between his teeth, fighting against her hold. “I do not know you and if you try to come near me again, I will kill you.”

  A powerful wave of despair rolled through him at those words but he fought it down, keeping his hand steady upon his weapon.

  “Juaan. It’s Nyriaana.” She repeated the hurt now plain in her eyes. “Don’t you know me?”

  Don’t you know me…

  He almost dropped his knife to put his hands against his aching head. It felt like it would explode. Nyriaana. Don’t you know me? Her voice echoed around and around his mind and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: terror.

  She was trying to approach again. He fought away his fear as he had been taught and tightened his grip on his knife.

  “Keep away, she-elf,” he managed to grit between his teeth.

  She was still approaching. Panic ripped through him as the hand holding his weapon refused to obey his commands. He could not strike, not even to save his life. It made him miscalculate. As he stepped to the side to try and put more distance between himself and the witch, he put his full weight upon his broken leg.

  Agony ripped through him, lancing all up and down his back, robbing him of breath. His vision hazed. He tried to fight but he was weak and he had nothing more to give. Khalvir’s vision turned black. The last thing he remembered was her voice crying out: “Juaan!”

  He fell to the ground, senseless. For the first time in his life, he was at his enemy’s mercy.

  * * *

  3

  A Leader Lost

  Galahir paced the edges of the cursed elf forest, glancing furtively into the shadows.

  I will return when I have finished with her. Wait for me on the borders.

  Galahir had waited. Three times the Light Bringer had passed overhead and there was still no sign of Khalvir’s return. Galahir ran a hand restlessly through his tangled, sandy coloured hair. Why had he gone back to the witches? There had been a strange light in his friend’s eyes that Galahir had never seen before. It had frightened him. He hadn’t wanted to let Khalvir go but he was bound to obey him as his leader.

  To Ea with orders! Now Khalvir was missing because Galahir had gone against his own instincts.

  “You couldn’t have stopped him, Galahir,” Banak spoke from where he crouched next to the campfire they had made. “Do not blame yourself for his choice.”

  Galahir blew out a breath from his nose, still peering into the shadows. Come on, Khalvir…

  “He’s dead by now,” Lorhir snorted from beside Banak. “Those wolves would have got him like they did them.” He nodded towards the pile of five bloody bodies lying away in the snow; fallen brothers they had managed to drag from the woods once the wolves had given up the chase.

  Galahir pressed his lips together at the sight of them.

  “Give it up, Galahir,” Lorhir went on. “He is lost.”

  “No he is not!” Galahir snapped, his slow temper rising at Lorhir’s gloating tone. No one barring their chief could get under his skin like Lorhir could. “He is the best warrior in the clan.” Galahir hit back. “If anyone can survive in there, he can.”

  Galahir turned abruptly away from Lorhir’s pitying gaze. Khalvir was not lost. Galahir refused to believe it. He could not lose the one person in this wretched world that he had allowed himself to trust.

  “And so we’re just going to sit here on the borders of this haunted forest and wait for his return?” Lorhir’s voice made his opinion on Galahir’s intellect clear.

  “We are,” Galahir shifted back and indicated the remaining warriors sitting around the fire. “Khalvir’s last order was
for you to go and report back to the chief and then to return with his orders.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Lorhir’s mouth fall open in consternation. “But that will take days!”

  Galahir smiled tightly. “That is what Khalvir wished.”

  “Khalvir is dead, you half-Thal fool!” Lorhir spat and Galahir felt the colour rise in his cheeks at the insult. “Who left you in charge?”

  “Khalvir.” Galahir responded, evenly.

  Lorhir growled. “I say we should leave this place and return to the camp. There is no telling when those wolves might decide to return to finish what they started.”

  Galahir set his feet. “No.”

  Lorhir leaped from the side of the fire, spear in hand. “I don’t give a pile of horse dung what you think, Galahir! You-”

  Suddenly Banak was by Galahir’s side. “There are elves in those woods, Lorhir,” he reasoned. “Are you going to be the one to tell the chief that we turned and ran when the most coveted prize was within our grasp?”

  Lorhir paled. Galahir was grateful to Banak. He knew the other man had no real loyalty to him, but no one liked the idea of Lorhir in a position of power.

  Lorhir let his spear fall to his side. His dark eyes glinted maliciously at Galahir. “Looks like someone has saved your hide once again,” he drawled. “But once I report what has happened here to the Chief, you had better pray to the gods for mercy.”

  Galahir held his ground as Lorhir spat at him before gathering his weapons and a share of the spoils from the elven settlement. Without a backwards glance, he set off into the snow.

  Galahir hoped a spear cat got him before he ever reached his destination.

  “Thank you,” he muttered to Banak.

  The other man shrugged and returned to the camp fire. “What are our plans, then?” he asked.

  Galahir turned the situation over in his head slowly. In sending Lorhir as Khalvir had wished, he had brought himself more time. He had to find Khalvir before Lorhir returned and learn his friend’s fate, whatever that may be. He owed it to him.

  “Those of us who are not wounded will make a pyre for the dead. There are too many to take back to camp and we cannot risk attracting predators.”

  “We’re going to burn them?” Ranab’s tone was askance.

  “Yes,” Galahir replied. “Unless you have the strength to waste on trying to break this ground?”

  Ranab fell silent.

  Galahir felt a thrill of victory. They thought he didn’t learn but he had picked up much from Khalvir and it served him now. “Those of you that have been injured will have time to recover. If Khalvir has not returned by the time we are returned to full strength, then we will search for him.”

  All eyes turned on him upon hearing this.

  “You want to go back into that forest and provoke the elves again?” Banak was incredulous. Galahir could see him beginning to regret his decision in backing Galahir against Lorhir. “You do realise that there are only nine of us now, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Galahir sighed. “We will be careful not to provoke the elves. We will enter the forest in small numbers and make a search. If they are holding Khalvir captive, then we owe it to our brother to free him. We cannot leave him to the mercy of our enemies.”

  “And what if he is already dead?”

  Galahir frowned, thinking hard. He would risk his life to learn the fate of his friend, even if that fate turned out to be death. The others were another matter. “Then… at least we will be gaining knowledge of the elves strengths and weaknesses, numbers and capabilities. When Lorhir returns, we will be ready to do whatever our Chief commands.”

  He was relieved when this appeared to satisfy the rest of his company. Pleasing the Chief and avoiding his wroth was the one thing they all desired. Galahir gritted his teeth against a wave of old hatred.

  He pushed it down and returned to his vigil of the forest. Hold on, my friend, he thought. I’m coming for you.

  * * *

  4

  Resistance

  When Khalvir awoke again it was dark. He blinked against the blackness, warrior instincts driving him to orientate himself as quickly as possible. For a moment he remained still. The forest’s night voice buzzed loudly above him. Chirrups, hums, croaks. And nothing else. No other breath, no shift of weight. He was alone. The elf was gone. Cautiously he sat up in the blackness.

  He couldn’t even be sure that she had been real. Now that he was more alert, he wondered if he had not imagined the entire nightmare in a haze of pain. He remembered collapsing in front of her. An enemy who would see one such as him dead for no other reason than their own cruel lore. And here he was; still alive. That was all the confirmation he needed to pass her off as a figment of his imagination.

  What an hallucination to have! He remembered her large indigo eyes, how powerless he had been before them, how everything inside had screamed at him not to harm her, that if he did, his own life would mean nothing. He shuddered at the thought of his enemy having that much power over him.

  Khalvir tested his body carefully. He felt only the mildest of pains in his side and in his leg. The broken bones must have been a figment of his imagination as well, he noted with relief. He still felt weak, however, drained. His stomach ached dully. He did not know how long it had been since he had last eaten. He needed food and water.

  He reached out an arm and his fingers met stone. His heart sank. That part of his dream had at least been true. He was at the bottom of a rocky pit but, with the blackness of night pressing on his eyes, there was not much he could make out. Khalvir noticed with a thrill that he could not see the sky. There were no stars, no bright silver spirit, only blackness.

  He clenched his fists, an intense feeling of unease trickling through him. He was a man who had been raised on open plains. Being trapped in here was the worst kind of torment. He had to get out. He had to find food and water. Soon. Without them, he knew he had only days to live.

  He studied the walls with his hands, running his fingers along the stone. They were smooth and rose up well above his reach.

  Khalvir ground his teeth together. He must try to alert Galahir somehow. Gathering his breath, he blew a sharp thrilling whistle to the air. It would sound like a bird call to any who heard it but, if his men were anywhere within range, they would understand it for the signal that it was and come for him. He listened raptly for a few moments but there was no return call. He would have to wait.

  Khalvir looked down to the little bag he kept tied to his waist, recalling in his dream how the elf had touched it and roused him from his sleep. He didn’t know why he kept the thing, or why it roused such strong feelings in him. Lorhir had tried to take it from him once, taunting him with it, for his attachment to an object that was clearly elven in make. That day, Lorhir had not remained standing and his defeat at Khalvir’s hands had attracted the attention of the chief. His raknari training had begun in earnest.

  He tore his gaze away from the little bag and wrapped his arms around his legs. He froze as his fingers came up against something smooth and fleshy, not the texture of fur that he had been expecting. Khalvir looked down and saw that his leg had been bound with tough leaves and fibers stripped from bark.

  He flinched back from his leg, mind racing just as he heard the sound of leaves and branches being shifting above his head. He hissed a breath and made an automatic move for his knife.

  It was gone.

  He scanned the pit but the weapon was nowhere to be seen. He was defenceless and his enemies had found him. Khalvir coiled nevertheless, waiting for the elves to strike. He would not make it easy for them.

  A single face appeared in the gap that had been made in the hole’s coverings along with a flood of pre-dawn light. Khalvir rocked back. It was her. Her skin was flushed from exertion, eyes bright with a daring hope. Her eyes… That feeling of helpless familiarity floored him again.

  It hadn’t been a dream.

  He pressed his back agains
t the rock wall, absorbing that realisation, struggling to understand her reasons for leaving him alive. He could not make sense of it but he would not make the same mistake twice and fall so shamelessly into her thrall. Keeping his lips pressed together, he glared up at his captor as she looked down upon him. He was glad when he saw her quail slightly.

  “H-hello,” her light voice caught in her throat. Even out of reach, she was still intimidated by him. Perhaps that would be enough to prevent her from coming down again and strengthening her hold. Indeed, she made no move to come closer. “Um. I-I brought you some food. Are you hungry?”

  Her words took him off guard, his empty stomach burned but he kept his reaction carefully from his face. It was an entrapment and he would not let her see his need. He must keep his wits about him until he discovered what her plan was then exploit it in any way he could.

  He looked around now that he could see more clearly. The pit that trapped him was four body lengths in diameter and roughly three body lengths high. The walls curved inwards, the edges of the mouth crouching threateningly over him. There was little chance of climbing out he noted with deep frustration.

  “Here.” He watched as she pulled a large, round, yellow fruit into the faint light. “This is sweet. Try it.” The elf threw the fruit down to him. In his peripheral vision, he saw it fall, bounce once on the hard ground, then roll away. He knew where it had come to rest but he was not going to pick it up.

  He would not eat a thing she brought him. It made no sense for her to feed him other than to poison him or worse. Who knew what magic she might have woven into that fruit. He kept his eyes on her, not even giving her the satisfaction of glancing its way.

  Disappointment flickered over her shadowed features. She sat on the edge of the pit and produced a huge nut that was half the size of her own head. Cracking it down the seam in the middle, she began to eat the firm, creamy contents.

  Khalvir’s traitorous stomach growled. The hunger was becoming a physical pain. Before he could stop himself, his eyes had flickered to the golden fruit she had tossed down to him. He berated himself severely for the lapse. He had been taught to ignore his discomforts. Annoyed, he glared up at the she-elf above. She was still eating slowly, deliberately. Taunting him. His anger found new depths. He would not be baited like an animal in a pit. He lifted his chin in defiance.