The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

            "I can't stay either," she whispered, hugging herself.

            "I agree. How about going north? To Samulla?"

            "Yes, I could go there for a while before returning to the Jarlands." Warily, she reached out for the mirror. "Go to Samulla?"

            The whirlpool quickly condensed into a scene of Danica being held down by a group of nomad men and being stripped. Then it changed to scene of her in steppe nomad clothes, heavy with child and several small children running about her. Then it changed once again to show her dressed in a filmy veil, and nothing else but strands of pearls draped over her well-oiled body as she danced slowly, seductively, through what looked to be a brothel or tavern in some unnamed desert city, filled with lusty men reaching for her.

            Jerking her hand away again, "Are they all my fates? Or did it show me three possible fates?"

            "I don't know. It may depend on how you decide to go to Samulla," Zelma said. "Or you may be captured and raped, then later taken into the clan as a wife only to be captured by their enemies and sold into slavery in one of the desert cities."

            "The cards were right," Danica said, feeling her strength draining away. "No matter what I do, I'm doomed. My only choice seems to be between slavery and gruesome death."

            When Mother Zelma failed to respond, Danica noticed she was deep in troubled thought. She knew the witch was trying to work something out, so she let her be.

            Finally, "Even if you can escape those fates, you can't hope to sneak up on Talar, not in that body. He'll probably be able to detect it easily." She hesitated, as if torn between conflicting emotions. "But there is a way."

            "It is?"

            "It's dangerous," she warned. "You could lose more than just a body, or your life. You could lose your soul."

            A chill ran up Danica’s back. "It's a chance I'll have to take. Tell me."

            Again...the hesitation.

            "In the city of Ismat al-Haratha there is an object of great power," she said slowly. "It is in the Temple of Maag."

            "A talisman?"

            "Yes. It is a gift from the Goddess of Magic. If you are caught trying to steal it..." she paused, "...the priests will feed your soul to it."

            Damnation?

            The alternative was slavery or death.

            Danica hated magic. She considered it almost cowardly to fight with magic. Warriors should settle their disputes with bared steel. Toe to toe. All this magic made her skin crawl. But, if she wanted her body back then she might have to use magic.

            "And just what will this talisman do for me?"

            "It will make you a powerful sorceress, too."

           
Great
, she thought, scowling.
It'll probably damn my soul forever. Would Bandu turn me away for this use of magic?

            What the God of War would do to her immortal soul was something to worry about later. Danica just wanted her body back.

            "Talar's equal?"

            Zelma didn't answer right away.

            "Perhaps...but he probably won't be able to detect your approach behind its magic, and you might be able to take him by surprise," she said, doubt written all over her face. "I suggest you contact one of the Vikon in Allaria before you use the talisman, though. You will need lessons to properly wield it."

            Studying the hesitant witch, Danica briefly wondered if she could be trusted. A powerful wizard like Talar could probably destroy her even from faraway Allaria. Or could he? She was suddenly painfully aware of how little she truly knew about magic, or its limitations. Though she did understand that wielding Sorcery was at best difficult and dangerous.

            If the talisman was as powerful as the Vikon said, and she did manage to take Talar by surprise, then she might actually be able to capture the wizard. Then either force him to undo his deed, or kill him. She would not — could not — allow Talar to continue to live with her body.

            Turning to the mirror, she wondered if it would be better not to know the outcome of this decision. Knowing too much might cause her to hesitate at the wrong moment. It might mean the difference between success and failure. Still, wouldn't knowing what the fates had in store give her an edge? Perhaps this would be the Gods' way of rendering their divine aid.

            Reaching out for the mirror, "If I go to Ismat al-Haratha for the talisman..."

            A flash of intense white light brightened the mirror's surface before the scene was slowly condensed into an aerial view of Allaria — from a warhawk's back! Danica almost cried out in joy. Changing, the scene became a wizard's darkened laboratory with two powerful spellcasters locked in battle, Talar and a very beautiful woman with long snow white hair. Danica recognized her as the High Mage of Allaria, Ayesha, called the White Rose. Danica watched as she jumped in to make it a three way battle.

            "That's it!" she cried triumphantly, whirling on the Vikon. "That's the answer. Go for the talisman."

            Cautiously, "The mirror only showed the most likely conclusion. One misstep along the way and everything changes. You still could end up as a slave or wife to nomads. Or worse."

            Or worse! What could be worse than what it had already shown her? Her only other choices were slavery, be mutilated and murdered, or raped to death. Or the very real possibility of gaining bloody vengeance.

            Danica considered that a moment. The talisman was her only chance. Was she willing to face death? Yes, without a doubt. What about slavery to nomads? A nomadic warrior's wife? A brothel slave? To get to Ismat al-Haratha she would have months of riding across the steppes and desert. The thought of capture by nomads gave her gooseflesh. She tried to picture herself submitting to a man, and letting him do anything he wanted with her. Her mind returned to the slave house, and the things they did to her. And worse, how much her body enjoyed it.

            Even now, she struggled to suppress those erotic thoughts.

            Were there any other real options? Could she learn to live in a woman's body? She looked herself over briefly, and found the thought of life as a woman was as terrifying as eternal damnation and slavery. Worse, elves lived at least a thousand years. Her father once told of attending the nine hundredth birthday party for an elven envoy in Dakkor. She had no way of knowing how old her new body was, but it appeared young even by elven standards. Talar said she was probably around five hundred years old, which would leave her another five hundred years. She could end up in a very long slavery.

            But vengeance could be exacted with the talisman.

           
Vengeance!

            Danica's sapphire eyes flashed with evil glee, "Describe this talisman to me."

Chapter 4

            Danica reined in the bay stallion. The assembling caravan was still too disorganized to discern who was in charge of what. She pulled her right leg up and hooked it comfortably over the saddle horn and idly played with the rowel and jingles of the bronze spurs. Jingles were an Amazon oddity, meant to drawn attention. If she managed to hire on with this caravan, the first thing she planned to do that night was hunt down the smith and have him remove the annoying things.

            She twisted and stretched in the saddle again. The previous night spent sleeping in the stables beside her horse left her muscles and joints tight and sore. She had spent her last coin in a tavern, on a bowl of thin soup and a mug of watered ale instead of lodgings. Now she was questioning her judgment in that decision, since she could have eaten some of her trail rations.

            In the early morning light, she looked the caravan over with a critical eye. Several Merchant Houses were assembling their wagons and pack trains in the bazaar just inside the north gate. The cold winds blowing down off the Tyr Mountains whipped up clouds of the fine dust, coating the streets, men, and everything else. The men, horses, and wagons moving about didn’t help the situation any.

            Basically, she liked what she saw. The caravaners seemed to know what they were doing. The wagons were in good repair, and the teamsters and guards looked confident and competent. She already knew they were heading for Ismat al-Haratha by way of the desert cities of Samulla and Tamera. It would be a long trip, probably taking the better part of three or four months. It would be faster for a lone rider, but it would be dangerous alone. And Danica knew better than try to go it alone on the steppes and desert.

            There looked to be some hundred-odd sharp-eyed caravan guards, slowly moving through the bustle astride horses. Most looked to be steppe nomads, decked out in their distinctive lamellar armors and wide-brimmed hats. To someone knowledgeable in steppe lore, the choice in styles of hats would tell which tribe and clan each warrior belonged. The style of lamellar armor, with its bright lacings, would also be some indication, but armor was a highly prized war trophy and frequently worn by the victors. Especially if they were young warriors with little resources to buy the small steel lames, or plates, used to assemble lamellar armor. The non-nomads were quite distinctive in contrast, most wearing steel cuirasses not unlike Danica's, or chain mail hauberks.

            The commander of the caravan guards stood to one side, carefully watching everyone and everything. In the tavern the previous night, Danica had heard many good things about him. He was tall and dark, with a short black beard and short-cropped hair. His father was a renegade Taag warrior, a volatile and reclusive tribe roaming the southwestern regions of the vast desert bordering the steppes. His mother was a Tyrian warrior, said to be even more headstrong and fearless than his father. He had literally grown up riding with the caravans his parents hired on to guard across both steppes and desert.

            The men who told her of this caravan had only the highest regards for Captain Fulgar's ability. They guaranteed the pay would be good, the food plentiful, and discipline tight. All things Danica considered important.

            Spurring over to the Captain, "Ho, Captain Fulgar."

            He turned and looked up, black eyes narrowing, "What do you want, Amazon?"

            Close up, she thought he looked more like a Jarland mercenary officer than a half-Taag caravan guard. His unadorned armor was expensive half-plate, with a close-fitting, open-faced helm resting in the crook of his left arm. Pauldrons protected both arms and plain steel greaves did likewise for his lower legs. The heavy blue cotton breeches were faded but clean. The spurs on his boots were bronze. He was big-boned and heavily muscled, not at all like the thin desert folk.

            "I come to hire on," she said.

            Looking her over slowly, and with growing appreciation, "So you do. I may just have a position for you, Amazon."

            His leer gave her a good idea of what kind of position he had in mind. And if there had been any doubt, he’d addressed her as "Amazon." Amazons were notorious flirts and carousers. They were legendary in their wild ways, and easy morals.

            "A guard position," she said.

            "Of course," he said. A crooked smile spread across his scarred, bearded face, not quite making it to his eyes. "You'll be the only female in the caravan, you understand?"

            Shrugging, "That's of no consequence."

            Nodding, "Maybe not to you." He smiled even wider. "I would offer my services. My protection."

            "I have all the protection I need right here," she said, grabbing the hilt of her sword. "Your services are neither needed, nor wanted."

            "You don't understand — "

            "I do understand," she snapped. "I am not going to be your whore, or anyone else's. I can take care of myself, thank you."

            He glared at her a moment. She tensed, but returned his glare with a determined look. She would ride alone across a thousand deserts before she submitted to his touch.

            "I would honor you — "

            "Honor someone else."

            "Begone," he snapped.

            "What do we have here, Captain Fulgar?" a large man asked as he approached. The man was powerfully built and dressed in expensive but practical clothing. Danica figured the dark-haired man to be a merchant, maybe even the leader of the caravan. "Another guard, I hope."

            "That I am, my lord," she called before the Captain could answer. "I am eager to hire on with your company."

            "She is not acceptable," Captain Fulgar said, shooting her a hot look. "I have just told her to leave."

            "And for no good reason," Danica said, glaring back at the big mercenary.

            "She looks more like a pampered Silk Slave than a warrior." He sneered as he took in her shapely body and long golden mane. "I'd wager that the only sword she can handle with any talent is hanging between your legs."

            Looking him straight in the eye, "Test me."

            "Excellent idea," the merchant said. Then to Danica, "I am Omar, Master of the House of Charra."

            "And the leader of this caravan, I presume."

            Shrugging with a shy smile, "The other merchants seem to think I have some ability in leading. I do my best."

            "It will be an honor to serve you, my lord," she said with a slight bow.

            "If you pass my test," Fulgar said.

            "When I pass your test," she corrected.

            She still had her knowledge and talent with weapons. Danic was a swordmaster, she would be very close, at least. She hoped. Prayed. Anyway, it was doubtful the Captain had another swordmaster in his company.

            Danica slid from the saddle and pulled her sword, while Fulgar called over another guard. A steppe nomad, by the look of him, strolled over with his rolling gait, and not much bigger than herself. On being apprised of the situation, he pulled off his beige burnoose and started stretching his arm muscles. His steel waist length lamellar armor with chain mail sleeves was stained black and laced with plain leather, with innumerable patches, scratches, and dents from scores of battles and brawls. His peaked helmet was typically nomad, being a segmented steel construct with a horsehair crest. A large circle then formed around the two combatants as they sized each other up.