A Bard's Prophecy: Song Of The Bear 4 Read online

  SONG OF THE BEAR 4: A BARD’S PROPHECY

  An Ellora's Cave Publication, DECEMBER 2003

  Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-725-5

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  A BARD;S PROPHECY: SONG OF THE BEAR 4 © 2003 SHELBY MORGEN

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Martha Punches

  Cover art by Rose Hurst.

  A BARD’S PROPHECY

  Shelby Morgen

  Prologue

  Élandine paced the length of the ship’s deck. This was wrong. So wrong on so many levels. He wanted to go below, to open his mouth and let his disgust pour out, but that would only draw more attention. He couldn’t do that. That was not how he worked. That was not how he lived. That was not his way!

  The breeze changed, swirling his pale blond hair about his face, temporarily obscuring the angry ocean. No wonder the ocean was angry. Frustration oozed down his arms and coalesced at his fingertips, a wave of energy looking for a way to escape. He couldn’t. Couldn’t let it out. Couldn’t attract undue notice.

  Why not? What was there to hide now? Stealth was…unnecessary. Six decades of scheming and plotting and carefully laid plans to bring House Lindall, now House Lochinvar, to absolute power in the Northlands, and all for what? So the fool of a woman could throw herself into the arms of her enemy!

  Who needed finesse, who needed secrecy, when General Tranorva decided to simply walk in the front door and surrender herself to the enemy?

  Tranorva.

  Her name glided through his thoughts. The scent of her filled his nostrils. Need coiled like a snake in his belly. His cock struck out, hard and aching, like a divining rod pointing the way to her.

  Tranorva.

  Élandine played the fool for her. For her he would give up everything he was, everything he had ever hoped to be. Why? Was it just for the sex? Just for the feel of that legendary strength bending to his will? Was his need to possess, to capture, to penetrate more important than his need to exist?

  It was she who possessed, who owned, who had captured and penetrated. She’d seeped into the very core of his being. She owned him. She owned his soul. Should she but ask it of him, he would walk the lengths of the nine hells for her.

  Again.

  By the gods what had he been thinking? He’d known what Yarwyn was. Had known what the use of her powers might do to him. Yet he’d wanted what she had so badly… He’d possessed Yarwyn’s gift for but a few moments, but those moments had been enough to show him what he had not discovered for himself in all the many decades of his existence. In just those few short moments he’d come to understand the great void within himself. The void that only Tranorva could fill.

  Now the one woman he could no longer live without stood at the head of the table, surrounded by fools who would tell her whatever she wanted to hear, as long as they got the glory they sought. They could not see what she meant to do, but he knew. He felt it deep in the hollow space that had once been his heart. Tranorva would march in the front gates of Élahandara like the Warrior General she was. She would lay down her life that others might live, while he, Élandine, would live out the centuries as he had always been, alone. When she died, she would take all that he was, the very heart and soul and essence of him, with her to the grave.

  How could he possibly manage to survive the long years that lay ahead of him knowing she had sacrificed herself and he had been unable to stop her? There was not enough mead in all the bottles in all the inns of the four lands to drown the ache in his heart. There were not enough whores in all the brothels to ever expunge his grief.

  He could not, he would not, go on without her!

  A steadfast calm settled over him. There was no reason he must go on alone. No reason at all. He would see her mission through. He would see the lost ones to their freedom. Then his duty would be fulfilled. He had seen enough. He had done enough. He had lived enough. He had done all he could to see to his charges. When the time came, when the walls of Élahandara crumbled to ruin, he would be there, ready to take his place with the ancients. ‘Twas the gift the gods had given him, he saw now. He had a way out. They had given him the gift of release.

  The seas calmed, the waves settled, and the small ship came to rest peacefully on the glassy surface of the water. A slow, malevolent smile took its place on Élandine’s lips. Now was not the time for the winds to calm. He had made up his mind.

  With but a flicker of a thought Élandine shifted, taking his place at the ship’s broad stern. The sea would not torture him with waiting. Not this night. He let the power flow, trailing down the length of his arms till it dripped, pooling in long, thick rivulets about his huge spurred feet. He spread his great wings, beating down once, twice, the sails filling fuller with every stroke as the ship shot forward again, flying toward their doom. Raising his mighty head, the great black Dragon bellowed his defiance to the night. He turned his head at the last moment, tempted to take them all with him now, deciding instead to leave them in the hands of fate. Flames shot out across the water for a hundred yards as he screamed at the night.

  Those who heard wisely chose not to meddle in the Dragon’s affairs…

  Chapter One

  Donovan jerked awake with a start, pushing his empty mug across the bar. “She’s coming.”

  “What?”

  “She’s coming. Can’t you feel it? Gather the others.”

  “Feel what? Gather them? Where?”

  “Feel the power of her. The rage. She comes from the water. She is ready. She will strike soon. We will wait at the docks. We will stand vigil until she arrives.”

  Giselle placed her hands on her hips, glaring at the drunk before her. “Stand vigil. You want me to wake up a hundred-odd Clan Bear in the dark of the night and have them go freeze their shaggy asses off standing around on the docks, waiting for further instructions from your mug of ale? When She does not show, do you know what those Bears will do to you, Bard?”

  “I have seen a vision. She comes on the wings of a Dragon. She will be here soon. With the dawn.”

  Giselle reached for his mug. “Have another drink, my friend. Maybe you’ll pass out again, like a nice, peaceful drunk.”

  “I am not a drink. Drunk.” He said it slowly, one syllable at a time, gathering his tattered dignity around him like a wrap against the chill of the night.

  “Donovan, you sit at my bar all night, every night, consuming ale at a rate that would down a smaller man in half the time. You, my friend, are a drunk.”

  Anger flashed briefly in his eyes, giving way to a deep sadness that almost moved her heart. “I drink. That does not make me a drunk.”

  “What does that make you?”

  “A man who has seen too much and loved too little. A poet who has been given a sword to wield, and has learned to kill.” He downed the ale she’d set in front of him. “A man in love with a woman who sees only the blood on his hands and not the song in his heart.”

  “And who is this wench who has stolen your heart?”

  “What do you care?”

  She flinched at that. “I am not uncaring, Bard, but I have seen much in my years here. If I fell for every sad story that comes with every mug that passes over my b
ar, I would be a pauper many times over, my heart in pieces in a jar to display on the shelf.”

  Donovan looked away, nodding toward the flame-headed child who came running through the door. “Someone won your heart once. You do not remember him fondly?”

  Giselle snatched up the daughter who flung herself toward her mother’s arms with the unwavering faith of a child. “Hello, my lovely! Where have you been?”

  “At the docks, watching the ships unload.”

  “What have I told you about wandering the docks alone?”

  “Not to get caught picking the pockets of the fine folks who wander too close to the wharf.”

  Giselle shook her head. “I? I think not, child. That must have been one of your other mentors. I shall have to speak to my fine, light-fingered friends about what skills they pass along to you.”

  “Mommy?”

  “What, my lovely?”

  “What does it mean when the ocean catches fire?”

  Giselle forced herself to laugh. “The ocean cannot catch fire, darling.”

  “It did. I saw it. Huge waves of flame lit up the water. I’m not telling stories, Mommy. Other people saw the water catch fire.”

  Giselle glanced back at the one they called Bard, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Flames on the water. She comes on the wings of a Dragon. If the child spoke the truth—and Evanya had not yet learned to lie to her mother—then the Bard might indeed be a prophet. “Dawn is a long way off, Bard. You’d best get some sleep.”

  “Sleep? How can I sleep at a time like this?”

  “‘Tis easy. My mother always told me, ‘Let tomorrow’s troubles wait on the horizon until their time arrives.’ She knew well the ways of the world, Maribeth did. She was a wise woman.”

  “I’d sleep better did I not sleep alone.”

  “This place ceased to be a whorehouse many a long year ago. I suggest you find what comfort you can with your pillow and blanket, and keep your eyes—and your hands—to yourself.”

  * * * * *

  “There is a Dragon sitting on the back of the ship. I suppose ye know this?”

  Ayailla looked up briefly from her charts. “Leave him alone, Child.”

  Cassadara tried to control the tic in her left eye. Compared to Grandmother’s age and level of skill, she was a child. Still… “Would ye mind telling me what in the nine hells is going on?”

  “He grieves, Daughter. Despite his years, Élandine is new to the ways of love. His emotions are no’ yet his to control.”

  Élandine? Shammall? She had seen the Faerie King transform himself into a Dragon. But Mother’s errand boy? Cassadara blinked, feeling the fool. “What has love to do with this?”

  Evalayna pushed away from the table, rotating her shoulders as if she’d pored over the charts too long. “He would die at Tranorva’s side rather than trust her to assault the front door while he sneaks in the back. He thinks she will sacrifice herself for her people.”

  Cass felt her own anger rise at the suggestion. “Does he think my sister a fool? Tranorva has never been defeated in battle!”

  Ayailla only smiled. “Do ye trust thy husband in everything, Granddaughter? Would ye fight beside him? Or would ye shield him in battle, preferring to take thy enemy’s assault head on rather than see him in harm’s way?”

  Ayailla knew her too well. Cassadara covered her embarrassment with anger. “I am no’ married to Tranorva! Is she no’ General of all the armies? Did she no’ personally defeat Nafésti in combat? It is her destiny to lead Clan Bear. She canna’ do that if she is dead!”

  Ayailla raised one long, dark eyebrow in a sharp, questioning arch. “Perhaps ye would care to explain that philosophy to yon Dragon?”

  Tyrell motioned to the seat beside him. “Perhaps now is no’ the time. Sit beside me, Sister. Let us make sure we can prove the Ancient One wrong.”

  In truth, the idea of planning their attack held far more appeal than explaining to an angry Dragon the error of his ways…

  * * * * *

  She could see her reflection in the water where they bathed. Behind her the mountains touched the sky at the horizon. The sun’s warmth on her skin made her smile. Surely the gods were with them this glorious day. She held out her hand to her mate, and he pulled her into his arms. His skin glowed where the heat of the sun had painted him a golden bronze. Her skin, too, shone with a dark tan, the color of the linen tunic she wore.

  Her mate brushed his lips over hers, a light caress of a kiss that touched on the promise of longer, deeper kisses once they were back in their own den. Together they emerged from the water and turned toward home.

  Giselle let her gaze wander through the dream, like a visitor, taking everything in. She knew this place, though she saw it now with new wonder, as if for the first time. There at the base of the mountains sat the seven houses of Clan Bear. There were far more than seven houses, in all actuality. There were seven strongholds, like small towns, spread out along the mountains’ feet.

  Each stronghold held many houses, grouped into villages, with one more predominant, in that its walls joined the portcullises that protected the others, providing the shield for the village within. The seven strongholds with their ornate battlements rose high and imposing, their fingers reaching out to touch each other, providing a formidable wall of defense that stretched down the length of the valley. Yet the gates were open. The children played in the grass. The herds moved freely about in the pastures beyond the gates.

  A sudden sense of impending doom shook Giselle. She squeezed her mate’s hand, knowing suddenly that he felt it too. They ran toward the nearest gates, shouting their warning as they came, but no one was listening. The day was too glorious, the sun too warm, the city too invincible.

  The dark furies swept down on them like a plague of locusts, slaughtering all in their paths—except the children. The children were their quarry. The screams reached her ears like distant thunder, and then they were fighting, back to back, swords in their hands, fighting their way back to the gates, gathering survivors as they went, even though it was already too late, too late, too late…they could not save the cubs…

  Giselle awoke screaming in rage, instinctively reaching for Evanya in the darkened room. She was there. Her baby was safe. Her baby was here with her, and they were both safe.

  Slowly her mind fought its way back from the edge of hysteria.

  As her breathing quieted, she realized she could still hear the screams on the edge of her consciousness, other bewildered souls awakened from their living nightmare. Had it been but a dream? It had seemed so real. The others reached out, touching cautiously as they became aware they shared the magic’s flow.

  A voice filtered through the darkness, chanting softly, then stronger, a voice she knew well, but found she’d never really listened to before.

  The Bear awakes in the spring.

  As the goddess she comes

  To rend the Earth.

  Hungry and powerful,

  Angry and desolate.

  Like the lone avenger she comes.

  Come to me, my people,

  At the water’s edge.

  Come to me, my Warriors.

  Let the blood flow.

  Come to me, my children.

  Let us cleanse the Earth.

  Let us sing the Song of The Bear.

  She cries for her children,

  Ripped from her arms.

  She cries for her mate,

  But he is no more.

  She cries out for blood,

  In a voice that will not be still.

  Come to me, my people,

  At the water’s edge.

  Come to me, my Warriors.

  Let the blood flow.

  Come to me, my children.

  Let us cleanse the Earth.

  Let us sing the Song of The Bear.

  Let us rend that which destroys.

  Let us maim that which defiles.

  Let us free all who are enslaved.

  Le
t us sing the song of sorrow in victory.

  Let us lament

  That which we must not forget.

  Come to me, my people,

  At the water’s edge.

  Come to me, my Warriors.

  Let the blood flow.

  Come to me, my children.

  Let us cleanse the Earth.

  Let us sing the Song of The Bear.

  The rich, deep timber of that voice reached straight into her soul.

  “Mommy?”

  “I’m here darling.”

  “I heard a voice in my head.”

  “I heard it too.”

  “She’s coming, isn’t She?”

  “Yes, dear, I think so. I think it’s time to heed the Bard’s Prophecy. Get dressed, darling. We have work to do. I think it’s time to head to the docks. We must raise the others. Dawn is coming.”

  * * * * *

  You are not alone, brother.

  The pain that flowed on the current of the magic dimmed for a moment, then flamed again. I have always been alone. As I have lived so shall I die.

  Do not despair, young one. The gods have a plan that is far beyond our understanding.

  The gods? We are but toys to them! We are but pawns. Chattel to be spent for their entertainment.

  You are young to have known so much bitterness. Is there no love in your life? No one whose happiness is more important than your own?

  Love is a curse, sent to rob me of all that I am.

  No, my child. Love is its own reward. To know love is to know fear, because love makes us vulnerable, but love also makes us better than we were. When we love, we sacrifice all that we are for the sake of another. We become as we were meant to be. Stronger. More noble. More giving of ourselves.

  The rage, and the despair, flared again. Sacrifice? My lady would sacrifice herself, that she might provide a distraction. A distraction! There is nothing noble about this sacrifice! I have dedicated my life to her, and she is to die as a distraction? Without her my life, my death, they are meaningless. I have no reason to go on without her!