AllFreeNovel
Share Us
one
Cornwall
April 1816
King Arthur’s tomb lay hidden deep within an ancient wood. For centuries uncounted, the sheltering trees grew tall, spread wide, and fell to rot until barely a stone remained to mark its presence.
With a hand clamped upon the shoulder of his attendant, the other upon his stick, Máelodor limped the final yards through the tangled undergrowth to stand before the toppled burial site. The mere effort of walking from the carriage used much of his strength. His shirt clung damp and uncomfortable over his hunched back. The stump of his leg ground against his false limb, spots of blood soaking through his breeches. Every rattling breath burned his tired lungs.
“This is it,” he wheezed, eyes fixed upon the mossy slabs. “I feel it.”
He didn’t even bother to confirm his certainty. No need. Once decoded, the Rywlkoth tapestry had been clear enough. Its clues leading him unerringly to this forgotten Cornish grove.
Excitement licked along his damaged nerves and palsied limbs, casualties of his unyielding ambition. The Nine’s goals had been audacious, but Máelodor had known long before Scathach’s brotherhood of Amhas-draoi descended like a wrath of battle crows that, to succeed, authority must be vested in a single man—a master-mage with the commitment to sacrifice all. To allow no sentimentality to sway him. To use any means necessary to bring about a new age of Other dominance.
He was that man.
His continued existence obscured within a web of Unseelie concealment, he’d called upon the dark magics to re-create life. Resurrecting an ancient Welsh warrior as one of the Domnuathi. A soldier of Domnu in thrall to its master and imbued with all the sinister powers
that inspired its rebirth.
That first trial had ended in failure. The creature escaping Máelodor’s control.
But he had learned from his mistakes. It would not happen a second time. Once resurrected, the High King would serve the man who restored his life and his crown. Would obey the mage who brought forth a host of Unseelie demons to fight for his cause. And would fear his master as all slaves must.
Mage energy danced pale in the green, humid air, mistaken by any who might stumble into this corner of the wood as dust caught within the filtered sunlight. Máelodor reveled in its play across his skin before it burrowed deep into his bloodstream. Melded and merged with his own Fey-born powers. Growing to a rush of magic so powerful he closed his eyes, his body suffused with exhilaration. The same uncontrolled arousal he usually sought in the bedchamber or the torture chamber.
His hand dug into the man’s shoulder until he felt bones give beneath his grip. No cry or flinch at such harsh treatment. He’d chosen Oss as much for his brute strength as his slit tongue. Máelodor’s body jumped and spasmed as bliss arced like lightning through him. And it was he who cried out with a groan in orgasm.
Sated, he motioned Oss forward, the two moving at a crawling pace over the uneven ground until he stood at the edge of the toppled granite slab, close enough to lay his hand upon the rock. The mage energy leapt high, buffeting him as it sought to understand this intruder. Moving through him in a questing, studying twining of powers.
Arthur’s bones lay only a mere stone’s thickness away. Once he possessed the Sh’vad Tual, Máelodor would finally have all he needed to unlock the tomb’s defenses. Triumph would be his at last, for who was left to stop him?
The Amhas-draoi had long ago assumed his execution. The rogue mage-warrior St. John doing much to turn the eyes of Scathach’s brotherhood toward another and discredit any rumors of Máelodor’s survival.
Brendan Douglas was their quarry. The treacherous dog could only hope they found him before Máelodor did. For once Douglas fell into his clutches, so too would the Sh’vad Tual. One would unlock the tomb. The other would feed Máelodor’s unholy desires for months.
It was fascinating how long one could string pain out. An unending plucked wire where a simple tug anywhere could bring excruciating agony, yet death remained always just beyond reach. It would be thus for Douglas. The man who had brought the Nine down would suffer for his betrayal before joining his father and the rest in Annwn’s deepest abyss.
Máelodor’s Domnuathi had captured the diary.
Máelodor himself had stolen the Rywlkoth tapestry.
Brendan Douglas would hand over the stone as he begged for his life.
“We’re close, Oss. No longer will the race of Other live in the shadows, fearing the mortal Duinedon. It will be our time again. We shall not so easily let it slip away from us again.”
The bear-like attendant nodded, his empty eyes never wavering. His stance wide, his arms hanging ape-like at his sides.
“Help me back to the carriage. I’m expecting news of Douglas.”
In silence, the pair—aged cripple and mute albino—stumbled through the tangle of brush, leaving the tomb behind.
But before the stones merged within the wood’s defenses, Máelodor turned back. Whispered the words that would unlock the door: “Mebyoa Uther hath Ygraine. Studhyesk esh Merlinus. Flogsk esh na est Erelth. Pila-vyghterneask. Klywea mest hath igosk agesha daresha.”
Trees shook as birds rose in a chattering black cloud. The sun dimmed, throwing the grove into sudden darkness. A faint chiming caught on a cold rush of wind. And refusal blossomed like a bloodstain in Máelodor’s chest. The answer came back to him—
No.
Dun Eyre
County Clare, Ireland
“Stand still, Elisabeth. The woman can’t do her work with you spinning about like a top.”
Elisabeth subsided under Aunt Fitz’s scolding. Inhaled a martyr’s breath, trying to ignore the burning muscles in her arms and the tingly numbness moving up from her fingertips. It was all very well for her aunt. She wasn’t forced to stand with her arms spread wide, pins poking her in the small of her back, the feeling draining from her appendages. She rolled her neck, hoping at least to ease the tension banding her shoulders.
“Stop fidgeting. You know, if you didn’t keep nibbling between meals, Miss Havisham wouldn’t have to adjust the gown.”
The modiste glanced up. “Mm. Phnnmp. Mnshph,” she mumbled around a mouthful of pins.
“And that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. But I’d rather Miss Fitzgerald refrain from extra desserts and late-night tea and biscuits.”
