Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Darkness descended in the form of a large leather sack that engulfed him, then was drawn shut.

When Leifander regained his senses, he was still in darkness-in his elf form, lying naked on a cold stone floor. His body was bruised and aching, as though someone had taken the sack he’d been in and beaten it against the wall-though he doubted that even humans would be so stupid as to try to kill a spy before questioning him. No, the ache in his bones was probably the aftermath of the spell that had immobilized him.

Whatever had transpired after his capture on the rooftop, he had no clear memory of it, just a vague remembrance of the sack opening, of trying to fly free and being caught by strong hands, and of shifting into elf form to fight back against three powerfully muscled humans armed with clubs while a wizard stood by, leaning on a staff, and …

Leifander winced, and raised a hand to rub his temple. A chain rattled in the darkness, jerking his arm to a halt. Unable to reach his head, he gave up. He already knew what his questing fingers would find: a tender spot, and dried blood.

Cold bands on his other wrist and both ankles must be manacles. By the way the clanking of their chains filled the space, he knew he was in a small cell.

With that realization, claustrophobia overwhelmed him. Mind reeling, all he could do was sit and tremble. So used to the open skies above had he become that even the tents of his people seemed too close, too small. Now he was closed in, sealed into a cell, forgotten and left to rot-in a space no larger than a tomb. He was going to die there.

With an effort, he pulled his thoughts back from the brink of the tunnel they were about to spiral down into. Concentrate, he told himself, steady your breathing-but it was difficult. He was woozy and thirsty and shivering from the cold that seeped into his very bones from the stone below. He still had his magic, though, and the manacles wouldn’t hold him for long. He tucked his feet under him and eased his body into a squatting position.

Drawing a deep breath, he focused his will, initiating a shift. He imagined his outstretched, fluttering fingers as feathers, his nose and mouth as a beak, his body shrinking …

Nothing happened.

Concentration broken, Leifander squatted in the darkness, heart hammering inside his chest. Impossible! He jerked against the chains in frustration, lost his balance, and toppled to the floor.

Cold iron still clamped his wrists and ankles. Perhaps that was what was wrong-perhaps the manacles had been enchanted to prevent him from skinwalking. But as he rose to a squat once more, he realized the real reason. He could no longer feel bangs brushing against his forehead or the tickle of the feathers braided into them.

With a trembling hand, he reached up, at the same time bending his body and lowering his head. By straining, he could just reach his forehead. What he felt there nearly stopped his heart. All that remained of his bangs were several rough tufts of hair, hacked short just above the scalp. Shifting his hand to his ear, he felt an empty hole where the gilded bone should have been. His longer braid still hung down his back, but his captors had removed the crow feathers and bone earring that allowed him to work his magic.

For several long moments he forgot to breathe. Dizzy, he at last drew a shuddering breath, then he prayed.

“Winged Mother, Lady of the Air and Wind, hear my prayer,” he cried out, his voice sounding thin and strained in the tiny space. “Do not forsake me. Peer down into this dark and terrible place, wherever it may be, and lend me your wings. Lift my spirit, mend my body, and soothe my soul.”

From somewhere outside the cell came the sound of metal clinking against metal. Footsteps approached, and with them, a light that gradually limned a rectangular doorway. For a moment, a thin shaft of warm yellow light shone in through a keyhole, then it blinked out as a key was thrust into the lock. Metal grated as tumblers turned, and the door opened and light flooded into the room.

Blinded by the sudden rush of light, Leifander could make out little of the man who had opened the door. By squinting, he caught a glimpse of harsh features, blond hair and beard, and a mail shirt and helm. Behind the man was a narrow corridor, its far wall having at least two doors set with stout locks. The man nodded and called back over his shoulder to someone farther down the corridor.

“Looks like bird boy is awake,” he growled. “Go tell Drakkar.”

They dragged Leifander down a maze of hallways to a small room with windowless walls of damp stone, a low ceiling, and a floor stained with dark brown splotches. A human skull and some bones lay jumbled carelessly in a corner, gnawed clean save for a few jagged scraps of red and a patch of faded hair. The air smelled of sewage and decaying flesh, and the only illumination came from two oil lamps with wicks that needed trimming, set above each of the room’s two exits. They filled the air with soot that roiled against the ceiling before disappearing out through a blackened ceramic pipe. From inside this ventilation pipe came a skittering noise like the scurrying of rodent feet.

While two men stood by with swords at his throat, a third-the blond guard-attached each of Leifander’s manacles in turn to a metal bolt on the floor, forcing him into a spread-eagle position on his back.

When he was done, Leifander could barely move. Shivering with cold, all he could do was glare as the men taunted him, drawing the points of their swords slowly down his bare chest and stomach, then tarrying at his groin, threatening to emasculate him. He spat on the boots of the blond guard, defying him, and received a kick that made his ears ring and caused bright points of light to dance just in front of his eyes.

Leifander tensed, expecting further kicks, but instead the guards departed the way they had come; the closing door muffled their footsteps. Left to himself, Leifander struggled against the manacles in the futile hope that one of the bolts on the floor might prove loose. One was, but though he writhed like a snake, chafing wrists and ankles raw, he could neither tug it out nor slip his bonds.

Cursing, he regretted not having attacked the guards as they marched him at sword point down the short hallway. At least that would have been a quick death. Now he would reap the bitter rewards of cowardice.

A moment later, the room’s second door opened. Through it stepped a monstrosity so disfigured that Leifander at first had trouble recognizing it as a man. It walked erect on two legs and wore purple hose and a black velvet doublet heavily embroidered with gold thread and studded with gems, but its head was horribly misshapen. The right side of the face looked human, aside from a single fang that curved over the mustached upper lip, but the left side was covered with a mass of black, serpentine scales, its eye bulging and pupil slitted. The hands were even worse. Emerging from the end of one sleeve was a birdlike talon, but with what looked like wriggling pink worms where the fingers should be. The other hand was human in shape but covered with a patchwork of fur, scale, and feathers. A heavy gold ring decorated one finger. The legs were strangely jointed, and while one foot was booted, the other was bare, ending in a cloven hoof. The man lurched into the room with a jerky, shuffling gait, his hoof clomping and booted foot twisting and dragging.

Behind him came a tall, dark-skinned man-fully human-wearing smoke-gray clothes. A thin line of beard framed his jaw, and his eyes glittered. He carried a knotted wooden staff into which thorns had been pressed, and upright thorns crowned its tip. He closed the door behind himself, then leaned on his staff, regarding Leifander with eyes utterly devoid of mercy.