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    The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh: Minstrels of Skaythe, #3
    The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh: Minstrels of Skaythe, #3
    The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh: Minstrels of Skaythe, #3
    Ebook147 pages2 hours

    The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh: Minstrels of Skaythe, #3

    By Deby Fredericks

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    Meven is a renegade, hunted by the cruel regime of master mage Dar-Gothull. Her desperate desire is to lose herself in the treacherous Fang Marsh. Only there can she live the life she wants, in freedom and safety. To reach the marsh, Meven must sneak through the town of Eshur, where her old enemy, the wicked Countess Ar-Torix, commands dozens of spies and guards. It should be no problem! 

     

    What Meven doesn't know is that she's already being tracked. Ozlin was thrown out because of his emerging magic. Now he's starving on the streets of Eshur. Caught stealing, he's about to be imprisoned in the brutal temple school. 

     

    Until Meven recognizes his power and intervenes. Suddenly she has a new, desperate desire — to save this mageling boy, and maybe save herself as well. 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDeby Fredericks
    Release dateMay 15, 2020
    ISBN9781733922746
    The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh: Minstrels of Skaythe, #3
    Author

    Deby Fredericks

    Deby Fredericks has been a writer all her life, but thought of it as just a fun hobby until the late 1990s. Her first sale, a children's poem, was in 2000. Since then she has published seven fantasy novels through two small presses, and ventured into the realm of self-publishing with her novellas and novelettes.

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      Book preview

      The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh - Deby Fredericks

      Dedication

      For Norma,

      who always talks Dragon Age with me.

      Indicia

      Text © 2020 by Deborah J. Fredericks.

      Cover illustration by Tithi Luadthong. Designed by Deborah J. Fredericks using Canva.

      All rights reserved.

      No generative AI has been used in the conceptualization, development, or drafting of this work.

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

      This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

      Minstrels of Skaythe

      Where dark sorcery rules, they seek to restore a forbidden power — hope!

      Book I — The Tower in the Mist

      Book II — Dancer in the Grove of Ghosts

      Book III — The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh

      Book IV — Prisoners of the Wailing tower (Forthcoming)

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      The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh

      I — THE PORT

      S un and wave, where's the way through? Meven muttered under her breath. Seagulls screeched overhead, perfectly expressing the icy fear that coiled in her gut. She vowed not to let such fear control her any more.

      The buildings of Eshur were even less cared-for than they had appeared from the ship's deck as it glided into the harbor. Dull green moss veiled the rickety walls. The cobblestones were uneven, with screwgrass and rascalweed poking up where they hadn't been ground down by rumbling cart wheels. Everywhere was a stench, and you were never sure what liquid you stepped in.

      And the noise was relentless. Hawkers shouted their wares, captains yelled at sailors, whips cracked and draft horses' hooves thundered on the docks. Anxiety cracked a whip of its own, goading Meven to run, to unleash her ice and force a path through the crowd. Instead, she disciplined herself to breathe steadily and move with the people around her. Giving in to her fears meant giving up a chance for the life she wanted. To get there, to be safe and free, all she had to do was talk through this town.

      Never mind that Eshur was full of enemies for a renegade like her. There were hostile mages, guards everywhere, and ordinary people were used to spying on each other. Well, Meven wasn't a scared child any more. She was desperate, and she'd had time aboard ship to plan. Her dull blue dress and dingy blouse were calculated to be forgettable. A hat of woven reeds covered most of her thin brown face. A thick black braid trailed behind. She'd even picked up a few acting skills from her recently-disbanded minstrel troupe.

      It was a gamble, the outcome uncertain, but Meven had few options. She had to do this.

      OZLIN SCANNED THE CROWD from his perch on a barrel near the mouth of an alley. Hunger gnawed at his ribs, but then, he was always starving. From the moment he woke to the time he burrowed into some makeshift shelter at dusk, hunger was a constant, furious companion. Not that anybody cared about his needs. One ragged boy meant nothing on the docks of Eshur.

      No, he couldn't depend on anyone else. That was why he watched the people coming and going. A ship had just tied up. With all the confusion of unloading it, he hoped he could steal something. Food, or something to trade for it.

      That was how he saw the woman. She looked normal enough, but something was a little bit off. Lots of people wore reed hats to block the burning sun. Her brim was down farther than it should be. And she moved... there wasn't a word for it. Too carefully?

      He thought, She doesn't want to be seen.

      Ozlin stayed still, only his keen black eyes moving to follow that stranger. He was torn. Stay and steal food, or tail her and learn something that was worth more if he could find the right guardsman to tell it to? Hurth would listen. Or Carless at the Fang Reef Tavern. She always wanted good gossip. If Ozlin told her something really interesting, Carless would let him sleep in her back shed, out of the fog and wind. 

      He nodded to himself and slid down from the barrel. As Ozlin shadowed the woman, he could tell she didn't know where she was. She kept glancing around, not like someone who knew the streets and alleys. People chattered as they streamed toward the plaza, where the Festival of Visitation was going on. Ozlin didn't care about festivals, but he wasn't the only sneak on Eshur's streets. If he wasn't careful, somebody else would get to her before he did.

      He moved up a little closer. More than he really liked — Ozlin didn't want anyone in grabbing distance of him. Still, it was useful. A woman with a kid trailing after her wasn't unusual. People would see that and assume she was his mother.

      Just thinking so made Ozlin spit on the cobblestones. He didn't have a mother. Not after Father got done with her. His fist clenched at his side, a reflex of the rage that bit as deep as his hunger. Heat rolled up against his side. Nobody wanted a mage for a son. Father's hands had been sticky with blood as he threw Ozlin down the back steps.

      He shook his fingers, getting rid of the flames that always seemed ready to erupt. No, he didn't want any parents. But if it fed his gnawing hunger, he'd let people think it.

      So he kept on shadowing the stranger. Only, when he got near, Ozlin felt something else. A silent breeze curled in her wake, cool as a tendril of morning fog. That was the feeling of sorcery.

      His steps lagged without his wishing it. An invisible fist squeezed his throat. He paused beside a display of cooking pots, flexing his fingers open and shut to get rid of the unwanted heat. When it was safe, he glared at her retreating back.

      That stranger was a mage, disguised as a normal person. Ozlin didn't know what it meant, except an opportunity for him. A foreign mage, coming to Eshur in secret? This was news worth sharing. Even better if he could tell Hurth where she went. Yes, the countess' guardsmen would want to know that.

      Ozlin darted forward, keeping up the charade of a relationship. The crowd stopped, and so did she. He idled his way aside, fussing with the waist of his sarong as if it had come loose. Mages were dangerous, even when they were trying to pretend something.

      He had to be careful.

      THE NARROW STREET CROSSED others at an angle that made it hard for Meven to see where she was going. She kept moving, listening to the talk of people nearby. Surely there had to be a larger street. One that would lead to a gate, and freedom.

      Groaning their complaints, the people around her stopped to let a wagon full of wood rumble by. Meven tensed as a vague spark of magic pricked at her senses. Stinging heat lusted to set something afire. She refused to look around.

      Nothing to do with you, Meven. Keep your eyes on your own business.

      The oxen pulling the wagon dropped dung under the wheels. Meven wished she could have stayed on the ship instead of dealing with so many stinking people and animals. Two weeks at sea had been a blessing and a relief. Born on the water but for years exiled to land, she had forgotten so much! The rhythmic dance of the ship on the tide. The musky tang of salt water, the creak of the rigging and slap of waves against the side.

      People started to move around her. Meven made to step with them, but another driver cracked his whip and rushed his wagon into the gap. People around her grumbled with frustration.

      Typical, Meven said to no one in particular.

      Long ago, almost thirty years now, she had been a water-child who toddled the deck of her family's houseboat, Fawn. She had learned to walk and swim at roughly the same time. From one port to another the family roamed mighty Lake Bilseng, up and down and across and around. Sometimes they earned coin by delivering cargo between Nibbuk and Ortach. Mostly they foraged in the mangrove thickets to net enough food for all the mouths aboard. Those had been golden days. Before her magic emerged and capsized her life.

      As a child, Meven hadn't questioned her parents' way of life. Now she understood how much they risked, yet also gained, by living on the water. Her recent journey by boat had been mere impulse, the fastest way out of a trap. She hadn't expected it to become a sojourn through fond memories. Now that she had revisited the sensations of life on the water, Meven didn't want to give it up. With any luck, she wouldn't have to.

      Well, not only luck. Planning, scheming, and perhaps a bit of trickery would be involved. Also, relearning a few old skills to keep herself hidden and fed in a mangrove swamp. But first, she had to get out of this wretched town!

      The second wagon moved by, and this time the people were the ones who jumped into the gap. A pair of women shoved past Meven, ignoring her in favor of their own conversation.

      My Tollig has worn clear through his work boots, The first woman shook her head, as if this was a particular slight against her. "I'll have

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