by Kay Hooper
Gritting his teeth until his jaws ached, Hunter used all the discipline and strength at his command to ignore the wind and the fraying rope as he began lowering himself with reckless, inhuman speed. He didn’t think of the rocky coffin waiting below to cradle his broken body for all eternity. He thought only of the unicorns, and the end, one way or the other, of a long search.
He thought he would make it. After endless aeons of straining muscles crying out for relief, he felt the lightness in the rope that meant he was nearing the end of it, and his sweat-blinded eyes turned toward the bottom and the end of an agonizing race.
Then, abruptly, he was out of time, perhaps out of life itself, because the rope gave way and he was falling, falling into the mouth of a hungry, rocky hell. Instinctively he tried to turn his body, tried to land on his feet with at least an even chance for survival. But there was still no time, and no room at all to turn in because the first touch of rock was a brutal blow to his head and Hunter knew no more.
—
He thought he woke once or twice, thought he fought his way up through swirling black mist and fiery flashes of pain. He forced leaden eyelids to lift, seeing a crimson haze and understanding with a vast indifference that it was his own blood he was looking through. He felt nothing now, no pain and no cares, only a vague sort of curiosity. Blackness claimed him again.
The second waking—if waking it was—was accompanied this time by a pain so great that it wrung a hoarse groan from his lips. Again he forced reluctant eyes to open, the earlier crimson streamers gradually washed away by tears of agony until he could see sunlight. He was conscious of icy water flowing all around him and of rocks digging into his body like the points of a dozen knives.
Some logical part of his mind unmaddened by pain told him that he was in shock and losing blood fast. And that same ruthlessly disinterested voice told him that he didn’t really see a golden spiral waving with hypnotic slowness before his eyes. Ignoring the voice because he wanted to, because he was unwilling to die without knowing, Hunter tried to turn his head to see the unicorn that would prove a child’s dream. A sheet of white-hot agony made every other pain he had ever felt before a pleasure, and the blackness took him.
From a very great distance, he idly noted that the water was cold and the sun hot. There was silence broken only by the soft chirp of birds. And then there were other sounds, faint and puzzling sounds. Scrabbling sounds like hooves on rock, and a sweet, familiar, grassy smell accompanied by warm breath on his face.
And then there was a voice, a voice that was gentle for all its violent, angry words, and musical beyond belief. He tried to fight his way back up through the blackness because he wanted to meet the voice, but the effort seemed to drive the lovely sound away, and Hunter felt a strange grief that he would never know that face behind it. Something touched his shoulder, something warm and firm, and his skin tingled pleasantly. The pain faded until it was somewhere on the fringes of himself, and as it went the void of its leaving was filled with a sudden implacable determination.
Hunter was dying; he knew that the retreat of pain meant the retreat of life and the coming of Death. And he refused to accept it. His mind was clear and cold. He gathered together every scrap of will, every thread of determination, flinging both into Death’s face with a savage laugh that emerged from his throat raggedly and brought back the pain.
He clung to the pain fiercely, embraced it, welcomed it because it meant the retreat of Death. He sank beneath the waves of pain, exultant because Death had given up its hold on him.
—
Boran watched almost constantly. From his vantage point there was an unobstructed view of the valley below. He could not see far into the forest, of course, but he could see the cabin.
His breath had quickened at first sight of the herd, but he had made no move toward the valley. When he saw the sorceress, his fingers went ivory-knuckled around the spyglass. Holding his mind carefully blank, he watched throughout the day, studying as many of her habits as possible. She moved among her charges, a touch here, a pat there. She played a brief game of chase with the smallest of the herd.
He watched that one a long time.
The sorceress left his sight for a while, reappearing on the far side of the valley; he realized she was patrolling watchfully. He noted she carried no weapon. No visible weapon, at any rate.
He watched until night fell and a lamp flickered within the cabin. Then he rose, stretching cramped limbs, ignoring pain. He was very good at ignoring pain. His hand lifted to touch the hard left side of his face, fingers tracing the deep, immovable furrows that had replaced once-firm, pliable flesh. Almost lovingly, his fingers probed.
Some men, through the passage of time, forgot their reasons to hate. Boran had not, and he would never forget.
Boran had not been certain what form his revenge would take until he had focused his spyglass on the sorceress. The perfect, unmarred beauty of her face rose before his mind’s eye now as he fingered his own petrified flesh, tracing the hardness where it began above his brow and ended at the base of his neck.
How different her skin would feel! Like golden velvet. He imagined that soft skin beneath his touch. He thought of that lovely face flushed with anger, then pale with horror and revulsion as his heavy body covered her helpless one. He saw her black eyes wild with terror and pain and grief as he destroyed her. Destroyed her ability to guard her charges. Destroyed her most precious possession. Destroyed her beauty.
He wondered if Hunter knew just how vulnerable the sorceress was to maleness; it was possible, but not probable. He himself had found that bit of knowledge on a distant world Hunter had not visited. Only a virgin could hold the trust of the unicorns. Only a virgin….
There were worse fates than death.
Then he frowned a little. Was there a better way? Taking, after all, was easy. To persuade the sorceress to give, however, that was another matter. Boran fingered the amulet around his neck and then glanced toward the men crouching around the low fire. Silently, he commanded. And watched as one of the men stood up, turned three times, and then sat down again. There was no expression on his face, and the others showed no awareness of what he had done.
Boran smiled. Her mind would be stronger than these, of course, but not so strong that he could not control it.
Yes.
His chuckle, an incongruously pleasant sound to emerge from the distorted lips, was soft in the still night air. Such a lonely place, this valley. And so many long and lonely Winters she must have faced. But if she allowed Hunter to live…if she accepted his presence in her life because of his desire to find myth alive and walking…then perhaps she would remember those lonely winters.
Boran smiled. Yes. But he had to be cautious. The sorceress had power. He would have to control her carefully, search for the strengths and weaknesses of her mind.
Standing in the darkness, he pondered the possible emotional state of the sorceress. Her valley had been seriously threatened only once this Summer; she was probably complacent. On her guard, but not inordinately so. Hunter would become the first chink in her defenses, and Boran had only to wait, and watch it happen.
—
The second day of watching brought Hunter to the valley.
Boran watched through the spyglass as the sorceress emerged from the cabin very early, and he heard the eerie whistle she sent winging across the valley. He saw the herd turn instantly for the forest—all except one. The one, obviously the oldest and leader of the herd, stood firm. The sorceress was very still—Boran felt a tickling near the back of his head and strove to build his wall higher—then she turned abruptly, clear anger and worry in every line of her slender body, and followed the leaderless herd into the forest.
She returned to the meadow later and stared at the motionless leader. More tickling; Boran ignored it. It was clear to him that the single unicorn refused to follow some order of the sorceress, and he frowned as he realized that she did indeed know there was a thre
at to the valley. He wasn’t concerned that his presence had been discovered, but her ability to be forewarned disturbed him; he would have to be careful.
He would have to remember that particular power, try to discover if he could somehow confuse or cloud that ability. He could. Of course he could. The amulet would be his tool to accomplish it.
He watched her go back into the cabin, watched the leader cross the valley and disappear behind a jumble of boulders, then raised the spyglass and began searching across the valley where King’s path lay. It was nearly two hours later that he saw Hunter reach the saddlelike crest of the path.
Boran saw every move Hunter made. He saw the man sit for a moment, recovering from the climb, saw with pleasure his bruises and exhaustion. He watched him begin the descent into the valley and saw instantly that the descent was doomed.
He saw Hunter fall.
Bitterness rose sickly in his mind. No. That death would steal half his revenge. He cursed softly, tonelessly, his good eye fixed to the spyglass, staring at the motionless, broken body cradled by granite. He swore at gods abandoned long ago and far away for depriving him of half his revenge.
Then his good eye blinked and stared more fiercely into the lens. The leader of the herd had approached the broken body—and it stirred faintly. Boran held his breath. Not dead! Not yet. He watched the leader turn and move away, its speed uncanny as it raced toward the cabin.
Boran followed the creature with his glass, seeing the sorceress emerge from the cabin with one hand held to her head as the leader reached her. She swayed slightly. Then she straightened her shoulders, her beautiful features angry and pale. She followed instantly as the leader turned and both made their way toward the fallen man.
He felt hope rise in him as he watched the sorceress bend over the broken body, watched her quickly fashion a litter from strong limbs and strips of cloth fetched hastily from the woods and the cabin. He saw the leader submit quietly to being hitched to the litter bearing the unconscious man, and followed their progress back across the meadow to the cabin.
When the walls of the cabin finally hid the little drama from sight, Boran sat back and lowered the glass. He would have to wait now, wait and discover if the sorceress’s powers could yank a man back from death. Wait and find out if she would use those powers to save an enemy.
Boran hoped that she would, for he could think of only one reason why she would do something so alien to her life and responsibilities. And that reason boded well for his plans.
If Hunter lived.
Chapter 3
The ceiling was heavily beamed. Hunter studied it thoughtfully for moments or hours, his mind a limbo in which nothing but the ceiling mattered. It was a good ceiling, he decided finally, and having come to that decision, he abandoned it. Tentatively he allowed his senses to reach for more information, unsure if he was ready to absorb it. A bed. He was in a bed and warmly covered with heavy quilts. The scratchy feeling told him that he was naked beneath the covers, a fact which disturbed him on some deep and utterly male level. The constricted sensation around his head seemed a sure indication of a bandage of some kind, but Hunter felt no pain. Only an intolerable weakness.
Fighting the weakness, he made a single attempt to push himself up on his elbows, a bitten-off groan of frustration emerging from him when his arms refused to support him. He released a stream of smoking curses, relieved to note that his tongue was still capable of speech.
“Cheerful when you wake up, aren’t you?” the Voice questioned coldly.
Through sheer effort of will, Hunter managed to raise his head a few inches, and quick hands banked pillows behind him for support. He stared up into eyes as dark and, at the moment, just as malevolent as The Reaper.
Silver hair fell in a shining curtain to her tiny waist, framing a face that was as delicately beautiful and fragile as the crystal flowers he remembered from a faraway world and a distant past. Her brows winged upward, like her huge eyes, lending her a mysteriously feline gaze. And her face had the serenity of a cat’s, the proud and sure confidence of certain self-knowledge. In spite of the fierce anger of her dark eyes, there was a gentleness in her that Hunter could sense more than see.
Though tall and slender, her body was ripe with the rich curves of womanhood, and the black garment which covered her from neck to knees emphasized rather than concealed the fact. The garment had full sleeves caught tight at the wrists and fit like a second skin everywhere else. Lacings ran from her waist to her throat, leaving a crisscross pattern of black over creamy golden flesh and the shadowed valley between her firm breasts. The pants were tucked into boots made of some woven material.
Weak though he was, Hunter felt a flush of sensation, his numbed body coming to life with a will of its own as his loins swelled and hardened. His tongue tangled in his throat as he stared up at her, the assurance of nearly thirty years disappearing and leaving him as speechless as a schoolboy.
The lady made up the lack. Easily.
“You’ve been out for three days,” she told him, her cold voice a startling contrast to her gentle face. “And just as soon as you can stand up without falling on your face, you’re out again. Out of my valley. Do you understand?”
Hunter blinked, trying to reconcile the icy voice with the picture of delicate beauty standing before him.
“Do you understand?” she demanded again fiercely.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“How strong do you feel?”
Before Hunter could attempt an answer, the lady bent forward and calmly swept the quilts from the bed and from his naked body.
Being a man, there was no possible way for Hunter to hide his body’s reaction to the lovely woman, and she could hardly have missed seeing it. He was a big man in every physical sense, and his manhood was boldly erect with desire. But she said not a word, and her face changed neither expression nor color. While he felt the rush of heat to his face and silently, uselessly, commanded his body to obey him, she merely turned aside for a brief moment to pick up a bundle lying on a stool next to the bed. Then she composedly began to dress him in his clothing.
He nearly groaned aloud at the touch of her cool, firm hands and clamped his back teeth together fiercely in an effort to control a wild, raging hunger. He quite literally lacked the strength to obey his body’s need, but that did nothing to diminish the throbbing arousal. He was going to disgrace himself if she didn’t stop touching him, he realized, with the astonishment of a man who had never lost control in his adult life. Desperately he tried to think of anything but her hands.
Hunter would realize later that she had repaired the ravages his journey had inflicted on his clothes, but for the moment he was occupied only with inflamed senses. She pulled him into a sitting position on the bed, leaving him dizzy, weak, and furious at his own helplessness. Brisk, businesslike, and matter-of-fact, she inserted him into undergarment, pants, and the full-sleeved shirt which looked whiter than it had in quite some time. She didn’t hesitate to touch any part of his body, and Hunter forced himself to concentrate on a formula for spatial navigation, reciting coordinates while he stared fixedly across the room at the stone fireplace. Then she pulled him to his feet.
And if she hadn’t caught him with a slender and amazingly strong arm, Hunter would have fallen flat on his face.
Silently, while he cursed softly and breathlessly, she lowered him so that he was sitting on the bed again.
“Want these off again, or shall I leave them on?” She gestured at his clothes.
“On,” he answered hastily, aware of the constricted tightness of his trousers but unwilling to chance her hands on him again.
The woman banked pillows at the head of the bed and deftly arranged him against them so that he was half-sitting before pulling the quilts back over his now-clothed lower body. He stood head and shoulders above the average man and weighed correspondingly, and she handled his body, he thought with astonishment, as if he were a child.
It was a peculia
r sensation. And not at all welcome.
“Tomorrow,” she said suddenly, flatly. “You’ll leave tomorrow.” Then she turned away.
Hunter fought against a final wave of dizziness, shaking his head slightly to clear it. He reached up with a probing touch to find that his head was indeed bandaged. But there was no pain. Anywhere. Except in his achingly full loins, a pain caused by her rather than by the fall. He couldn’t remember seeing a bruise or a scratch on his body, which puzzled him greatly. Surely he should have been a mass of cuts and bruises, to say nothing of broken bones? The pain had been everywhere….
Pushing the memory and the question aside, he looked up, his eyes following the woman as she moved around the cabin’s single room. And she moved with eerie grace, with the smooth, coordinated, uncalculated rhythm of motion perfected. She made not a sound, her booted feet touching the hardwood floor as though they were the soundless pads of a stalking predator. Hunter shifted uncomfortably, astonished by his unusually instantaneous arousal but understanding the cause.
God, she was beautiful! He hadn’t seen her like on a hundred worlds, and he had never wanted a woman as he wanted her.
She crossed back to him as he watched, and he silently accepted the cup filled with water she had drawn from a wooden keg in one corner. He noticed that she avoided, now, any touch, and that her eyes had closed down to something hostile and coldly guarded.
He drank the water gratefully, feeling relief as the parched membranes in his throat relaxed, loosened. And watched as she went over to stir something in a black cooking pot over a low fire in the rough stone hearth.
