Enchanted Warrior

by Sharon Ashwood

  “Stand back,” she ordered. “If I get this right, you owe me a glass of wine.”

  * * *

  Tamsin concentrated, digging the magic from deep inside her. Exhaustion made her power slow to come until, at what seemed like the last possible moment, she sent a ball of pale blue light hurtling into the pack of hungry dead. She squeezed her eyes shut, but her ears heard the impact like a cracking egg.

  Tamsin opened her eyes to see something red raining from the air. Bile burned the back of her throat.

  “Tamsin!” Gawain bellowed.

  She jerked around to see one of the dead rushing at her, eyes blank as marbles. She shrieked from pure reflex and danced out of its way. Gawain stepped in its path, jabbing with the metal edge of the shield and following with a downward slice of his sword. Another zombie struck, shattering his shield. At that point, she lost every inhibition she’d ever had about using offensive magic. By the time Gawain had downed his new opponent, pieces of dead fae scattered the field.

  Tamsin waited for the next assault, but it didn’t come. Instead, the remaining fae stood still as scarecrows. “What’s wrong?”

  Gawain wiped his forehead on his sleeve. His eyes were wild. “They’re dead, not stupid.” He was backing quickly toward the water gate, never turning away from their attackers. Tamsin followed suit, a primitive voice screaming at her to run, run, run away! but knowing that would just remind the zombies to chase them.

  The tactic worked until they were almost at their goal, when a raven swooped down, croaking. As if the call woke up the dead, the fae sprang forward once more. But by that time, Gawain had the small gate open and they were scrambling down to a tiny boat. Gawain pushed it into the moat at a run.

  “Get in!” he ordered, splashing into the water.

  Tamsin balked when her boots hit the water. She’d never learned how to swim.

  “Hurry!” Gawain ordered, sheathing his sword. “Their bowmen are arriving!”

  Tamsin gave up trying to keep anything but her backpack dry. After a determined bound through the water, she crawled into the boat and landed in a heap of soggy fabric. She’d made it just in time—the current caught the vessel and sent the boat drifting into a spin, carrying it away from shore. “Help!” she cried.

  Gawain was right. A fresh contingent of fae were taking up position beside their fellows. There was a thrum and a sound like giant bees. Arrows splashed into the water mere inches from the boat.

  “Gawain!” Tamsin peered over the side. He was nowhere in sight. For a panicked instant, she blinked against the brilliance of the sun on the water, and then ducked again as another flight of arrows spattered around her. This time two thumped into the light frame of the spinning boat.

  To her enormous relief, Gawain’s hand appeared over the edge, followed shortly by the rest of him. He’d ducked underwater, and the mail shirt he wore glittered like scales as he climbed aboard. He made a muffled hiss of pain as he landed, and clawed his sodden cloak out of the way. A feathered shaft stuck out of his thigh.

  “Oh, no.” Tamsin stared at the arrow. Gawain’s pain was her first thought, but underneath that was primal fear for them both.

  “I’ve had worse.”

  Gawain grabbed the oars from the bottom of the boat and locked them in place. Then he paused, clearly gathering himself. He was drained of color and his mouth was clamped in a tight line, as if holding the truth inside. Tamsin’s blood went icy. He was hurt.

  “I can stabilize that,” she said. “That should help until we get to shore.”

  “There’s no time.” Gawain plunged the oars into the water and turned the vessel toward the opposite shore. Tamsin twisted to look at the castle. The dead faeries were crowding around the water gate as if they were unsure what to do next.

  “Can fae swim?” she asked tightly.

  “Of course,” Gawain replied, his expression grim. “They’ll come after us soon enough.”

  Tamsin summoned her power one last time. She had enough juice for one more fireball, so she made it big. She loaded it with all the confusion, annoyance, fear and frustration she had in her. It sailed, a falling star of power that flared with cleansing heat as it struck. Tamsin and Gawain ducked, shading their eyes. When she looked up, the bank by the castle moat was empty. She wondered if their foes were dead or merely hiding.

  A long minute passed as Gawain rowed, but nothing moved. Her thoughts skittered away as she tried to focus on what she’d just done. Assault magic teetered on the edge of darkness. It was something her father had taught her but nothing that the Shadowring Elders condoned. It smacked of black spell casting, the very thing that Gawain feared.

  A dark, hollow place opened up inside her, and she shivered.

  Silence followed, broken only by the splash of the oars and the murmur of the water against the side of the boat. Gawain’s movements were jerky with pain. She didn’t attempt conversation, instead drying their clothes with what little magic she had left. The fabric went stiff and scratchy, but Gawain’s cloak—along with a sliver of magic—worked well enough as padding to keep the arrow in Gawain’s leg immobilized and the bleeding minimal. She offered to try the oars, but Gawain just gave her a very male look.

  Rather than rowing them back to the orchard, he found the stream that fed the moat. They didn’t get far before they passed the carcass of a horse. By the color of its trappings, it had belonged to the army that had invaded the castle. “It bolted from whatever killed its masters,” said Gawain in a grim voice. “But it didn’t get away.”

  Tamsin turned away. Injured animals upset her deeply. “Do we know what attacked it?”

  “It takes something large to bring down a warhorse.”

  Later, they came across a piece of a saddle floating downstream, but no other signs of carnage. They followed the stream until the water grew too shallow to navigate. By then, the sun was past its peak. Tamsin helped Gawain ashore and pulled the little boat under the cover of some low bushes. With Gawain leaning on her shoulder, they climbed up the bank to see where they were. The land looked wilder here, with rolling moors and the silver slash of a river fading into the distance.

  “The sea is that way,” Gawain pointed.

  “Do you know where we are?” Tamsin asked in surprise.

  “Perhaps. I know where we would be if this were Camelot. If the Forest Sauvage holds true, my castle lies ahead. It will be the best choice for us to find safety and shelter.”

  His voice held a note of cautious hope. Tamsin hitched her pack higher on her shoulder. “How far is it?”

  “We should reach it by nightfall if we make good time.”

  “You’re not going another step on that leg.”

  “It’s only a flesh wound.” But even his brave words couldn’t cover the lie.

  Tamsin helped him to the ground. He did no more than grunt a protest, which meant the injury had to be bad. Tamsin knelt and examined the wound, refusing to let her fingers tremble. The arrow had buried itself in the muscle of his thigh. She guessed a stubborn temper and buckets of adrenaline were all that had kept Gawain going that far.

  “There is good news and bad news,” she ventured. “The good news is that the arrow didn’t sever any major blood vessels.”

  “How do you know that?” He closed his eyes. A sheen of sweat covered his face.

  “You’re not dead yet.” She swallowed. Her throat felt thick and swollen with panic. “The bad news is I don’t have my medicines here. I’ll have to improvise.”

  His lids cracked open. “You improvised fine with those dead fae.”

  A knot twisted in Tamsin’s gut. “I’ve never used my power that way before.”

  She expected something from Gawain—either congratulations or revulsion, since he hated magic so completely—but he remained impassive. Whatever his thoughts, he me
ant to keep them to himself. After a long moment he asked, “Did Hector teach you to do that?”

  “Yes.” She unfastened the knife from her belt. The first thing was to cut away the clothing from around the wound and get a better look. Nervous energy was fizzing inside her, but her mind was curiously blank. Probably the result of shock.

  She began slicing at his clothes, wincing inside as he flinched. “I’m not sure if I should be proud or terrified of blowing them all up.”

  “We lived.”

  She nearly snapped at him. She wanted more than two words. Needed his response. But then Gawain clenched his fist, giving the ground a thump as she fully exposed the wound. Apparently, the moment of fight or flight was over and his pain receptors had caught up with events.

  “I hate witch fire,” he finally said. “Gives me nightmares.”

  “I’m sorry it bothered you,” Tamsin replied, keeping her voice neutral. She was being an idiot, thinking of her own needs at a moment like this.

  Gawain’s mouth flattened to a line as she prodded the wound. “The walking dead bothered me more.”

  She didn’t reply. Images replayed in her mind of the spell striking, exploding and tearing the enemy to pieces. She shuddered, revolted all over again. She hadn’t killed anyone—the fae had already been dead—but it felt as if she had. The experience had changed her—she knew that much—but she still wasn’t sure how.

  She pushed that aside. Her problems were for later. “I’m going to have to get the arrow out, and then I’m going to have to use raw magic to heal you. The backpack got in the water and while the books are fine, my herbs and powders are spoiled. I’m sorry. I don’t have any other way. Even if you could walk, there’s too much chance of infection.”

  She met his gaze, bracing for an argument, but his blue eyes were dull.

  “Do what you must,” he said. “I trust you.”

  Chapter 21

  Tamsin caught her breath. She’d feared he would refuse her, just as he had when she’d bound his arm. This was a hard-won privilege. “Okay.”

  Gawain gave a curt nod. Before she could react, he reached down, grabbed the arrow shaft and tore the point out of his flesh. His bellow of pain chilled Tamsin through, but she clamped her hands over the spurt of blood and pushed her healing energy into the wound. The flesh under her palms was hot and wet, a gaping tear sucking at his life. The last of her energy pounded into him with every beat of her pulse. Red rivulets of blood escaped through her fingers, soaking the ground where she knelt.

  Tamsin’s shoulders ached as she pressed down, her muscles protesting the abuse they’d suffered that day, but she also was inside him, knitting together each nerve and fiber, putting him back together as methodically as a mason laying bricks. Time slowed and lost meaning as she worked, her mind diving deep until she experienced Gawain almost on a cellular level.

  There, she found out so much more about him. Power coiled deep inside him, strong and wild from long neglect. Tamsin felt his magic stir as her energy brushed against it, but she resisted the impulse to explore. At the same moment, she saw the ruins where his boyhood trust had been shattered, and felt the healing energy of the deep friendships that had put him back together again. From those friendships came an unexpected, stubborn hope. Tamsin breathed on that flicker of light, coaxing it brighter. Hope was a healer’s greatest weapon.

  When Tamsin withdrew, she did so slowly, letting go a tiny bit at a time until she was sure her repairs would hold. When she finally opened her eyes, she swayed with exhaustion. A pink scar on Gawain’s heavily muscled thigh showed where the arrow had been, puckered and deep, but the muscle beneath it was sound.

  Tamsin collapsed on the grass. With a last wisp of magic, she repaired his leggings. All that buff male was distracting.

  Experimentally, Gawain rose, putting weight on his leg with a look of intense concentration. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

  “It has no reason to,” Tamsin said.

  The wind tossed his dark hair as he looked down on her, his eyes searching her face. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her magic was spent, and so was her ordinary strength. Waves of exhaustion reminded her it had been hours since she’d eaten dinner, and they hadn’t brought food with them. In fact, they had lost everything but her backpack and Gawain’s sword.

  “Are quests always this wearing?” Tamsin leaned back on her elbows, tipping her face up to the afternoon sun.

  “Generally,” Gawain said, putting his hands on his hips and squinting at the horizon. “Worse if it involves something with nasty, big, pointy teeth.”

  “What now?” she asked. “We have the books. If my father was looking for them to get to the Forest Sauvage, presumably they should be able to help us get home, but we have to find him and your king first.”

  “Agreed.” He sank to the grass beside her, then leaned over and brushed her lips with his.

  “What’s that for?” She hadn’t expected affection so soon after using her magic on him. Even now, she could see the turmoil behind his blue gaze, but he gave a slow smile.

  “I’m expressing my gratitude. A simple thank-you seemed inadequate after you conquered an army of the walking dead and then healed me.” Gawain kissed Tamsin again, this time with more passion. Despite her fatigue, desire ached within her, as languid as the afternoon warmth. She raked her fingers over his shoulders, rejoicing in the raw male force that coiled there. Her body began to ache with need.

  “You should rest,” he murmured as he ran his hands down her form, but the stroking did nothing to settle her down. His shirt was unlaced at the neck and showed the strong muscles of his neck and throat. Tamsin put her mouth there, tasting the salt of his skin. Gawain’s breath sucked in. “I want you in my bed,” he murmured.

  “In your castle?” She sank back on the grass, looking up at him.

  “Yes. It’s a good, strong bed with a feather mattress, and I am lord and master there.”

  She smiled, but it came with a tinge of sadness. Though he wanted her now, would he remember eventually what she was? There was a big difference between letting her fix his leg and keeping her forever. “Are you trying to seduce me, Sir Gawain?”

  “I am.” He pulled away with an expression that said how much that restraint hurt. “But we have a long road ahead and I’d rather finish my conquest with you safe under my roof.”

  His look was regretful but also possessive, as if he was bargaining as much with himself as with her. “I want you in my arms, in my bed and on my lands. And I want you safe when night falls. This is the Forest Sauvage, and not a good place to be in the woods after dark.”

  The deep rumble of his words and the sentiments they expressed were as sexy as hell. Nevertheless, her exhausted body yearned to stay here in the soft grass, basking in sunlight and Gawain’s good mood. She gave a moan of protest, wishing with every fiber of her soul for a hot meal or a shower or a decent all-terrain vehicle that would get them to the castle without walking until her feet were covered in blisters.

  It was there, with her ear to the ground, that she heard the clop of hooves. Tamsin rolled over, shading her eyes. A horse stood at the edge of the brush that lined the stream bank, mouthing its bit nervously. By the color of its trappings, the glossy bay stallion was another of the fae’s horses, still with its saddle and bridle. Tamsin sat up slowly, caution seeping through her. The beast was huge, breathing hard and flecked with sweat.

  “Look!” she whispered.

  Gawain was sitting cross-legged beside her. When he saw the mount, he rose in one smooth motion. The horse skittered backward.

  “He’s terrified,” Tamsin said softly. The horse’s ears twitched at her voice.

  Gawain nodded, but he was smiling as if he had finally won a roll of the dice. “This is an excellent piece of good fortune. He is sca
red now, but he is used to a master. He will come around.”

  Tamsin remembered her wish of a moment ago and wondered if their need had drawn the horse their way, or if the beast had been drawn to her healing power. Could Gawain have unconsciously called it to them? She couldn’t begin to guess, and she certainly wasn’t going to suggest it. He’d probably send the horse away if he thought it had been summoned.

  And it looked as if the horse and Gawain were coming to an understanding. With exquisite patience, he drifted toward the beast, every motion deliberate and slow. He didn’t approach directly, but wandered over to the beast’s left. All the while, he murmured to it in soft, low tones. The horse stamped, snorting and swishing its tail. Gawain turned and made his way to the right, closing the distance between them by degrees. The moment he got too close, the moment the horse made a low, unhappy sound, Gawain backed away.

  Tamsin watched, fascinated. Gawain wasn’t a patient man, but here he showed a leniency she hadn’t seen before. Then again, he was capable of relentless persistence bundled in a layer of charm. How else had he dragged her into an unlikely quest for a stone king?

  Eventually, the horse began to follow Gawain’s movements, coming ever closer. He caught the horse’s bridle, whispering in its ear and patting its neck. The horse whickered, bobbing its head as if agreeing to the situation. Then it nuzzled Gawain’s ear.

  A minute later, Gawain was in the saddle, Tamsin perched behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist. She’d stowed her pack with the saddlebags, securing it tight to the saddle. She’d never had enough practice to be a good rider, but Gawain more than made up for her shortcomings. All at once, getting to spend the night in a real bed was becoming possible.

  By the time the sun was fading, they had almost reached the river that reflected the pinks and reds unfurling in the sky. Clouds had been gathering as they rode, filling the air with a clammy promise of rain. Tamsin rested her cheek against Gawain’s back, fatigue lapping at her like warm water. She snapped her eyelids open and blinked, realizing she was drifting. Then she squinted. There were birds circling in the sky. Crows, surely, but they were behaving oddly. The black forms were flying in an odd spiral pattern, making a whirlpool of silent black wings. Then she remembered the crows on the drawbridge. Suddenly, she was wide-awake again. “Gawain!”