Her body did feel sore, but not in a bad way. Timidly, she dared to say, “You can hurt me this way again. As many times as you like.” He smiled at that. Heat rushed to her face. As much as she had longed to do this with him, she didn’t think it would make her feel this way. Her body was tingling; her mind was clear and free of worries. She felt at peace with herself, and a part of something other than Omi House.
“Rest a little while, Hessa, and when you are ready, we should leave this place before the sun is completely risen.”
“We should leave now then. There’s no time for rest. I would be dressing and soon heading to my duties at this time of the morning.”
He kissed her forehead. “Very well then.” Gunnar pushed up from the cot and began to gather her belongings. There was very little, but he placed each thing, her comb, her supply of worn clothes, and the few trinkets she had collected over the years into a pile and wrapped them into a bundle made from a bed linen. She stood to ready herself to leave, but her legs shivered so badly that Hessa fell forward.
Gunnar caught her and steadied her against his body. “Rest a little more,” he soothed. “Your body is tired. We have time to make our escape.” He set her back across the cot and draped the thin blanket atop her. “I’ll watch over you.”
She nodded and sighed. He looked like a guardian as he went to the small window and squinted at the outside world. But she knew there was cause to worry. If the cell keeper remembered anything of the night before, he would remember that he had taken her to his home, and he was bright enough to guess that she had stolen the keys to the prisoners.
Chapter Five
Hessa poked her head outside her room and stared at the line of guards that crossed the street. These were nothing more than paid assassins sent to recapture the men who had escaped. And if they killed them by accident, surely their fee would be less, but what mattered was that no one escaped. It would be bad for business. Omi House thrived on control, on a plentiful supply of whores to bed and men to fight in the pits—bawdy entertainment for the men and women of the assassin guilds that paid dearly for something to see or do that that was out of the ordinary.
She waited until the guards passed before she stepped out into the street. Rain drizzled from the wan clouds clinging to the sky. The sun fought to shine down on the world. She started along the street, keeping close to the buildings. Gunnar soon followed, wearing a makeshift wrap about his body as if he were one of the harem girls from the east. All she could see were his eyes. His massive sword was disguised in the wrappings and tied at his back. She feared someone would stop them. He was so tall, a giant walking amidst people who were one or two heads shorter.
They passed the fighting pits, and even in the slight rain people had began to gather for a show. Wild animals growled and roared from the lower pens where they were kept before they were set into the arena. She looked back and saw the emotions in her lover’s eyes. No fear, but something sadder, more terrible, the look of a man who had seen death and suffering too many times. “We can take the trade road.” She had never followed it before today, but she knew it led to other cities, to the forestlands, to countless places that exported goods to Bisura. The one thing Hessa didn’t know was how far they would need to travel to be safe.
Gunnar’s eyes softened. He hurried his pace with a few strides until they walked in time with one another. “Should something go wrong, run.” He patted her shoulder. “You run away, and I will find you, Hessa.”
She nodded.
They bypassed two taverns and a smaller building she knew to be where the children were housed. A play yard in the back offered sounds of laughter and sing-song games. She remembered her own time there with little fondness. It was there that the headmaster had punished her for stealing by lashing her back with the whip. And she had fought him then, only to have her spirit broken and her face cut with the man’s dagger. She looked ahead, trying to bury that memory. “When we reach the outskirts, there will be farmland,” she told him. “Then I think we will come to the forests.”
“Anywhere is better than this Godsforsaken city. The first town we come to, I will find work. We can save up enough coins to buy a horse. Then travel the roads south to the sea.” He squinted at the horizon.
Hessa followed his gaze, curious and thinking perhaps he knew the way to go better than she could guess. His fingers caught hold of hers to squeeze and offer comfort. She realized why. Ahead at the city gates were several guards, and these men did not look like they had been drinking the night away like the ones form the cells.
Gunnar’s hand slipped away from hers. “Remember what I told you. Run. Don’t look back. I will follow after you when I can. We are meant to be together. The Gods will give us that chance again if we part ways.”
She fought the urge to turn and go back to her room. Freedom had never been this close. She knew the men ahead would not let them pass. Dread filled her. There was no escape, no way out. Life would go back to what it had always been—endless days of cleaning, working, lewd comments from drunk men that didn’t see her as anything of value. She looked back the way they had come, at the children’s building and the arena beyond. Then she remembered what that brothel woman had whispered in her mind. “They will not break me,” Hessa whispered, repeating that woman’s words. She curled her fingers into fists.
Gunnar stepped away from her as if to walk in another direction. He started to hum, his voice low and mesmerizing. Wind swept up from the valley beyond the city and pushed back her hair. She marched forth, scared but determined. “They will not break me,” she repeated to steel her resolve.
The light drizzle became heavier. Droplets of rain pattered down all around her on the hard-packed dirt road. She kept setting one leather clad foot before the other until she was but a few steps from the line of dangerous men that waited to stop her.
“Where are you going, woman?” one asked with a sneer.
The man next to the first fingered the handle of his blade with meaning.
“My master has sent me to hire someone.” It was a vague answer, and she doubted it would gain her passage.
The one with the dagger laughed under his breath. “Which someone?”
She looked past them, past the sprawling fields of jindi and the date palms that swayed in the gathering wind. She knew few people outside of Omi House, but there was one name that she had heard of—the most feared assassin in all of Bisura. “Lord Brenin Drake.”
The man who had sneered at first grew pale. “What business does your master need of Lord Drake?”
“You know what business I speak of.” She placed her hands on her hips and scowled at them. “Now, let me pass and be on my way.”
The dagger bearer took a step toward her. Two others reached for the hilts of their swords. Her nerves were beginning to get the better of her. She thought maybe they could see through her ruse.
“You may pass,” one said. “Our worry is not over a woman.”
“That’s the one,” a guard said, his nonchalant nod pointing out Gunnar though he stood much farther away. “I remember his shape from the pits. They bypassed Hessa, and one man slapped her ass. “Be on your way, woman, before I have a mind to use you for myself. Stop this way when you’re done with your master’s business if that idea pleases you.”
She turned back, staring at Gunnar. He was alone against four men. With two fingers he pulled the fabric down that had hidden his nose and mouth. Run, he mouthed to her. She hesitated. What if she ran and he didn’t catch up? What if these guards overpowered him and he was sent back to the pits and the cell she had found him in?
The guards picked up their pace.
Gunnar held his ground.
Hessa turned her back on him and did as he had told her to do. She ran from the place of her birth, the sordid, whore-ridden city of Bisura, and she sprinted through the fields toward a black tower jutting up from the ground far in the distance.
Chapter Six
She was to
o frightened to look back. Hessa raced through the jindi fields, flat leaves slapping at her legs and tugging at her skirt. All the while she ran, she heard Gunnar’s voice tempting the wind. She reached a brick road that wound its way to the tower’s mouth. The entrance was ornate, with vines and a trellis, and even ornamental flowers at the border edges. But none of that mattered. She ran through and into the unknown, hopeful for sanctuary.
“Hold there,” a woman’s voice said. Garbed in a shroud and hidden by the fabric but for her dark eyes through its netting, a yeinei servant came forward. “What business do you have here?” She sounded angry, and her hand strayed to a dagger at her belt.
“Please, help us,” Hessa begged. “My…man and I are journeying to the forestlands. But they want him for the pits.”
The yeinei bypassed Hessa and set her hand across her forehead to peer at the scene unfolding near the city gates. “My master is no longer of the trade.”
“What?”
The yeinei took a few more steps in the direction of the city, her attention set on the ensuing battle. “My master is no longer an assassin. He is not for hire, if that’s the kind of help you need.”
“We just want to leave the city.” Her voice sounded meek, insignificant. “We want our freedom.” Hessa stared in the direction of Bisura, but she had come too far to see anything of what had become of Gunnar. The city gates were hardly visible, and she listened, but couldn’t hear his windsong.
“You desire freedom,” the yeinei said under her breath. “It is a noble cause, but to bring down the wrath of the guilds on my master’s house is not something I want to face up to. He would not forgive me for that. Your pit fighter must stay where they have charged him.”
“Freedom is not a popular right in Bisura.” This time a man spoke. He came up behind Hessa, his footsteps soundless, his face half scarred, much like hers. The yeinei gave him a short bow.
“What is your name, dark one?” he asked.
“Hessa.” She glanced at the belt of blades about his waist, and was well aware of the richness of his clothes. This man had the look of danger in his eyes and a serious expression on his battle worn face. He stared hard at her, awaiting the rest of her name.
When she did not answer, he stepped forward and touched the ruined side of her face. “We look of the same ilk,” he said, for his cheek seemed to match hers with its scars. He pushed down the neckline of her dress to expose the brand that had been burned into her skin as a child. “Hessa Omi,” he said and nodded in understanding. “How did you manage to come this far from the holdings of your masters?”
She wrung her hands together, frowning. “My lover…and I…”
One of his eyebrows arched in question. A muscle in his cheek tensed. “Yes?”
“We…escaped.” She knew he would be well within his rights to tie her up and drag her back to the city. Omi House would likely reward him for doing so.
“Mm.” The man bypassed Hessa and the yeinei. He paced a moment, his thumb and forefinger pinching at his chin. After a time, he whistled through his teeth, a shrill noise that echoed in the charmed wind. A horse nickered somewhere in the distance before it galloped toward the estate. When the black animal reached him, he climbed atop its bare back and nodded at Hessa. “Come with me. We will settle this matter.”
She took a step back, afraid. He would take her back to Omi House now. Gunnar would be punished if he had not managed to escape the guards, and so would she.
“Come,” he said again, and held out his hand.
She shot a worried look at the servant, but the yeinei only spoke to her master. “My Lord, see how the winds have changed. I can smell the magic of the seas in the very air. The islander from the pits must be fighting again.”
He nodded. “I will not hurt you, dark one.”
Hessa gave in and placed her hand and her life in the palm of the strange man. “Are you Lord Brenin?” She looked up into his eyes and saw a small white light there, glittery and mysterious.
“I am.” His fingers closed tight. He hoisted her up in front of him and braced her waist with one arm. “You will do well to hold your tongue about what happens this day. It is not something I do at all.”
She clenched her teeth, unsure what to think.
With a nudge, the horse started into a gallop, bringing her back the way she had come. Hessa shivered and kept thinking that at least she had been held by Gunnar, at least she had experienced a small moment of happiness, of passion and a connection she didn’t think possible. Their time together had made her attempted escape worth the risk.
The man at her back leaned forward, forcing her to lower herself closer to the horse. He clucked his tongue. The animal responded, increasing its pace. They tore through the jindi field. Clods of earth and ruined plant parts sprayed in their wake.
At the city gates, which were now partially closed, three of the four men who had confronted Hessa lay wounded on the ground. Gunnar had vanished. Blood stained the earth.
“Lord Brenin!” a man shouted. “One of the pit fighters has escaped. There’s a high price on his head should you see him.”
“The islander?”
“Yes, Lord.”
Brenin’s horse circled the guard. “I will keep an eye out for him. He shouldn’t be hard to miss. I’ve seen him fight many times over.”
Soon after, Brenin rode to the main servant quarters in the Omi holdings, and dismounted. He helped Hessa down and held her wrist as he led her through the main entrance of the building.
At the counter, the wrinkled man in charge raised his balding head to regard them. “Can I help you?”
“Omi Master, I wish to purchase this woman.” Brenin tugged Hessa up to the counter. He kept a tight grip on her so that she couldn’t run. But his words served to confuse her even more. She had expected to be turned in, not this. Why would he want to buy her? What could his motive be? He didn’t know her, didn’t have need of anything. He was Brenin Drake, the highest paid and mostly deadly assassin known to the city. But his yeinei had said he was no longer an assassin; that comment puzzled Hessa.
“Ah. Lord Brenin.” The old man smirked. “There are other, more attractive, women available. Are you certain this is the one you want?”
“Yes.” He sighed and offered a grim look of disdain. “I have a woman to warm my bed. This one will have other tasks. How much for her?”
The master reached across and touched Hessa’s scarred cheek. “I know this girl. She has no guild traits. Not desirable as a brothel ward. Only good for hard labor.” He pulled his hand away. “Basic laborers are ten.”
Brenin reached into his purse and counted out the coins. “I want the Omi mark burned out.”
“Do you want your mark upon her?”
Brenin squeezed Hessa’s arm before he released it. “Of course. She is mine and all my possessions bear my mark.”
The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. After turning his back to them, he searched the bookshelf behind him for the tome that contained Hessa’s records. He flipped through the pages until he came to the sad entry of her birth. Her mother’s name was scrawled there in neat writing, marks that she couldn’t understand made to represent a woman she had never met or known. “Sign here to claim her. I will have her delivered to your home this evening.”
Brenin drew his name across the parchment in a flourished font. Hessa stood there staring at the marks, wishing she could read, and astonished that she had been sold away to a new master as simply as that. Brenin stomped out before she could thank him.
“Get to the bathhouse,” the man behind the counter said. “I’ll have a woman clean you up and dress you better than those rags. It wouldn’t do for you to come to the Lord’s house in such a poor state. I don’t know why he wants the likes of you.” He frowned. “Unless he thinks you are his twin because of your scars. Could be that.” He snorted out a sardonic laugh before he waved her away.
In a daze, Hessa walked out. She followed her feet
to the rear of the main house and went into the bath rooms. Steam and scents of perfume drifted through the dim air. She stood at the entry until someone came to attend to her. Hessa let the other woman strip away her soiled shift and wash her in a lukewarm bath. She closed her eyes as stiff fingers dug into her scalp and scrubbed. Bathing had never been as luxurious as this. It was usually a harried chore before bed or at daybreak with chilly water and harsh soaps. This was the bath house used by the whores. Although it didn’t sit well with her, she knew she had moved up a notch in the status of life if she was here. Hessa was no longer an undesirable servant of the pits, but a servant who would work in the house of a wealthy assassin.
“Lord Brenin does not buy servants of Omi,” the woman said as she set a drying sheet over Hessa’s shoulders. “What have you done to draw his eye?”
The Stolen Warrior Page 4
