by Headlee, Kim
He smiled briefly. Her heart danced.
The instant passed. He crawled to the top of the ridge and scuttled through the tall grass to her platform.
“Any Scots watching, Gyanhumara?” he whispered.
She cast a glance at the camp and shook her head. He rose to his knees, lifted his sword, cut the rope, and ducked back into the grass. Rubbing her stiff arms, she took a step away from the post.
“Get back,” he ordered, still whispering. “I’m not ready for you to move yet.”
As Gyan backed up to the post, a collective shout rose from the enemy camp. Arthur jumped to his feet, Caleberyllus in hand. But the enemy’s attention was focused on the city gates, where Urien was emerging with the Port Dhoo-Glass defense force.
From the platform, Arthur waved a “hold steady” signal to his column and to the men on the opposite ridge.
“Urien can’t have seen our approach from his position. What does that fool think he’s doing?” he muttered as the two sides rapidly closed across the neutral ground.
“Trying to save me, of course. I’ve been up here for hours.” Fists on hips, Gyan regarded the Pendragon critically. The thought of letting Urien die in this battle was tempting—but unworthy. “Well, Arthur, are we going to help him? Or just sit up here and watch his troops get devoured?”
“We are going to wait until the Scots are committed to attacking Urien.” His gaze locked on hers. “Then we will devour them.”
His face betrayed no emotion save readiness for the imminent battle. Yet his cool appraisal of her sent a tingle down her spine and prodded her into action.
“Good.” If she was ever going to find out how things really stood between her and Arthur, she realized she would have to take the initiative. And there was no time like the present. “Then permit me to thank you for rescuing me.”
She threw her arms around his neck and sought his lips with hers. His surprise didn’t last long. He wrapped his arms around her and began questing with his tongue as though trying to probe her secret depths, a response even more passionate than she had ever dared to imagine! Desire too long suppressed welled up within her with surprising yet satisfying force, finding release through her ravenous lips. As he ran his fingers through her hair and she pressed her body to his, an exquisite ache flared in her loins. Her heart racing like fire through sun-scorched grass, all thought of enemies and battles fled, only for a moment.
But, oh, what a glorious moment!
SECONDS BEFORE crashing into the front line of Scots, Urien glanced up to the ridge and could scarcely believe what he saw: Gyanhumara, free, in the arms of another man. As they parted, the man straightened to his full height. Only one officer in the legion could be that tall.
Arthur. Not with the fleet, as Urien had supposed, but here at his very doorstep. Impossible!
Then Urien saw the relief troops scrambling to the tops of the ridges behind the enemy encampment and realized he had unwittingly provided the distraction Arthur needed to make the Scots’ destruction swift and complete. And it appeared Arthur was going to win the best prize of all. Urien wanted to break off the attack and withdraw his troops to make Arthur fight for every inch himself, but it was too late. He was committed.
Urien’s howl of rage mingled with the battle cries and horses’ screams and the shock of steel on steel as he and his men engaged their foes.
Chapter 24
ARTHUR’S EYES SEEMED to bore through Gyan. “Can you fight?”
“Absolutely!” She flexed her sword arm. “I have work to do.” Fired by anger and chilled by hatred, her tone was hard as steel. “Revenge work.”
“Then use this.” He unhooked the sheath of the short, double-edged sword from his belt and fastened it to hers.
She would have preferred a longer blade, and one not so blatantly Ròmanach in design. Swords like this had consigned countless Caledonaich to the Otherworld. Yet she could either put the weapon to good use or stand by while others reaped the glory.
She drew the sword and ripped the air with a series of experimental thrusts to get a feel for its balance and weight. A well-wrought weapon, though quite unlike any she had ever used before, it would have to suffice. This day, she’d had enough idle standing to last a lifetime.
Arthur nodded, eyes aglow with approval. “We shall attack soon. Where’s Cuchullain?”
Cuchullain—of course! With everything else that had happened, Gyan had quite forgotten about him. Up rose the memory of that first dinner with Arthur and his barely restrained anger at what the Scáth had done to his emissary. She left her study of the sword to regard its donor levelly. “The leader of the invasion force is a man named Niall.”
Arthur’s harsh oath flew heavenward. Like a lock snapping into place, his iron control returned. “Then Cuchullain’s repayment will have to wait until later.” He gave her a spine-shivering stare. “But there won’t be a later for you, Chieftainess, unless you find a shield. And stay with me.”
He offered his shield, but she waved it away. She yanked off the Scáthinach cloak to pad her shield arm, miffed at the suggestion that she needed his protection.
“Morghe is with Niall. I can lead you there.” As she finished securing the cloak’s ends, she displayed a mischievous grin. “If you wish.” Her tone darkened as mischief transformed into somber warning. “But that stinking Scot is mine!”
“Agreed.” If he was taken aback by her demand, he didn’t show it. “Get ready.”
Holding Caleberyllus aloft, a blazing beacon in the afternoon sun, the Pendragon shouted the charge.
The air hosted a cacophony of yells and cries, the neighing of the horses of Urien’s cavalry unit, the thunder of charging feet, the crash of toppling siege equipment, the clatter of steel and bronze and iron. And behind the manmade din roared the raging sea.
Gyan was oblivious to the passage of time and only dimly aware of the growing fatigue and hunger pangs born of her imprisonment on the ridge. Caught in the relentless dance of thrust and dodge, parry and slash, whirl and kick, lunge and stab, duck and cut, she felt no past and no future, only the present. She could have killed one or a hundred, she didn’t know. The fury she harbored toward her defeat at the monastery and the Scháthinaich treatment of her was unleashed with savage strength upon each new foeman she met.
But her bloodlust would never be sated until she possessed the head, with its rattail auburn braids, of the man who was ultimately responsible.
She found his headquarters tent. The Silver Wolf banner snapped at the entrance, guarded by the best Scáthinach warriors. Their ranks swelled as other soldiers recognized their leader’s danger and ran to help. The numbers didn’t faze Gyan. With Arthur at her side and his column at her back, she plunged into the enemy’s midst.
The general’s defenses were shattered in seconds.
After sheathing Arthur’s cavalry sword, Gyan retrieved a long sword from a Scáthinach corpse and glanced up in time to see Niall’s face disappear behind a flap of muddy canvas. Screaming in triumph like the hawk that has marked its prey, she bolted into the camp headquarters.
“WHAT’S THE matter, General?” Morghe taunted. “Problems?”
The stocky Scot jerked his head back inside the tent and spun to face her. “Problems,” he snarled. “I’ll show ye who be having problems, lass.”
He lunged and snatched her arm, yanking her close. A startled cry escaped her lips as he twisted the arm behind her back. Naked steel froze her throat.
Chieftainess Gyanhumara burst into the tent.
She looked positively ghastly. Her braids ringed her head with a ragged copper aura. Glowing with hatred that burned like wildfire, her eyes matched the flaming cheeks. Cuts covered her shield arm between tattered remnants of a cloak. Yet to Morghe’s surprise, most of the blood spattered across Gyanhumara’s armor did not appear to be hers.
Despite how she felt toward the woman, Morghe wanted to cheer.
“Any closer, and the lass dies.”
&
nbsp; The blade nipped Morghe’s flesh. Her heart started pounding so hard, she was sure it would kill her before the Scot could.
“Whether she dies or not,” growled Gyanhumara, “you are mine. Hiding behind a woman won’t save your worthless skin. When I am finished with you, General, there won’t be enough left for the rats.” Raising the sword in both hands, she stalked toward them.
Before Niall could carry out his threat, Morghe raked her booted heel along his shin with all her strength. His yelp seemed to carry more surprise than pain, but it was all the distraction she needed. She whipped her free hand up and pitched forward to push away from his sword. She landed on hands and knees in the dirt and hurried for cover under the field table at the back of the tent.
“You can’t seem to keep hold of your captives.” The chieftainess’s face twisted into a wicked sneer. “What a pity.”
“Bah! I shall deal with her later.” Niall’s posture shifted into combat readiness. “Ye handled your captivity well, Chieftainess. Let us see if ye can die as bravely.”
As the warriors crossed swords, Morghe peeked outside. From what little she could see through the handspan crack between the canvas and the ground, the battle appeared to be drawing to its bloody close. There were no living Scotti invaders in sight. The air reeked of death. And the name on the lips of every Bryton was: Arthur.
“Morghe!”
She knew that voice.
Morghe crawled clear of the table and stood. Brushing the dirt from her knees, she schooled her expression into neutrality. Her feelings toward her brother were no one else’s business, least of all his.
Arthur filled the tent entrance. Caleberyllus was red to the hilt, matching the pommel’s ruby. The sun at his back created an Otherworldly glow about him as it glinted off his bronzed shoulders and lit the gold tips of his helmet’s scarlet horsehair crest like a halo. The gold dragon pinned to the short, gold-trimmed, scarlet cloak seemed to writhe within its round tricolor enamel prison as he fought to steady his breathing. Compared with the chieftainess, his face was calm. Only his eyes betrayed eagerness for more action.
It was the first time Morghe had seen him during a battle. And, she hoped, the last.
He beckoned. She inched around the tent’s perimeter to avoid the deadly dance in the center. Tolerating his arm around her shoulders, she gave him a false smile of gratitude before turning full attention to the fight.
While not a warrior herself, Morghe had witnessed enough practice sessions to make a fair evaluation of these combatants. Gyanhumara was taller and had the better reach, but the Scot was heavier. She was quicker, he was more experienced. But she was a woman. Though they traded blows with seemingly equal force and frequency, she was sure to tire soon and lose.
Yet Gyanhumara was not tiring. Even when Niall opened a nasty gash high on her sword arm, it only seemed to double the ferocity of her attack. It was an incredible display. Morghe could not suppress the upwelling of respect.
She glanced up at her brother. Respect for the woman was etched into every line of his face. Admiration too. Perhaps something more.
Niall retreated from Gyanhumara’s swift, furious blows. He stumbled against the table, and she jammed her sword’s pommel into his shoulder with a sickening thud. His arm went limp. The sword slipped from his fingers. In half a heartbeat, her weapon flashed. His head thumped onto the tabletop. Spurting blood, his body crumpled to the ground.
It was utterly revolting. Worst of all was the look of bald-eyed shock, frozen forever on the bloody head. Morghe wanted nothing more than to flee to some private place and retch her guts out. For pride’s sake, she stayed.
Chest heaving and head bowed, Gyanhumara dropped her sword to brace herself against the table. After a moment, she stooped to snatch Niall’s head by the braids. Arthur left Morghe’s side to approach the chieftainess. Trophy in hand, she straightened and turned to him. And collapsed into his arms.
Carefully, Arthur lowered Gyanhumara to the ground. Propelled by her healer’s training, Morghe stepped forward. While Arthur peered over her shoulder, she unfastened her borrowed cloak and tore away several strips to bind Gyanhumara’s arm.
“Will she be all right?”
Morghe studied the unconscious woman. “I believe so. The wound is deep, but she hasn’t lost a dangerous amount of blood yet. The rest are scratches.” A pity the Scot couldn’t have done any better. “You may want to get another physician to check on her later, but she looks to be suffering more from exhaustion than anything else.”
“No need. I trust your judgment. Stay with her until the battle is over and it’s clear to move her.” He jerked a thumb toward the tent opening. “I must get back out there before the men start to wonder what’s happened to me.”
“Of course, Arthur.” It was far better to be in the tent with only one corpse—even a headless one—than outside with hundreds.
He unpinned the ruby-eyed dragon and knelt to drape his cloak over Gyanhumara’s still form. Before rising, he bent lower and gently kissed her lips.
Morghe watched in astonished silence as the key to winning Urien’s favor—and, if the Fates were kind, perhaps even retribution against her brother—tumbled into her lap.
WHEN GYAN woke later that evening, the first thing she noticed was that the canvas of the general’s tent had hardened into stone and timber. She was lying on a bed. Someone had removed her boots and battle-gear, and unbraided her hair. Wool-lined furs caressed her bare arms. Then the aches began their screaming chorus. The loudest notes came from her head and her sword arm, though every corner of her body seemed determined not to be left out. Even breathing hurt.
She shut her eyes against the pain and tried to will it away, to no avail. A weak moan escaped her parched lips.
“Gyanhumara?” The voice was gentle, full of concern.
Arthur grasped the hand not attached to her wounded arm. Gazing into his sapphire eyes, she drew strength from their steadiness.
“Th-thirsty,” she croaked, trying to sit up.
“Easy, now.”
He disengaged his hand from hers and carefully pushed her down onto the pillows and furs. Since sitting up hurt worse than lying down, she didn’t resist. He reached for the cup and pitcher on the nearby table and poured a measure. Cradling her head, he held the cup to help her drink.
The watered wine was a cool miracle to her burning throat. She drained the cup and let the pillows embrace her head.
“ARE YOU hungry?” Arthur asked, praying for a sign that Gyanhumara was indeed going to be all right.
He got no answer, for she had surrendered again to sleep.
Arthur brushed her lips with his. Her mouth curved into a faint smile. He knew then that she was truly on the mend and permitted himself the luxury of a relieved sigh.
Yet when he rose to leave, he could not will his feet to take him from her side, so he yielded to their wisdom.
A field-hospital orderly had unbraided Gyanhumara’s hair and cleaned it of Scotti blood. Now, the combed copper tresses spilled over her shoulders and onto the furs. Her relaxed face still reflected power from the prominent cheekbones and aggressive chin. Arthur moistened a small towel in the water basin sitting atop the table and lightly swabbed her forehead and cheeks, grateful that she had lost the crimson flush that had marked her frenzy. Her eyes twitched behind their lids, and her smile deepened.
His lips mirrored a response as he wondered what she was seeing in her dreams.
Her right arm rested atop the furs. He didn’t have to raise it to know it hid the mark he had given her. Visible now was a pair of azure doves flying up and over the elbow, one in pursuit of the other. The bandage obscured the wing tips of the lead bird. The only tattoo on her left arm was a braided band, identical to the mark worn by Tribune Urien map Dumarec, and for the identical reason.
He wadded the towel and threw it across the room.
Gyanhumara’s action on the ridge before the battle had been no expression of mere gratitude.
The sensual touch of her lips had announced that she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her.
Yet what to do about Urien?
Arthur subdued the urge to pace, lest the clicking of his boots on the flagstones disturb her. Heartily, he wished for Merlin’s advice. In the next breath, he realized it was just as well that he had left his cousin to handle the legion’s affairs at Caer Lugubalion. Merlin probably would counsel restraint again. Arthur might confide in Bedwyr, if the man could be pried from his work on the captured warships. Cai, who took more women to his bed in a week than most men did in a month, would be no help at all.
The most obvious option would cause more problems than it would solve; Arthur could not risk losing Clan Moray’s support, and that support would die with Urien. As Moray went, so went the rest of Dalriada. Many of their vessels sailed in the fleet, and Dalriada held a vital line against the Scots. The events of the past two days were enough to sway the toughest skeptic, even Cai.
The alliance with Clan Moray of Dalriada had been based upon the friendship Dumarec had shared with Uther, now bestowed upon Uther’s son. But Dumarec wasn’t going to live forever. Even without Gyanhumara to complicate the matter, Arthur would need some other way of cementing that relationship.
Morghe.
Giving his youngest sister to Urien in marriage might be a viable option, if Arthur could somehow make Urien agree to the match.
He stalked to the window and slammed his fist against the stone wall. The pain had a steadying effect. He gazed at the woman who had become his heart’s captor. Gyanhumara slept on, peacefully oblivious to everything save her dreams.
Upon returning to her bedside, he kissed her left hand. She did not wake but murmured his name. His name—yet not his name, more like “Arteer.” The Caledonian equivalent, perhaps? No matter. Coming from her, it was the sweetest sound in the world.
As he left the room, he vowed to take whatever steps were necessary to keep Gyanhumara of Caledonia by his side.
