The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus

by D. B. Reynolds

  Regardless of how he’d gotten there, however, he knew what she’d done and was livid. His rage was an assault on her senses, surrounding her like a cloud of dirt on a windy road, threatening to invade her throat and choke the air from her body.

  Antonia waited a moment before speaking, not wanting her voice to show her fear, not willing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m working on the hexagon, as I have been for weeks.”

  “Don’t lie to me, you little bitch. You’ve primed it. Whose blood, damn you?”

  She drew a deep breath and met his furious gaze head on. “Yours, my lord.”

  He stared at her, unmoving. To anyone else, he might have appeared to grow calm. But Antonia knew this was Sotiris at his most dangerous. He wasn’t an ordinary man. His power was fearsome and deadly, and didn’t require any elaborate display to kill.

  “You lie,” he said flatly, then sneering said, “You haven’t been close enough to me in months to have taken my blood.”

  Bracing herself for his attack, she said, “A child bears the father’s blood.”

  He sucked in a breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would dare that and much more to save my world from you.”

  Sotiris seemed to grow larger then, as if his rage was so great that his body could no longer contain it. Antonia tried to run, but one powerful fist swung out and struck her head, knocking her to the floor. Stepping over her body, Sotiris picked up the hexagon, turned, and walked to the door.

  “You’re a fool if you thought I’d ever permit you to hand this over to Nicodemus.” He turned his head and shouted down the stairs. “Breixo!”

  Antonia lay on the floor, ears ringing and blood dripping from a cut on her forehead where she’d hit the desk on her way down. Breixo was Sotiris’s personal guard, always with him and fanatically loyal. He was also a brute who’d assaulted more than one serving wench and left them pregnant or permanently traumatized. She didn’t think Sotiris was angry enough to let the vicious bastard have his way with her, but she didn’t want the man touching her under any circumstance.

  When the big fighter appeared, Sotiris jerked his head at Antonia where she lay on the floor and said, “Escort Lady Antonia to a cell downstairs. I want her secure, and not comfortable.” He swiveled his head slowly to smirk at her once more. “I’ll deal with you after the war is over and Nicodemus is dead. You chose the wrong sorcerer, and now you’ll live with the consequences.”

  Antonia blinked rapidly while she watched him leave the room, desperately trying to remain conscious, and terrified of what Breixo might do if she passed out while in his control. She swallowed an instinctive cry when he reached down and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet with no regard for the blood running down her face and blinding her in one eye. Sotiris obviously didn’t care, and so neither would Breixo. The man had no emotions of his own.

  They passed several servants on the stairs as he dragged her beside him, before finally picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder after complaining that she was slowing him down. The maids who knew her well covered their gasps of dismay lest Breixo turn his attention to them, and one of the younger maids ran at the sight of her bloody face. Antonia had assumed the girl had run in fear, but a few minutes later, the head housekeeper placed herself in Breixo’s way and demanded to know what was going on.

  “None of your concern,” he growled. “Lord Sotiris wants her downstairs, and downstairs she’s going.”

  “She may well bleed to her death before you get there.”

  “That is no concern of mine. If the lord wanted her injury treated, he’d have said so. He didn’t.” And so saying, he shoved the older woman out of his way and kept going.

  No one else tried to stop them as Breixo descended to a level Antonia had never known existed, deep in the bowels below the tower, deeper even than the prisoner cells, and the cold storage rooms which she’d visited more than once. She couldn’t see much of their surroundings, but she could feel the cold, and detect the scent of old, dead things. Or maybe people. She shivered, which made Breixo laugh.

  “Not what you’re used to, is it? You being a fine lady and all. Pretty, too. I’m hoping my lord will let me play a bit, once he’s gotten what he needs from you.”

  Antonia swallowed hard when her stomach threatened to disgorge the small amount she’d eaten. She’d figure out some way to kill herself before she let him touch her.

  Without warning, she was tossed from his shoulder to the floor, bumping her head against the wall before she managed to control her own body. Looking around with her one good eye, she saw a small, dank room, with rough stone walls and no light, other than the small amount shining through the open door from a torch on the wall outside. Scooting backward, she pressed against the cold wall and pulled her knees to her chest, covering her legs with her skirt.

  “Are you hungry?” Breixo demanded. He laughed when she shook her head. “Good, ’cuz you ain’t getting no food.” He left then, laughing at his own wit while he closed and locked the thick wooden door behind him.

  She saw then that there was a small round opening in the cell door, no bigger than her fist, which admitted a narrow shaft of light from the torch outside . . . until Breixo took the torch with him, and she was left in utter, complete darkness.

  ANTONIA DIDN’T know how long it had been since she’d been discarded by Sotiris, thrown into a black hole from which there was no escape. She had her magic, which was strong, but not useful against this predicament. Her gift lay in nature, in nurturing and growing things of the earth, while her intellect and skill served the crafting of devices and spells which were nearly impossible to unravel. She could have used her power to bring a bit of light into her prison, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to see what might be sharing the cell with her. More importantly, reason told her to save her strength for when it would make a difference. She had spells she could use against Sotiris that even he didn’t realize she possessed. But as with every other spell, they were driven by her own power, and he was so much stronger than she was that it made sense to hold even those spells in reserve for when they would do the most good.

  Right now, she was so cold and her thoughts so murky as a result of her injuries, that all she could do was huddle in a corner, trying to get warm. How long would he leave her here? Would they supply water, at least? Or would someone in the distant future find her bones in this dark, dank hole, and wonder whom she’d been?

  Thoughts of Nico rose then. He wouldn’t know yet that she’d been taken. She wasn’t sure when he would know. If she failed to show up for their morning ride, he’d miss her, but might well assume she’d been unable to break away from whatever demands Sotiris had placed on her. And while the servants would certainly have spread the word of Sotiris’s treatment of her—more than one had seen Breixo carrying her down the stairs—would anyone think to tell Petros Vasilis why she was unavailable for their morning ride? Would anyone dare?

  Tears threatened as she shifted to one side, trying uselessly to find a comfortable place to lie on the cold stone. She hugged herself into a tight ball, wrists crossed in front of her chest, head bent low against her knees. Something was digging into her breast, and she almost ignored it as one more discomfort and a small one at that. But it niggled at her awareness in a way that had her sitting up to untie the laces on her tunic and slide her fingers under her chemise to find . . . By all the gods, she was an idiot. The talisman Nico had given her was hot against her skin, as if aware of her danger and trying to get her attention.

  She gripped the small medallion, sensing Nico’s magic in it, magic that was so tinged with violence and raw power, and yet somehow was also as warm and loving as if he was with her. It felt as if simply touching it brought him closer, though she knew it couldn’t be that simple. She tried to remember the words he’d given her to say, but her head was pounding so loudly
against her thoughts. Every beat was like a smith’s hammer sounding in her skull, except this was ice not fire, and every blow splintered her thoughts before she could form them.

  Holding the talisman close for comfort, if nothing else, she let herself slide sideways until she lay curled on the cold floor. If she could just close her eyes for a little while, just until the hammer stopped pounding in her head . . . . Her exhausted body began to drift, despite the hurt and discomfort. A person could only survive so much pain, so much shock, before the body shut down whether she willed it or not. And she began to think that sleep might be her best choice, after all. What reason was there to remain awake? What was left for her to wake to? The oblivion of unconsciousness called to her. No pain, no fear. Just sleep . . . and never waking.

  And Nico. If she was going to die, she wanted his face to be the last thing she remembered. His would be the memory she took with her into the next life, and maybe, if the gods were kind, they’d meet again. She thought back to their last day together—the beauty and power of the waterfall, the rush of the river as it ran away from the frantic tumble of water over rocks, until it became a peaceful flow that ran for miles. She could smell the warm pool where they’d made love, the bright green scent of the moss, the slight sulfuric taint of the hot spring somewhere deep below when it bubbled to the top. And Nico . . . his beautiful face, the love in his gold-flecked eyes when he looked at her, love that reminded her she was a woman, even as it emboldened belief in her own strength and intellect.

  She shoved herself upright, shocked at the path of her thoughts. She wasn’t ready to die. She wouldn’t give Sotiris the satisfaction, or make her death easy for him to explain. She could practically hear his voice, explaining to her mother how she’d died. After all, women died of ordinary ailments every day. Such a tragedy, he would say. Such a young woman, so beautiful, so gifted. The bastard. Her mother probably wouldn’t believe him, but there’d be no one to say otherwise. No one to bring Antonia back from the dead to testify against her killer.

  But of all the people who might miss her, all the people she might leave behind, it was Nico who pulled her from the fog of her thoughts and demanded she fight to stay alive. And just like that, as if waiting for her to refuse to surrender, she could see him handing her the talisman, could hear his voice telling her to hold it in her hand and say his name, and he would come.

  Closing her eyes and praying to the gods she was right, she gripped the talisman in both hands and with the image of him firmly in her thoughts, she whispered his name. “Nicodemus.”

  Minutes passed, and her hope dimmed. She was certain she’d made a mistake, that her throbbing head had delivered the memory she wanted, rather than the one that had actually occurred, and Nico wouldn’t be coming. But an instant later, he was simply . . . there, stepping out of a magic portal into the dank cell, and looking around in confusion, before whispering a single word that flooded the cell with light.

  The unexpected light, after so long in the dark, stabbed into Antonia’s head like a heated blade, and she bent her head to her knees once more, hands over her eyes. She didn’t see Nico move, but she heard the vicious curse when he saw her, the scuff of his boot when he came close, and the tears in his voice when he said, “I’m here, love. I’m here.”

  He was so warm when he lifted her from the cold stone, that she felt scorched by the heat of his powerful arms when he tucked her against a body so familiar that she added her own tears to his. She had no strength left to sob, no voice to cry out. Her tears were silent trails that burned her skin as they washed the blood from her face.

  That was the last thought she had before she was abruptly surrounded by magic so strong that it sang in her bones when Nico stepped back into his portal and took her home.

  NICO PACED OUTSIDE his bedroom, fury warring with concern over what that bastard Sotiris had done to Antonia. The man who above all should have protected her had beaten her unconscious and thrown her into a cell that no one deserved, much less Antonia.

  Well, that part of her life was over now. He would die before he’d permit her to return to Sotiris’s estate for any reason. He could provide everything she needed, could sure as hell protect and care for her better than Sotiris ever had. What kind of life had she lived all these years, afraid to speak her mind, to deny his demands, or even to miss an evening meal without his permission? And what about her mother? The woman was powerful enough to have moved her daughter back to her own estate, no matter Sotiris’s wishes to the contrary. It was obvious that Sotiris didn’t care enough about Antonia to have protested her absence.

  Except for her magical skills, he realized. Sotiris would have missed those, and in particular the hexagon. Nico’s first thought upon finding Antonia in that dark cell had been that Sotiris had discovered her affair with his enemy, and struck her in anger. But now, he wondered if Sotiris had somehow learned of her plan not only to prime the device against him, but to give it to Nico.

  It didn’t matter what the reason was, really. There was no excuse for a man to beat a woman into unconsciousness, no excuse for banishing her to a cold, dark cell beneath his tower.

  He stopped in front of his bedroom door and raised a fist, ready to demand entry no matter what the healers told him. He needed to see Antonia with his own eyes, needed to know that Sotiris’s attack had not injured her so badly that she wouldn’t recover, not even with the best healers in the realms by her side. But before his fist could fall, the door opened, and his lead healer stood there, studying him with patient, understanding eyes that never changed.

  “Come in, my lord. The lady is asking for you.”

  “Thank the gods,” he muttered, but retained enough couth to gesture for the older woman to precede him into the room. Forcing himself to take measured steps, rather than the headlong rush to Antonia’s bedside that was his instinct, he studied the horrific bruises and bloody scrapes discoloring her pale face, her limp hands crossed over her chest above the quilt that was pulled to her chin. She was a ghost of herself, not drained of magic by her injuries, but far too weak to use them. Even more than that, however, was the absence of vitality that brought a blush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Looking at her now, no one would know she’d been strong enough to defy one of the most powerful sorcerers alive in order to save the world they all shared. Smart enough, yes. Intellect didn’t require courage. But his Antonia was more than smart. She was courageous and brilliant, a woman with her own thoughts and beliefs and the fortitude to see them through, despite the danger it might visit upon her.

  No longer “might,” he thought angrily. She’d clearly defied Sotiris somehow, to bring about this result. But Nico hadn’t spoken enough words with her yet to know what had been said or done. And as selfish as it made him, he needed to know. He would be standing across a battlefield from Sotiris very soon, and needed to know what he might face. His four warriors were already gathered below, waiting to learn what they could of Sotiris’s battle plans and especially, this new weapon he claimed to possess which would damage Nico badly enough to shift the battle irrevocably in his favor.

  Nico had thought long and hard on that subject. Had even set his warriors to considering the same problem. Yet none of them could claim knowledge of what Sotiris had referred to as Nico’s “greatest weapon.” Perhaps the man had been spouting bullshit, hoping word would get to Nico, who would then waste time worrying about it. If so, the bastard had succeeded, but only to some small extent.

  “Nico.”

  His thoughts snapped immediately back to the present, and the woman he loved, who was lying in his bed, where she belonged. Dropping to his knees at the bedside, he closed his hands over hers, which brought a faint smile to her face.

  “So warm,” she murmured, when her eyes opened enough to meet his. “That’s what I remember most. Your body was so warm. It felt so good.”

  Nico could imagine any n
umber of scenarios over the past few days when that would have been true, but he assumed she meant when he’d lifted her from that filthy cell, her body so cold that he’d worried she might suffer injuries from the freezing temperature alone.

  “Any time you need warming, my lady, I’m available.”

  “Nico,” she scolded in a whisper. The blush on her cheeks was barely noticeable under the bruises, but her glance over his head to where the healer still waited was unmistakable.

  He grinned and leaned forward to put his lips to her ear. “You’re in my bed, love. I think they know you’re mine.”

  Her lips tightened briefly, which made her wince, and his jaw clenched at the reminder of how she’d come to be there. “I’ll kill him,” he growled and forced himself to relax the grip on her hands, which had tightened in reflex.

  She shook her head slightly as tears filled her eyes. “He has it,” she whispered. “I primed it to target him, and thought to sneak it to you when we next rode, but . . .” She coughed dryly. A cup of water appeared over his shoulder, held in the healer’s hand. He took it with a whisper of thanks and placed it carefully against Antonia’s lips, letting her take only the smallest sips, before she’d had enough and shook her head against any more.

  Nico’s healers were the only people in the room, and he trusted them absolutely. And yet . . . the hexagon was the kind of weapon that could win, or lose, wars. The kind of weapon a man, or a sorcerer, would pay a great deal of gold to gain control of, or even information about. Before Antonia could say anything more, he cast a spell to enclose the two of them in a sphere of privacy, so that whatever was said would go no farther than their own ears.