“Behind you!” Mitrian shouted.
Too late, Garn whirled. The stranger’s blade raked a gash across Garn’s shoulder blade. As Garn turned, the other thrust for a kill. Garn caught the jab with an outside block. Again, he used strength to bully through the stranger’s guard and smash his elbow into the man’s chin. The stranger sank to one knee. Garn slammed his sword down on the man, slicing open his abdomen. Bowel spilled out, filling the air with its stench. The man screamed, high-pitched and frenzied. Mitrian turned away, but not in time. Her stomach was empty, but she heaved dry again and again, until the pain in her gut vanquished all her other aches.
Garn’s threat seemed unimportant. “You’re not getting away.” Footsteps clattered over the stone, then faded beneath the shrieks of the gut-slashed man.
Gradually, Mitrian suppressed her nausea. She clambered to her feet, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth, certain the odor would send her back into uncontrollable spasms. Shadimar was right. I can’t handle war. The thought brought hot, angry tears to her eyes. She belted her sword to her waist with shaking fingers, aware the last of the bandits could still kill Garn and return. I won’t be here for him to rape. Mitrian hid behind a crevice watching to see who, if anyone, came back to camp.
The screams of the injured man dropped to moans, then stilled as life drained from him. Mitrian clung to the rock, deeply chilled, helplessly watching the fire dwindle to ash. The battle replayed through her mind repeatedly. It had gone fast; she had not even found the chance to assess the techniques or pluck individual sequences from the swordplay. But neither had she thought to try. The first scream echoed through her head, the first splash of blood mesmerizing her. She remembered the warm droplets pelting her cheek and rubbed at the site as if to take off the skin beneath it. I’ll get used to this. All soldiers do. Mitrian glanced at the dark blur of the sword at her hip, feeling more like a frightened girl than a warrior.
No food, no water, and only my own unskilled hand to protect me from bandits. Mitrian frowned, aware it was not lack of ability, but lack of experience that had made her react the way she had. Still, the result was the same. I’ll starve or die at sword point, if the cold doesn’t get me first. Gods! Garn has to come back. I don’t want to be alone.
As if in answer to Mitrian’s unspoken prayer, Garn’s form emerged from the shadows of the cliffs. Hefting the gut-slashed bandit’s corpse, he dragged it from the camp. A moment later, he returned. “Mitrian?” he tried softly. “Mitrian?”
Relief flooded Mitrian. She bounded to Garn’s side, wrapping her arms around him, his body real and solid against hers. She let the tears flow where they would.
At first Garn tensed, surprised. Then his hands cinched tight around Mitrian, pulling her closer. His fingers stroked Mitrian’s hair with the understandable awkwardness of an adolescent male with little exposure to women.
For some time, they clung to one another, the warmth of Garn’s body protecting Mitrian from the chill. Gradually, other sensations came to her. Their closeness felt pleasant and right, as if condoned by some higher being. The powerful ridges of his muscles felt pleasant to her touch, and his arousal intrigued her. She glanced up into his face, and he wore the same insecure, vulnerable expression that had surprised her in the past. Despite the scars, he looked attractive and, though she knew it was wrong, she hoped he would kiss her. For all the times she had hugged Listar, it had simply felt like two people invading one another’s private space. With Garn, she felt something different, more positive and stronger.
Garn hesitated, apparently fighting his own, less civilized instincts and unsure what to do next. Only then, Mitrian noticed her left hand, clamped to Garn’s back, was wet. She examined it. Blood smeared her palm and fingers. At once, Mitrian thought it was her own and back-stepped with a gasp. Then she recalled the slash Garn had taken in the battle. “You’re hurt.” She released him, stung with guilt. Alone and without supplies, Garn would have nothing to fear from bandits. They wanted me. Mitrian shuddered at the thought, feeling responsible for Garn’s pain.
“I’ve known worse.” Garn loosed his hold with obvious reluctance.
Mitrian circled him. Blood stained his back, mostly dark and clotted. The sword cut ran across his shoulder blade to his spine, and muscle tissue gaped from the edges. Mitrian cringed in sympathy. She had seen similar wounds on guards and had, at times, tended them. “This needs sewing. Come with me.” She headed back to the ashes of the fire, Garn following.
Tearing loose a corner of her sleeping gown, Mitrian used it to clean the wound. She clamped the damp fabric tight to his skin to staunch the bleeding. The depth of the cut required her to hold it for the time it took her to think rationally, and she realized the mistake she might have made. No one could forgive her cuddling with a gladiator, not her father, not Listar, not Rache. In her current frame of mind, a thought that usually would have repulsed now enticed. And who would ever know? She stared at Garn, enjoying the sight of him, again knowing an attraction she had felt for no other man but Rache. Garn saved my life. I owe him. Mitrian frowned, aware she was rationalizing. Stupid, she chided herself. I’ll do it willingly or not at all.
Mitrian’s mother had often told her sex without love was an ugly, shameful thing. Yet Mitrian found it impossible to consider the pleasure of Garn’s body against hers anything but good. Here in the wilderness, no one could ever discover anything they did. Several times, out in the woods near Santagithi’s Town, Listar had reassured Mitrian that there was no risk with the first intimate contact. She had turned down the blacksmith’s son for other reasons, glad now that she still had her virginity to share with Garn if things went that far. She never thought to doubt Listar’s reassurance. Her parents had been married ten years before her mother conceived, and no pregnancy since Mitrian had come to term.
Removing the cloth, Mitrian turned and pawed beneath the woodpile for the stag’s antler she had found while gathering kindling. Seizing it, she returned to Garn. “Do you have a knife?” She held out her hand.
Garn rose. He retrieved a dagger from his hip pocket, handed it to Mitrian and sat, cross-legged, his back to her.
Mitrian whittled a needle from the horn. She carved the point as sharp as possible and notched the other end. Ordinarily, she would have used a heated wire to make an eye, but lacking that, the crude indentations would have to do. Catching the bottom edge of her sleeping gown, she carefully unwound the hem. Threading the needle, she set to work on the gash in Garn’s back. “Normally, I’d let you have a few mugs of ale before I did this.” She brushed aside his tangle of hair.
Garn shrugged, as if to imply he had done this many times without so much as a taste of alcohol. He did not flinch.
Mitrian felt a closeness with Garn that she had not known since childhood. To draw his attention from the pain, she asked some of the questions that plagued her. “So how did you get free?” She pulled a loop tight.
Garn answered indirectly. “I was thinking about how you said a lot of the gladiators take pride in their kills.”
“Mmm?” Mitrian encouraged, wondering where the conversation was leading.
“I think maybe everyone needs to believe he’s good at something. There’s not much to a gladiator’s life: sleep, eat, train, and kill. They . . .” Garn paused, and Mitrian imagined he was smiling at the fact that he no longer needed to use the term “we.” “. . . can’t even make friends with one another for fear of facing off in the pit. There’s few things more dangerous than hesitation or too much thought in battle and few things worse than having to kill or be killed by a friend.”
The sentiment struck dangerously close to Shadimar’s warning. Mitrian jabbed the needle too deep and had to remove it, costing Garn an extra stick.
Garn seemed oblivious. “Anyway, when killing’s all a man has, it becomes his source of pride. All his other needs are taken care of. If he can tolerate fools commanding him and learns to like the killing, it might not be such a bad life for
some.”
Garn’s insight astounded Mitrian. “But not a good life for you.”
“No,” Garn said emphatically. “I don’t enjoy killing; I did it from necessity. I had to amuse myself in other ways. So I listened and learned as much as I could. And,” he admitted without shame, “I stole things. A trinket, here. Perhaps a snack or a scarf. Once, I got the keys.”
Mitrian tightened her fifteenth suture. “You’ve been free before.”
“Yes,” Garn admitted. “A few times I watched you dancing in the woods.”
The use of the term “dancing” to describe her swordcraft annoyed Mitrian, but before she could correct Garn, he fidgeted like a child waiting for his turn to speak.
“You looked so beautiful, so graceful. Just like I remembered.” The back of Garn’s neck flushed, and Mitrian guessed his face had turned the same color. “The guards would talk about the girls they met in the cities out West. I used to imagine I was free, and you were my woman. I never saw you clearly in the dark, though.” He added nervously, “I’d forgotten how pretty you are.”
Now Mitrian was blushing, glad Garn could not see her. The words sounded incongruous from this huge killer who, since the age of eleven, had learned about women only from a group of foul-mouthed soldiers. Yet lack of contact with women apparently had prompted Garn to create an overly romanticized image of her. Quickly, she finished the last few stitches. Embarrassed by the compliments, she changed the subject. “If you had the keys, how come you waited so long to escape?”
“I don’t know,” Garn admitted.
But, having heard Garn speak, Mitrian believed she did. His talk of security added the final piece to the puzzle. The guards had beaten and threatened Garn, but they fed him as well. She imagined a familiar situation, no matter how bad, might seem easier to face than the unknown. Already, Garn had gotten himself deep into strange territory without rations or the tools and knowledge to hunt. Any guards who might be chasing him held the advantage of maps, horses, supplies, and the ability to deal with townsfolk. When they found him, they would have no choice but to punish him severely as a deterrent to the other gladiators, perhaps they would even kill him. I can’t let that happen. “But what finally gave you the courage to leave last night?”
“Finding out that you and Rache weren’t. . . .” Garn trailed off, obviously flustered.
“Lovers.” Mitrian finished the sentence naturally, suddenly intensely enthralled with the man beside her. She knew without the need to question that sleeping with Garn was the Eastern Wizard’s act of defiance. And for the moment, the knowledge that it would upset Santagithi and Rache only made it more alluring. Mitrian tied off the final knot. “All done.”
Garn turned, but he guiltily evaded her stare. “I’d better admit something. I stole from you, too.”
Surprised, Mitrian considered, open-mouthed. She had noticed nothing missing. “When did you take it?”
“I was by your room, trying to find a way to talk to you. I found this by the window.” Rising, Garn took the knife from where Mitrian had set it on the ground. He replaced it in his buckskins and exchanged it for the pouch of gems Mitrian kept on her shelf.
Joy swept through Mitrian at the sight of valuables that could be used as barter. “Perfect.”
Garn tossed the pouch onto his tunic, staring at Mitrian as if she had gone mad before his eyes.
“Don’t you see? If we go up into the Northlands tomorrow, we can find a town and buy food and water. Even fresh horses and tack and clothes. . . .” Mitrian laughed with delight.
Garn nodded uncertainly, apparently not wholly certain where the pouch of gems fit in to all this, but willing to take Mitrian’s word for it. He trotted to Mitrian’s side and sat. Tentatively, he trailed his fingers along her arm.
Desire spiraled through Mitrian from that single touch. Smiling, she caressed the bunched muscle of his thigh. A glance told her she had excited him, too. She met his gaze, and found a hunted look in his green eyes, as if he feared he was doing something sinful. His uncertainty stirred her, too. She started to pull away. Then his arms enwrapped her, drawing her against him. His lips found hers, and nothing had ever felt more right to Mitrian. He levered her down gently among the scattered rocks, and she gave herself willingly.
CHAPTER 10
Crests of Blue and Gold
That night, Mitrian dreamed of Rache proudly perched on a white stallion that stood rooted like a statue. Beside him, Mitrian’s little chestnut mare waited docilely, saddled and bridled but without a rider. The sword master remained as unmoving as his horse, his gaze on some distant threat she could not see. Wind howled between dunes as craggy and barren as the Granite Hills, flinging sand in a wild spray that made vision all but impossible. Yet still Rache stared.
Mitrian tried to locate herself in the image, at first finding nothing. She tried to guess where she must stand by the images she saw and the perspective from which she saw them; but the dream state let her know and see all, and the view seemed too wide for normal sight. Then, gradually, the picture settled. She found herself behind Rache and his mount, clutching her sword in a fist turned fiery red from the cold. “Rache,” she said.
He did not turn.
“Rache,” Mitrian repeated, louder.
Still no response.
Rache raised a hand to shield his eyes, continuing to look out among the dunes. Clearly, he had not heard Mitrian, and that struck terror through her. She had all but shouted and, despite the wind, she could hear his every breath and heartbeat.
“Rache?” Mitrian circled him, placing herself directly in his line of vision. His bright blue eyes seemed vibrant, fixed beyond the dunes, yet surely he could see her.
If he did, he gave no sign. His hands rested on the hilts of his swords, his forearms crossed. His features held the serious expression that her father always wore in the war god’s temple.
“Rache, damn it, talk to me.” The cold cut through Mitrian, bringing with it a fear as primal and incomprehensible as thoughts of death. She could not remember why they had come there, nor how she came to be on the ground. She knew only that it had some connection with a battle.
Rache said nothing. Though Mitrian had to be in his line of sight, he seemed to stare right through her.
Panic spiraled through her. She wanted and needed him to hold her, and terror made her desperate. She rushed to his side, catching his leg near the stirrup. “Rache, come on. Don’t do this. Please.” She pulled. His leg fell free, dangling like a rag doll’s limb. Mitrian withdrew with a gasp.
For the first time Rache turned his gaze in Mitrian’s direction, but he looked at his leg, not at her.
“Rache, please stop. You’re scaring me.”
If Rache heard, he gave no sign. Leaning over the horse’s side, he reached for his leg.
“Stop it!” Mitrian screamed, as incensed by his rebuffs as she had been the night she fled her home. “Stop!” She reached for him as he moved.
Rache seized his ankle and the stirrup. He did not flinch from nor dodge Mitrian’s lunge. Her hands closed over his wrists.
For a moment, he seemed oblivious even to her touch. Then he tried to move laterally and met the resistance of her hold. Surprise crossed his features.
Having finally gained Rache’s attention, Mitrian jerked him toward her. She had meant only to force him to listen, but her abrupt pull unhorsed him. Awkwardly, he pinwheeled, sprawling to the sand. The horse shied, then broke into a gallop, the stirrups flapping emptily against its ribs.
Rache moved with a dazed clumsiness that seemed too uncharacteristic, yet, in her dream state, Mitrian believed. “Rache.” She knelt at his side, catching movement at the edge of her vision. She jerked her head toward the dunes just in time to see an army headed toward them, sunlight sparkling from breastplates and buckles. She screamed.
* * *
Mitrian jerked suddenly awake, her heart pounding. The first thing she noticed was the cold and the high-pitched whistle of w
ind between stones. A heavy arm lay draped across her abdomen. As she stiffened, it tightened reassuringly around her.
Mitrian lay still, trying to get her bearings. She lay on stone. Though cliffs shielded her on three sides, wind funneled through chasms in the rock, chilling her. To her left, she could still feel the warmth of the dwindling coals from the campfire. Campfire. Mitrian relaxed slightly. So it was only a dream. Relief flooded her at the realization that she had not really flung Rache from his horse and left him, helpless, at the feet of the Eastern army.
Still, other things could not be so easily dismissed. Mitrian placed her hand over the arm that held her, feeling the muscles, tense and strong, beneath her touch. There could be no doubt who that arm belonged to, yet she dared not believe that the events of the last two nights were real. I slept with Garn. I gave myself to the slave who crippled Rache. The thought revolted her, and self-loathing pounded her until she curled into a ball to escape it.
Sensing her distress, yet not knowing its source, Garn tightened his hold.
Mitrian felt safe in his arms. She recalled how gently Garn had handled their lovemaking, so unlike the raging murderer the guards described. Her mother had warned her that it would hurt the first time, and it had. She had cried out once in pain; he had apologized so profusely and sincerely that she had felt sorry for the outburst. And, later, it had become the most wonderful and exciting night of her life.
Garn’s not a slave anymore. And he never should have become one. The thought soothed, but it could not erase the reality of the physical and emotional agony Garn had inflicted on Rache. The rage of the previous evening had finally run its course. Fleeing from home was wrong, a childish reaction not a solution to the problem. I love my father. And I love Rache. Even if they both made stupid decisions. She considered the town, the people and places she had forgotten in the wanton blur of anger. Retreat is the coward’s way. I’m going to stand up to my father.
The Last of the Renshai Page 26
