VirtualWarrior

by Ann Lawrence

  Everyone clapped and cheered. The warrior on the floor was helped up. He bowed and shook his head.

  Lien looked at Samoht’s arms. He wore three silver arm rings on his right arm and two gold on his left. Not an ounce of fat showed on his body, but Lien saw with satisfaction that his own six-pack was more defined than old Sam’s.

  Samoht drained his goblet and called for more wine. He held out his cup and scanned the crowd.

  “Now it is his turn to choose an opponent,” Ardra said. “It is the winner’s right.”

  “How long will this go on?” Lien asked.

  “Until Cidre calls an end to it or until everyone is asleep with drink.”

  “Lien.” Samoht called his name, and the crowd before him parted. “I challenge you.”

  Ardra gasped.

  Well, well. So the sheriff wants a showdown. “I’m a pilgrim,” Lien called out. “We do not like to fight.”

  Cidre strolled with an almost dancelike motion to where he stood. “You cannot refuse.”

  “I have vowed I will not pick up a sword or dagger ever again.”

  “Oh, a sacred vow,” Samoht shouted and raised his cup. “Let us drink to the sacred vow.” Everyone followed suit.

  “I do not like his manner,” Ardra said.

  Samoht walked toward where Lien stood with Ardra, sheathing his long sword as he came. “I will allow you to choose the weapon, pilgrim.”

  “You cannot challenge a pilgrim.” Cidre took Lien’s arm. His rash flared hot.

  He disentangled himself as Samoht said, “As long as he is garbed as a warrior, he is a warrior.”

  The five pilgrims gathered around him and chattered protests at Samoht and Cidre.

  Samoht shrugged, a crooked smile on his handsome face. It masked a sneer. “Am I right?” he asked. He spread his hands out to the crowd.

  “Fine.” Lien shoved the pilgrims aside. “I’ll take your challenge.”

  Ardra opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “What weapon, pilgrim?” Samoht asked. He planted his hands on his hips. He was pretty tanked.

  “Sticks.” Lien lifted his long stick a couple of inches and then let the tip drop with a rap on the floor.

  “Sticks?” Samoht threw back his head and roared with laughter. His warriors joined in, but Cidre and those near Lien did not. They glanced about, sure there was some trick to come.

  “Fine. If you don’t think you’re capable.” Lien shrugged.

  Samoht swallowed his laughter. “Not capable? Bring me a stick,” he snapped and began to divest himself of his sword belt.

  One of the Red Rose Warriors strode to Nilrem and tore the stick from the old man’s hand. He sputtered a protest, but no one paid him any heed.

  Cidre stepped into the oval of onlookers. “We must have some rules.”

  “The same ones for any challenge,” Samoht said.

  But the goddess shook her head. “Nay. These are sticks, not swords. Swords can cause death.”

  Samoht grinned and held the stick as Lien did, upright, one hand loosely around it near the top. “Then no rules. Anything goes.”

  “Agreed. Anything goes,” Cidre said and smiled. “And no tunics, Lien.”

  “Women are always trying to get me out of my clothes,” he said. Ollach and Ralen’s men laughed. Cidre curtseyed to him. Ardra frowned.

  Lien handed his stick to Cidre to keep her busy in case she decided to touch him. He didn’t need the distraction of his rash.

  Samoht wandered about the oval of spectators, riling the crowd. The five pilgrims cried out vociferously in Lien’s behalf, but they were pretty much alone in championing him.

  Lien dropped his belt and drew his tunic over his head. Ardra came forward and took it from him, folding it precisely and speaking near his ear. “I have seen him fight. Often. He likes a quick first strike and a low one.”

  “Thank you, Ardra. You can be my fight manager if I survive.”

  “May the gods smile on you,” she said, then stepped back. Her knuckles were white as she squeezed his tunic in her hands. Briefly she touched the tunic to her lips, then lowered it.

  He felt his heart begin to knock in his chest. Her serious manner reminded him this wasn’t a game.

  Samoht was standing hip-shot, one hand clasped about his stick, one hand around a goblet of wine.

  The crowd was manic, a bit like the ringside crowd on the pro-wrestling network. Bets were flying, coins spilling on the floor by Samoht’s feet. A couple of gamblers scattered some coins near Lien’s feet, but damned few. Only those from the high table were standing in silence.

  Lien figured he might as well give everyone their money’s worth. Then he smiled, the pro-wrestling thought sparking an idea. He’d pretend he was in the ring.

  He did as Samoht did. He wandered around his end of the oval, using the stick like a weight bar to give his shoulders a stretch, working out the kinks in his back and arms from sitting too long.

  After that, he rested the stick behind his neck and held the ends loosely, so his arms were spread. A murmur ran through the crowd. He heard whispers about his tattoo and the roses. Somehow, he’d forgotten the roses around his neck. But as Samoht stared at him, Lien saw his gaze drop to the chain over and over again.

  “My stick’s bigger than yours,” he called out to Samoht.

  The crowd howled, and the councilor frowned.

  “We shall see,” he growled.

  Lien brought his stick down and held it in one hand, the tip on the ground. As he hoped, Samoht did the same.

  Lien smiled. “We shall see.”

  Cidre called that she, too, would like to see whose stick was bigger. Lien inclined his head to the goddess, lifting his stick.

  He heard the word snake whispered. In its wake, a gold coin spun near his boots and rang on the wooden floor.

  Samoht might top him by an inch or so, but Lien realized that he had a longer reach.

  Samoht handed off his wine cup. Lien forced himself to remain loose. He wanted a piece of Samoht so bad he could feel the need flood his mouth.

  Samoht stood with one foot forward. He stomped the ground with the end of his stick. Everyone’s attention moved to the councilor. Lien shifted his stick so he held it loosely in both hands, horizontally in front of him.

  Whatever wine haze fogged Samoht’s mind cleared. Lien saw the change on his face. Samoht’s gaze dropped again to the glass roses. Something flickered on the councilor’s face. Confusion? It was time.

  Lien clamped his fists on his stick and lunged forward. He thrust his stick between Samoht’s legs and tossed him on his ass. Samoht’s stick spun out of his hand and rattled across the floor.

  Lien straddled Samoht and held the stick across his throat.

  The crowd fell silent. Samoht kicked at him with his legs and twisted, growling, fists on the stick.

  They were frozen, Samoht pressing up on the stick and Lien down. The stick shook. Lien held it in place, sweat pouring off him, ready to crush the councilor’s throat, consequences be damned. Samoht gasped and choked. The long chain with the glass roses dangled inches from Samoht’s face.

  Cidre walked forward.

  “The winner,” she said, and placed her hand on Lien’s shoulder.

  Lien climbed off the councilor and away from Cidre’s hand. Samoht rolled onto his side, gasping for air. The pilgrims burst into cheers. Ollach and some of Ralen’s men joined in, but mostly the circle of spectators stood there in silence, staring at him—or rather, at his arm. The arm he held high in triumph.

  Samoht came up fast. He snatched up his stick and whipped at Lien—low by the knees.

  The blow stung, but Samoht didn’t know his weapon. Lien did. He whipped his stick around and poke-checked the councilor once in the stomach and once on the shoulder as he went down, the wind knocked out of him.

  Before Samoht could challenge him again, Lien bowed to Cidre and took a victory half-circle at the far end of the oval. He fisted his right hand ar
ound his stick and pumped it in the air. He made sure everyone saw his tattoo. If the snake could raise some fear, then by God he would use it.

  A Red Rose Warrior helped Samoht to his feet. The councilor stood with his hands on his knees, gasping. Then he straightened and impaled Lien with a look as sharp as glass. He smiled. “Well done, pilgrim.” He held out his hand.

  Lien approached warily. He didn’t trust the councilor. But Samoht was a true politician. He made the most of his defeat. He wrapped a sweaty arm around Lien’s shoulder, and overwhelmed him with his wine-scented breath. “Come. Sit by me.”

  Samoht slapped his hand on Lien’s chest and called for wine all around. It was an excuse, Lien figured, for him to examine the roses. The councilor hooked the chain and rubbed a thumb over the earrings. He dropped them just as quickly as he’d snatched them up.

  Lien’s rash flared like an acid burn on his wrists and neck. Cidre stood by the hearth, her hand on one carved figure’s hip.

  She stared at him. An army of ants crawled down his back. He almost shook with the effort to control a mad need to claw at his skin.

  “Lien.” Ardra drew his attention from the goddess. “Your tunic.” She held it out. Samoht let him go.

  When Lien took his shirt, Ardra’s fingers skimmed his, and his wrists cooled.

  “You did well,” she said. Then, as she moved to the side to make way for a serving woman with a pitcher of wine, she lifted her hand and placed it on his back. Firmly. Without a caress. The roiling heat subsided. The ants stopped crawling over his skin.

  “Thank you,” he said to Ardra.

  “I but held your tunic,” she said, but he read something in her eyes, soft amber now in the light of the torches, that told him she knew of his discomfort.

  He raised his gaze to the hearth. Cidre was gone.

  Was it Ardra’s touch or Cidre’s disappearance that brought such instant, blessed relief to his skin?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The songs grew ever more ribald, and Ardra took the opportunity to sneak away. What she had planned for her night hours would not meet with Lien’s approval.

  How magnificent he was with his dark hair and sun-browned skin.

  Was she the only one who saw the pattern of lines that flared up from the waist of his breeches and spread across his back like wings? The warriors probably saw only the snake art, the women only his fine form, the strong spread of muscles as he raised the stick and stretched.

  Ardra’s chamber was not empty. Deleh lay on the bed. “I cannot sleep with all the singing, Ardra.”

  The old woman helped Ardra from her clothing and held out a silky lavender robe. It had a simple length of amber and lavender embroidered silk to tie it closed.

  Ardra rubbed her temples. “Could you warm me a glass of honey and milk? Leave it by the door and then seek your bed. The moons are sure to be well up now. I know how you like the orb-glow.”

  “Aye, I will fetch your drink. But would you mind…that is…I have found another bed I would like to share.”

  “Another bed?”

  Deleh, her eyes down, her toe tracing circles on the bare wooden floor, said, “There is a man here. He reminds me of Tol.”

  “You are free to do as you please, Deleh,” Ardra said. “But you do know I will look after you always.”

  Deleh’s eyes remained downcast. “Forgive me, but I do not think I will enjoy the fortress with Samoht as its master.”

  “You doubt I will prevail?” Ardra lifted her chin.

  “Forgive me. Is there anything else I might do?”

  Ardra sighed. “Just leave the milk on the floor outside my door.” How could Deleh doubt her? And so quickly find a replacement for Tol? Were the concubine’s feelings for Tol only as lasting as the protection he could offer her? Ardra chastised herself for such thoughts as Deleh fetched her comb. What were the insecurities of a slave compared to those of a free woman? Who was she to judge another?

  Deleh combed Ardra’s hair, then polished it with a soft cloth.

  The hall had quieted. Ardra was filled with energy—a nervous energy, the kind that did not last, but still, energy it was. It was time to search beyond the herbarium for the potion.

  “Listen well in the kitchens, please,” she said.

  “Of course. I will keep my ears open for you. You have only three days left. But why should I not bring your milk inside?”

  “I may not be here, and I do not want you to lie if you are asked whether you saw me.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “It is best you not know. Samoht and Einalem will do everything in their power to see that I fail. It would not serve me to have them find the vial or wheedle it from Cidre. It would not do to have Samoht think he can use you, either.”

  “What if someone sees you?”

  “I shall say I cannot sleep, that I am looking for you!”

  “Nay,” Deleh said. She tucked Ardra’s hair into her hood. “No one will believe such nonsense. Say you are looking for Lien—”

  “Deleh!”

  “You must. A woman would understand why you want to make love to the pilgrim. He will be gone at sunrise with the other pilgrims, after all.”

  Gone at sunrise.

  “If you do not want to be suspected of searching the fortress, you must say you are looking for a man. That, anyone will believe. They may smile and talk behind their hands on the morrow, but the gossip will distract them.”

  “I will think about it.” Ardra wished she were just a simple woman looking for a lover. Her nipples tightened against the cool silk as she thought of Lien. Say you want to make love to the pilgrim. She shivered and wrapped her arms about her waist, for her mind had conjured a vision of him lying in the mating position and her climbing astride him.

  Another vision replaced it—Lien standing with his back to her, the ancient mark on his skin moving as his muscles moved. Molten desire flooded her body. The sensation had occurred in the hall as well, snatching her breath away. Unable to resist, she had gone to him, touched, felt the searing heat of his skin against her palm.

  The sensation of the smooth silk robe sliding on her skin only inflamed the heat of her need.

  Was Lien sitting outside her door right now? What would he do if she called him in? What if Ollach answered her call instead?

  Ardra urged Deleh to her task. She must not waste the night hours.

  When the fortress felt at rest, and no more men stumbled by her door, no more laughter rang out from the hall below, she left her chamber, wearing nothing beyond her lavender bed robe. She hoped she looked like a simple woman seeking a man’s bed.

  Where was Lien? He was not outside her door. Neither was Ollach. And what had become of Lien’s vow to watch over her?

  The hall was dark and silent. A guard’s footsteps could be heard outside the double doors as he paced, but otherwise Cidre had posted no men.

  Snores and snuffles told her the pilgrims slept near the hearth. She wondered if their vows of celibacy were tested by the women carved into the hearth in voluptuous detail.

  She worked her way through the kitchen storeroom, knowing what would be out of place there.

  Thoughts of Lien’s swift victory over Samoht intruded as she tiptoed across the hall. She feared Samoht’s revenge if Lien did not leave on the morrow. The councilor would want Lien to pay in kind for the humiliation. She was not fooled by Samoht’s laughing face after the stick fight. Lien would suffer for his triumph.

  She heard a sliding sound. Behind her. Heart in her throat, she slowly turned. A shadow moved along the wall by the steps to the lower level, moving as furtively as she. A tall, thin male shadow. The pilgrim leader? Where was he off to in the middle of the night? There were no privies in that direction. Was he going to steal food from the kitchen? Thievery was a grave matter, one her father and Tol had punished severely.

  Then she counted the pilgrims sleeping by the fire. Five. Who was this man who moved so quietly, and where was he goi
ng?

  Curiosity overcame her. She followed. The man took the steps to the kitchen. He opened a door and walked quickly through the cook’s gardens.

  She did the same. He made straight for the little door that led to the orchard, but instead of cutting through the trees, he skulked along the outside fortress wall to the lake.

  The lake lay like a sheet of ice beneath the moons. Only two orbs had climbed the sky so far. They sat in the heavens like pale chunks of turquoise and painted the lake in green and white. A cool breeze ruffled the surface.

  The man stood at the water’s edge. He lifted his arms to the orbs in a silent exhalation. Then he bent and drew something from his robe. A cup. He dipped it in the water and drank.

  The moons cast his shadow long and needle thin. Drawn to him, Ardra stepped closer. Her boot crunched on the pebbles.

  He whipped around.

  “Father!” A drumming and beat of wings filled her head. “But you are dead.“

  Chapter Seventeen

  The man threw back his hood. Her father. Ruonail of the Fortress of Ravens. Dead more than three conjunctions.

  He walked slowly toward her. “Forgive me, daughter. But I am not dead.”

  “Why? How?” She staggered back. Here stood a man she had mourned and hated equally from one day to the next.

  Then she saw what lay on his chest. The Black Eye.

  He put out his hands, but she could not touch him. He slowly withdrew his hands and tucked them into his sleeves.

  “Come, daughter. Accept what your eyes tell you. I will not bore you with the trials I suffered to find my way here. Suffice it to say, I had prepared for the time when I might need to leave. There are those who will offer a haven for a price.”

  “A price? You are saying you had coin enough to find your way from the fortress to here?”

  “Aye, child. Do not judge with such harshness. Would you have had me die? I think not. Rejoice with me that I am well. Come. Give me the kiss of a daughter.”

  “Nay.” The words caught in her throat. “I cannot. Your people suffered under your rule before you left, and it took over three conjunctions to set matters to right. If not for Tol—”