by Inez Kelley
“No. Each inhabitant from the eldest toothless woman to the smallest crawling babe was slaughtered without mercy.”
Gasps, cries and shouts of outrage filled the sunlit air. Balic gazed deep into his son’s eyes. Taric read each emotion there, from the misery to the hatred and felt them echoed in his own gut. One hand held high, Balic waited until the swarm settled to speak. Words of ceremony learned at his father’s knee churned in Taric’s ears.
“How shall we respond to this?”
Every eye fell to him. The weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders, Taric stepped beside his father and did the only thing valor would allow. He was Eldwyn’s military leader now, the choice was his but it had been predetermined by a hundred generations of military might. He echoed the ancient words of his ancestors with a deep, loud voice that carried to every ear. “Mourn for the lost and weep for the dead but vengeance belongs to me! To arms! We ride in three quarters of an hour. Segur!”
His family name hailed back, the crowd exploded in action. Soldiers scurried to prepare, kiss family goodbye and ready their mounts. Women grouped together, hands to quivering lips, praying for mercy. Squires and pages darted like hummingbirds, always a split second faster than the adults around them.
Balic offered his horse in Falcon’s stead and Mactog promised to ready the enormous animal himself. Taric knew this gesture was more than fatherly. Thunder was as well-known on the battlefield as his father had been. The midnight horse was more knight than charger. Balic was inserting his presence into the fray and Marchen could not miss the move.
Before the allotted time was up, Taric sat atop Falcon’s sire and collected his thoughts. The report set the level of destruction in Istimar as unparalleled and unprovoked. Its proximity to Luta’s land was its death warrant and Taric might as well have been its executioner. His planned capture might have prevented the deaths. The border guards reported that nothing remained, not one stalk of wheat lay untrampled and the ground was changed from brown to deep, wet red. The account of the children bothered him the most, the innocent of innocents. How could any soldier take a sword to a crying toddler? But Marchen’s had done just that and Taric would see him pay…one day.
Thunder pawed at the dirt, anxious to move, and Taric soothed him with low, quiet words. Lunian clutched her husband’s arm in the frame of the great hall doors, worry and concern wrinkling her forehead. Taric sent her a small grin and she smiled, too wide and too bright but he welcomed her care. His father caught his eye and sent him a slow majestic nod. In that short head move, a message was relayed. Fight with honor and make me proud. Taric returned it.
Bryton made a final pass, checking each detail before vaulting into his saddle. “All set. Where’s your kitty-cat?”
Taric pushed guilt below a knotted throat. “Returned. Don’t piss me off today, Bry. I’m not in the mood. Ride out.”
ab
Crickets and night thrushes battled with cicadas and belching frogs to claim the night air, the scent of burnt earth and death pungent in the wind. The chatter grated on his nerves like a blade against stone. Is it too much to ask that one go mad in silence? Palming his skull, Taric tried to blank out the sounds but the memories remained.
He thought he had prepared himself to see Istimar but he’d been wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for what they found. His tongue still tasted the bile that had risen in his throat at the smoldering devastation. Marchen’s troops had spared nothing, not one stick of building, not one breath of life. If it hadn’t been trampled, stabbed or slashed, it had been burned. Not one humble cottage boasted a roof and most lacked four walls. The common well had been salted and the fields stretched black and smoking. Dark red wetness marred the only road in huge swaths.
His battalion had arrived as three border guards were removing the last of the bodies. A deeply dug communal grave yawned in a field meant for wheat. Taric took one look at a forlorn infantile foot peeking from beneath a stained bloody sheet and almost vomited on the spot.
Paler than normal, his voice hollow, Bryton had assigned men to help with the burial. Taric joined the hushed procession, carrying the child’s remains in trembling arms. His muscles barely moved but his soul quaked with the burden. The price for his freedom weighed next to nothing.
The weight lay in the tales the border patrol shared, gleaned from the few who survived long enough to tell the horrors before death claimed them. Tales of women so badly raped they were split from the bottom out, of girls too young to bleed suffering the same. Stories of men castrated and impaled to the ground, forced to watch their families suffer before they slowly bled out, of the elderly dismembered and strewn across the countryside, of children nailed to walls and used for target practice. Each spoken word twisted Taric’s bowels and Bryton stepped behind a bush to puke in revulsion.
Taric belted his resolve tighter, notching it with steel hooks. Marchen would pay.
“Knock, knock.”
Stopped mid-pace, Taric rolled his eyes at Bryton’s sarcasm before whipping the tent entrance open. “Get your ass in here.”
“Just making sure you’re alone.”
“Enough, Bry. Not now. What do you know?”
His shaggy head rolling to ease stiffened muscles, Bryton sank onto a low stool. “Scouts have just returned. Two infantry divisions half a league inside Claverham territory, maybe seventy-five strong apiece. More horsemen farther south, maybe fifty. Rumors circulate they’re headed east toward Farmingale.”
“Rumors.” Taric tongued his cheek. “Send fifty men west toward Bridgecord. The rest will head east at dawn.”
“Have you eaten? You look like shit.”
The thought of food soured his stomach and it lurched painfully. Shaking his head, Taric pulled a taper closer to the map, spilling pale yellow light across his future kingdom drawn in ink. Dipping the quill in black, he flung an excess droplet away before drawing a single line through the word Istimar. It was no more. It would exist forever in the horror of his mind.
“I’ll get Henic to bring you something.”
“No, I’m fine.” The mountains and valleys blurred in his vision and he blinked to clear it. “You need to get some rest. How many guards—?”
“Tar, you didn’t do this. Marchen did. He’s hiring mercenaries now, foreigners brought over on ships from who knows where. They’re evil and spare nothing.” His friend read him so easily it lifted his lip in a half smile. “You don’t know he wouldn’t have done this whether you escaped last night or not. Luta planned your capture, not Marchen.”
“He used it, that’s enough, used it to strike with a fine blade.” Pacing once more, Taric waved his hand absently. “This absolute destruction, the killing of children…he’s losing it, Bry. Papa said you can’t stop madness and Marchen is mad. I’m more convinced of that than ever. I’m through looking for a weakness.”
Standing straight, he forced his voice to the coldest he could. “The only end for madness is death and I’ll give it to him. Find three of your top men, the best you have and send them to me. We’ll leave at daybreak. Marchen’s days are numbered. Honor means nothing now.”
“You’re talking outright assassination. That’s a crime, Tar, punishable by death. Not even you are above that law.”
“I don’t care. That bastard has to die. He’ll be headed toward Southaven this time of year. It won’t be hard to get to him.”
“No.” Bryton firmly shook his head, defiance blazing in vivid blue eyes. “I won’t do it. You can order me to do almost anything except send you to your own death. I’ll hogtie your ass and send you back to Thistlemount in a wagon before I let you become an assassin.”
“It’s the only peace I can give my people.”
“And who shall give you peace, my charge?”
Twirling on his heel, Taric spotted Myla. The golden candlelight licked across her skin and the breath stole from his lungs. One side of her hair hung loose, her comb being tucked in his pack. Felinity graced her movement
s when she stepped toward him.
“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Bryton grumbled, standing. He stopped before the tent flap as if to say something but shook his head and departed without further word.
Taric couldn’t get his tongue to move, to speak. His entire existence hung by one fragile thread perilously close to snapping. Myla paused a half-step before him, her green eyes bathing him in concern. He swallowed and she leapt. Her arms around his shoulders, she gripped him tightly.
Taric pressed his face to the curve of her neck and clung like a frightened child, inhaling the sweet summery scent of her hair. Like wildflowers in a breeze, it blocked the stench of destruction. She brought him salvation with a touch, gave him strength with her embrace. The touch of her skin gave him the power to believe in beauty. He had never needed her so much as he did this minute.
“Peace, Taric. Find your peace. You had no hand in this evil and nothing could have prevented it. Long ago it was planned and its destiny forged in a fire of hate. Marchen but used you as an excuse for his unbalance. Peace, my prince. Be at peace.”
“Be with me.” His words whispered with pleading as he claimed her mouth.
All thoughts fled his mind except for the taste of her lips, the succulent sun-heated berry of her lips. Her second golden comb dropped to the ground with a faint bump and waves of mahogany filled his hands. He didn’t care. He’d buy her a dozen combs in a dozen metals but he had to feel the softness of her hair. Satin against his calluses, it captivated him.
Her petal-soft mouth parted under his. She made him feel alive and strong and pure. She returned each kiss hungrily, washing the filth of war from his soul, bleaching the stain of death away and leaving him raw with yearning. He needed her. He loved her.
Myla wrapped her arms tighter, pulling him close, willing him to feel her comfort. He trembled. So many reviling, repulsive images had seared though him, tarnishing the goodness he kept within. Deep in his spirit, she’d tasted his sorrow and the guilt flooding him. Taric was not to blame for the mindless hatred but he was caught, a fly in a spider’s web, and could not escape. The circumstance of his birth bound him to the ugliness. His honor refused to let him forget it.
Emotional and physical need flavored his kiss with a spicy tang. His hunger surged through her, his need for cleansing, for purification, his need for her.
Somehow, she lay beneath him with the thin softness of his pallet molding to her backside. His mouth traveled along her throat like a hungry wolf seeking prey. He hunted her flesh, nipping and licking until a shudder began in her belly and coursed along her veins. Rough fingers traced over her skin, along her arms and across her shoulders. They rasped on her silk, cupping her breast in a warm palm. Her back arched, thrusting into his touch, and his thumb worried the tightening tip. Each plucked sensation burned hotter, seared longer, left an ache deep in her hips.
On some academic level, Myla knew what was happening, knowledge gleaned from sources outside her experience. Where their path led was forgone but the journey itself vibrated her core with intensity. Violence bred the need for closeness and women were never far from the soldiers who fought. All his life, Taric had seen the passionate embraces of those around him, celebrating life and that they were among the living. She’d viewed him entangled as a young man during his first frantic brush with intimacy. She knew from afar what occurred.
The knowledge was cursory. Nothing prepared her for the undulating need deep inside her. Fire craved the air, night craved the moon, and she craved Taric.
She’d meant to relieve but now longed for relief. Like dry twigs touched by a candle, desire flared and heated her blood with a swift, consuming appetite. The tang of his jaw rasped against her tongue and the flame leapt higher. Against her stomach, his hardness grew and the ache in her turned wet.
The strong shoulders beneath her hands shifted and her leather belt loosened. A soft moan left her lips to be captured by his. His hands tugged at her gown and hers mimicked, clawing at his shirt. She burned too hot for covering but the scorch of his skin only soothed her fire, increased her want. Taric’s touch inflamed her with a shiver.
A far-too-feminine mew seeped from her throat and his mouth left a wet trail down to her breast. It cooled in the night air, highlighting the fiery swath of his tongue circling her hardened peak. Hot. So hot. Stars flashed behind her closed lids when his teeth caught, nipped and worried the aching tip. How many things could bombard her senses in one instant? The slight scrape of a roughened cheek against her soft skin, the whisper of his hair along her shoulder, the delight of his lips surrounding her nipple all crashed into her. This is what it meant to be a woman—a woman with a man who was her destiny.
The fire in his skin branded her without a mark. Her nipples cried for his touch, his mouth, and strained outward, seeking him. They met his chest with sharp points and her nails clawed into his shoulders. He whispered her name into the night.
Hungry. Famished for something other than food, she surged beneath him and echoed his action, skimming tasting lips down his chest. A drum beat behind his ribs with deep pounding music. The melody enchanted her, enthralling her with its fervor, and her blood sang in response. She couldn’t stop from sliding her hands down his back, feeling the resounding rhythm increase below her touch.
Magic possessed her. It could be nothing else. What else had the power to stir ancient intuitions and command her body to move beneath his?
Firm and velvety, his mouth skimmed down her quivering stomach. Each caress was a sizzle, each kiss a scorch, each nip a burn. The silk across her thighs teased with feather softness, soon replaced by his fingers and then his tongue. Her muscles trembled in expectation and longing. The wheat silk of his hair slid between shaky fingers as he mouthed her thigh. She was powerless to stop the appetite and unwilling to fight the thirst. Fear was forgotten and each discovery bound them closer. More. Hungry.
His strong fingers left smoldering trails over her flesh as he touched where no one had, not even her. Creamed satin melted to his caress and a whimpered sigh called him to her lips. The cherry silk pushed above her thighs, Taric palmed her skin, parting her to his touch.
Her body shuddered at the exquisite torture of rushing pleasure. A plea formed on her tongue, a plea for mercy, for relief, for him. The sound of his passion on a low breathless groan stripped any control remaining and she arched into his hand. As always, she was his to command whether by word or caress.
A roar grew in her ears. Her blood, fed by his kisses, churned like the sea during a storm, swelling with wave after wave of passion. They were on this uncharted path together. Nature and basic instinct guided her hands to slide down his back, grip his breeches and tug. I need.
The deliciously wet ache increased, throbbing in unfilled agony as Taric took her mouth with reckless fervor. Desire, want, lust all were berry flavors of the richest essence. He touched places on her body that she’d never thought about before. Heated wetness slicked the flesh buried inside her hidden folds, where a firm pulse beat with wild abandonment beneath his touch. So hot. So hungry.
Myla embraced the raging inferno within and opened her soul to him. He needed. He needed her. She needed. She needed only Taric.
A being of magic, she knew no bliss like that of his touch. Silk and wool fell aside, baring skin to skin, fire to flame. Heavy and solid, Taric moved over her, stoking her internal blaze. I burn. The hairs on his legs pricked with unfamiliar coarseness across her tender thighs and she marveled at the scratch. So different yet so matched, her body curved to his like a scabbard to a sword.
Her heart galloped, speeding air through her lungs. So sweet. Desire twined tight inside her, coiling and coiling until her bones shook with the strain.
Fingers sliding into her quivering warmth, Taric stilled, his lips halting their dance with hers. He pulled back, his breath panting across her face, his chestnut-hued eyes wide in wonderment. Empty longing encompassed her when his hands left her flesh.
“M
yla…I didn’t think…I can’t… You’re an innocent.”
“I am yours. Please, Taric.”
His head dropped to her breast, shaking in denial. “No. No more innocence lost here. I can’t.”
He started to draw away. Panic raked at her with sharpened claws. He couldn’t stop now. So hot. So hungry. I burn. I need. Lunging upward, she blazed her mouth across his. She tasted his reluctant sacrifice, his honor forcing him away. Innocent she may be but she had a soldier’s aim and determination. Countermove. Initiative taken. Forward maneuver.
Imitating his caress, her palm circled his length and her fingers gripped firmly. His lids pinched closed and he sucked in a noisy breath. His hips lunged forward, sheathing him deeper into her hand. He’d stroked her melting flesh and she returned the motions, smoothing from base to tip until his head fell back. She caressed him, so different from her moist emptiness, iron to her cream. Tighter made him moan, softer brought a growl, slower hissed breath from his lips. Each reaction spiked her hunger.
Myla learned and was entranced. Spell-less power filled her. This was not summoned enchantment, this was a woman’s magic. She desperately wanted to be Taric’s woman, if only for one brief moment, to give him what no other could, to replace what Istimar had stolen from him. Peace. Hope. Innocence. Love.
His breath rang faster and harsher through the flickering darkness. Wrenching her hands from him, he brought his lips to her neck on a gasp.
“No more… I can’t take—”
“Take, Taric. It is freely given.”
He searched her eyes and she drowned in his gaze. “What do you give, Myla?”
“Everything that I am, I give to you. My peace, my innocence, my love.”
A quake tremored his frame. “I love you.”
His words touched her lips and his mouth branded them into her soul. Myla buried her fingers in his tawny hair, keeping his mouth to hers as he shifted, the scent of love wafting thick in the room. Welcoming thighs parted and cradled rigid flesh.
