by C. L. Scheel
Del bowed and hastily left the room.
"He is a good man," Kitarisa said.
"Yes, but I do not want him around. The pain is better," he said again.
Still kneeling on the floor before him, she reached up and ran an experimental finger under the bandaging to make sure it was not too tight. Faster than she thought him capable, he caught her hand in his free one. Assur looked down at her, studying her with his predatory gaze. Very slowly he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.
"Am I so hideous to you?" he asked, his speech becoming slightly slurred from the wine and the drug.
Kitarisa fought the urge to pull her hand free from his. She looked down too afraid to meet his gaze.
"No, you are not hideous too me, my lord, but you do frighten me sometimes."
"I would never hurt you, Kita'lara. You have been hurt too much. I wish I could change that."
"What's done is done," she said simply.
Kitarisa sat very still not daring to move. She could feel the warmth from his skin and was acutely conscious of his near-naked state. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the rise and fall of his chest and remembered the night in his tent when he had held her against him.
"How do I frighten you?" he asked, still holding on her hand.
"Well, you are so fast with those swords and--"
He laughed softly. "My lady, if you had carried around a sword since you were barely able to walk, you would be equally as skilled. I remember my mother telling me an old Chaliset saying: `Go out and practice with your sword and do not come home until you have cut yourself at least once.'"
"She told you that?"
"In jest. Kitarisa, there is nothing remarkable about handling a sword--it is a skill, like riding. The only difference is, I am not afraid to use it. I am sorry if I have frightened you."
Assur let go of her hand and ran a gentle finger across her cheek. "Could you ever love a barbarian, Kita?"
She swallowed and fumbled with the edge of her robe. "I...I do not know."
He struggled to bend down to her and then with infinite care, caught up her face between his hands.
"You loved him, didn't you? Your Rhynn?"
Tears slipped down her cheeks, into his fingers. She nodded. "He was all I had," she whispered. "He was the only one who made me feel safe."
"Kita, I can make you feel safe. Please, let me."
The tender grip on her hands tightened until she was forced to look up at him, into a face more handsome than she had ever realized. Assur's ardent gaze held her in a way Rhynn would never have dared.
"Kita..."
At the first touch of his mouth on hers, she went rigid and instinctively tried to pull away from him, but his hands tightened, forcing her to endure his kiss. A frightening array of emotions shot through her: desire and fear, long-forgotten passion and complete helplessness. Kitarisa fought the urge to reach up and pull him closer to her, to feel what it was like to be held in his arms again. The sweet memory of Rhynn faded deeper into her past as she found herself wanting more of Assur's touch, more of his soft kisses.
Abruptly, he let her go and sat up. He passed a tired hand over the slim line of his beard and then looked away from her. Regret and sadness flickered across his face. The wine had taken complete effect and she could see he was having trouble focusing.
"I am sorry. Forgive me. Kitarisa, help me get to the bed, I cannot stay awake."
With her help, he stood, draping one arm around her slim shoulders. She did not realize how exhausted he was until she felt him lean nearly his entire weight against her. Assur sagged into the bed, his eyes already closed.
"Thank you," he breathed softly. "My Kita'lara. Beautiful Kita'lara." He was asleep.
Kitarisa watched him sleep for a moment. She reached down and touched one of the eye markings, covering it with a light fingertip and saw only the face of a tired man, not a frightening barbarian.
"Goodnight Assur."
And then, bravely, she leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her lips just brushing the edge of his beard. She couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw the barest trace of a smile pull at his fine mouth, as if he dreamed she was returning his kiss.
Kitarisa gathered her things and left, before Del or the guards could speak to her or see her tears and trembling hands.
ASSUR DROPPED TO his knees and then back on his heels, placing both swords, tips crossed, onto the tiled floor before him. Behind him in orderly rows, knelt his favored command warriors, swords crossed before them, heads bowed in submission to the sacred Goddess. The hall of the Falcon Throne served well as a place to ask for the Goddess' Summons on this night before they battled the armies of Gorendt and Maretstan.
Assur's plain jerkin had been replaced with armor fashioned into overlapping metal scales, riveted over leather covering him from neck to thigh--and armguards studded in steel, buckled from the backs of his hands to the elbows. A black woolen shirka lay across his shoulders that would later be wound around his head, covering his mouth and nose to protect his face from the cold, but also so that the enemy would only be able to see his eyes.
Assur placed his palms down flat next to him and bowed his head. He prayed for Verlian to give him strength and courage to defeat the traitorous Kazan and his legions. He did not allow vengeance or rage to disturb his calmness. When the sun arose he would strike Kazan with cold accuracy and show no mercy.
The war drums beat their solemn calling to all the kneeling Talesians, both in the hall and out on the fields surrounding the Keep of Riehl. Every one of them would ask to be Summoned to the Goddess--to die in battle would certainly guarantee them a place by Verlian.
The sacred ritual was marred only by the absence of Kuurus. Behind him, Assur could feel Nattuck seething with impatience. Their long ritual taxed the Siarsi's disciplined training to the limit. Nattuck had taken a personal vow of vengeance toward the Wrathmen and had spent all night sharpening and re-sharpening his saddle knives and swords.
Next to Nattuck, Assur sensed Mar'Kess shifting on his knees. He had asked the brave captain to join them for he could think of no one better than the loyal Mar'Kess to join them in their supplications to Verlian.
Mar'Kess now wore a surcoat of blue and white, the Riehlian colors, with the copper-colored design of the falcon emblazoned across his chest. He knelt like the others with his sword across his knees in Riehlian fashion.
Achad knelt just off to Assur's right, the picture of Talesian resolve and dignity. No humor danced in his dark eyes. Achad had taken Kuurus' death with stoic silence and grim resolve. Both he and the Siarsi had been close since boyhood.
Assur closed his eyes and listened to the pounding drums, a sound forcing him to account for the reasons of this battle: Kazan's traitorous attack on Riehl, the conspiracy with the White Sisters, Kuurus' death and for Kitarisa's humiliation.
There had been little time to see her or to talk to her since he had arrived in Riehl, and since the women and Riehlians were not allowed into the hall for the Ritual of Summons, he hoped Kitarisa would be among those waiting outside the massive bronze doors when he ended the vigil and left the hall. There was always the possibility he would not return from the battle.
When the last drumbeat faded away, Assur stood, turned and faced his commanders. He slipped the gold-hilted swords into the scabbards on his back--a movement quickly followed by his kneeling men.
"The drums tell us it is near first light. Go to your horses. May Verlian keep your arm steady and your eye true."
With a rattle of armor, the assembled commanders rose to their feet.
"E Tah Ter-Rey! E Tah Ter-Rey!" they chanted, as Assur quickly strode from the great hall, with Mar'Kess, Nattuck, and Achad close at his heels.
"E Tah Se Verlian!" We are called by the Ter-Rey! We are called by the Divine Verlian!
The inner courtyard overflowed with taut warriors and their nervous horses, stamping and blowing in the pre-dawn cold. The li
ght from the torches cast eerie flickering shadows over the men and animals. Assur looked among the gathered handful of women and the anxious-faced councilmen, trying to locate Kitarisa.
De'Tai stepped forward and bowed.
"May Verlian keep you, my lord," he said quietly.
"May She keep us all, De'Tai." Assur leaned forward so that no one else would hear him. "Where is the Lady Kitarisa?"
"I do not know, Great Lord."
"Does she know we are to leave now?"
"I believe she does. Hopefully..." The councilman stopped as Assur looked past his shoulder to the entrance door. In the doorway he spotted Kitarisa's slight form standing next to Lady Davieta.
Assur brushed past the solemn-faced De'Tai and strode up to her. With one short nod of his head, he dismissed Davieta who dropped a hasty curtsey before slipping away.
"Kitarisa, I was afraid you would not be here."
"I have been attending to one of the ladies," she answered, her eyes cool again and distant, as if she were trying to hold back her true feelings. "I am sorry if I am late."
Assur nodded. "We leave now. We have prayed to the Goddess-- our fate is Her will."
"Then I will pray She protects you." Sudden tears pooled in her eyes as she looked up at him. He saw her struggle to say something and then bit her lower lip to keep from saying it.
Gingerly, she placed her hand on one of his studded armguards. "Please return safely." She looked away from him, trying to control herself. "I...I could not bear to lose another...If you were to die...I--"
Kitarisa suddenly pressed her cheek against the plates of his armor, weeping softly. Assur gathered her close and kissed the top of her head.
"I will come back, Kita. I promise."
She nodded and then pulled back from him. Overcome with embarrassment, she touched her face to blot away the tears, then looked around frantically, hoping no one had seen her.
Assur had deliberately positioned his body between her and the doorway, blocking anyone who might be bold enough to look at them. "You will be safe here."
Kitarisa nodded again. "I know."
Again, she stepped up to him and lifted herself up on her toes, her hands grasped at the edges of his shirka. As light as the brush of a bird's wing, she touched her lips to his--a startling, sweet kiss.
"I will wait for you," she whispered. Kitarisa let go of him and whirled away, fleeing back into the interior of the Keep.
Assur watched her disappear, utterly astonished. Almost reflexively, he touched his mouth where she had planted her warm kiss.
I will wait for you.
Chapter 16
KAZAN'S WAR camp settled into respectful silence for the Reverend `Fa and her retinue. After the mid of the night, orders demanded complete silence--no gambling, fighting or drinking--and if any warrior was foolish enough to bring a woman into the camp, he learned quickly to make sure she was sent on her way long before the strictly-held curfew went into effect.
The Reverend `Fa's great tent had been set to one side of the camp, on elevated ground. Wrathmen posted themselves on all sides of the tent, keeping a sizable space between their mistress and Kazan's army. Wary-eyed warriors were only too glad to keep their distance.
Kazan's own tent had been set not far from the Holy Sister's--he too, keeping his distance from her glacial stare.
An uneasy peace reigned throughout the camp--Kazan's troops staying well away from the hated Wrathmen and Malgora. There were mutterings around the campfires. What did they have to do with the Leashed Ones? Lead Captains and Duty Officers fretted under the strain of keeping the angry rumblings to a minimum, while they were told nothing as to the reason for the `Fa's presence in the camp. Only Kazan's most trusted First Commanders were given any information and they were constrained to silence. The Reverend `Fa would remain in the camp for as long as she wished--there were to be no questions asked and no interference into the plans at hand.
Below the two tents, the army had divided themselves into two distinct camps: the hard, grim-faced Gorendtians on one side and the colorful Maretstanis on the other. Disgruntled Gorendtian warriors watched their visiting counterparts with ill-concealed disgust.
Even the lowliest Maretstani foot soldier wore armor of polished enamel, inlaid with copper or brass wire set in fantastic designs--some in the design of their particular clan. The high ranking officers were resplendent in their brilliant-colored armor--scarlet, azure, emerald green and radiant yellows. Dyed plumes of stiffened horsehair sprouted from their helmets--and even the helmets had been inlaid with designs of silver and brass.
Minor scuffles had already broken out between the two forces--and one out and out fight between a scarred, old Gorendtian and a well-muscled young Maretstani had to be stopped by angry Lead Captains.
The bitter rancor between the supposed allies had not lessened by the time spent near each other. Gorendtian anger flared with each flaunting of the Maretstanis' superior weapons and gorgeous accouterments. Most of the old campaigners, having given long, faithful service to Kazan, kept discipline and suppressed their rage, but the younger ones could not contain their resentment. And why should they? The Maretstanis had arrived in Gorendt after traveling upriver on barges, draped in bright-colored canopies to protect them from the sun. Their officers had dined on wine, succulent fruits and the rare flavored ices--the ice having been brought by fleet-footed runners from the heights of the southern Adrex.
The foot-warriors slept in neat barracks below deck on comfortable pallets--even their horses traveled in specially built barges with row upon row of sturdy, clean stalls, tended to by stable slaves.
Maretstani weapons, particularly their crossbows, long envied for their accuracy as well as their beauty, had not been spared the artisan's touch. The stocks were richly decorated with inlays of brass and silver, rare corals and ivories.
For all their fine weapons and armor, it was quickly discovered they were not the preening weaklings the Gorendtian warriors thought them to be. They were skilled with both bow and spear; their horsemanship could not be faulted and it was painfully obvious they were as equally skilled with the sword. The proud, hot-tempered Maretstanis were also quick with their fists and did not ignore the smallest slight.
Rumors about Captain Mar'Kess and Princess Kitarisa flew around the camp. There was even talk that the princess had fled with Mar'Kess to the west to ask protection from the Ter-Rey himself. It did not bode well with any of Kazan's men that Mar'Kess was not with them. He was well-liked and respected for his evenhandedness, particularly in the dealings between warriors. He, of all Kazan's officers would have understood their resentment and he would have discovered why they must fight for a witch and her leashed dogs.
IN KAZAN'S TENT, Field Commander Borosa of the Maretstanis, fought to control his rising temper. He disliked having to argue with Kazan, particularly over war strategies and especially in front of Kazan's son, Alor. The boy was as worthless as Borosa had feared--a self-indulgent young man with pale hair and a wispy moustache, emphasizing his sulky, girlish mouth and petulant expression.
Alor lounged lazily in one of the few camp chairs, listening to them argue. His slightly protruding eyes revealed only boredom, but Borosa was not fooled. The world-weary expression did not conceal what he knew lay beneath: greed and an unbridled hunger for power. Alor would never sully his pretty hands with the dirtiness of battle, but he would gladly take the power offered to him once their fight with the Riehlians was won.
Borosa had not been impressed with Alea either. The princess was the feminine duplicate of Alor--vain and selfish, given to fanciful airs. She flirted shamelessly with his Field Captains, teasing them like a common whore.
Borosa had been disgusted with the whole scheme, but had dutifully obeyed the wishes of his own Prince Dahka. The marriage between Alor and his daughter, the Princess Dahsmahl, would suit their purposes perfectly. A Maretstani on the Falcon Throne would take control of the rich trade with Riehl. When Kazan died, A
lea would have Gorendt, together with a Maretstani husband at her side. The eastern provinces, from the icy wastes of the Qualani, south to the Sea of the Volt, would be in their grip.
Borosa had sworn his oaths and bonds to Dahka; he knew his duty, but he could not suppress the nagging feeling that this war was doomed. His oaths and bonds had not only been given to Dahka, but given through his lord by proxy to the Ter-Rey.
This whole scheme stank of treason. Every time Borosa glanced west to the looming wall of the Adrex, he recalled his old Field Commander's warning: "Never, never underestimate the power of the Ter-Rey or his will to use it. He has been silent for too long; one day we will feel his presence...and his wrath."
It had given Borosa a grim sort of satisfaction watching the Princess Dahsmahl. Diplomatic courtesy could not completely conceal her disgust of Alor, and she would certainly never offer any sisterly affections for Alea. Her bows were just short of being considered contemptuous; her usually warm gaze became cold and detached. She, too, knew her duty. Dahsmahl would yield to the wishes of her father and to those of Kazan, but she would not break. There was Siarsi steel in her backbone--hard, unforgiving steel.
Commander Borosa turned his attentions to the map spread before him and Kazan. Irritably, he unhooked the chin strap of his helmet and pulled it off, tucking it into the crook of his arm.
"Why do you wait, Your Highness? We must strike now if we are to take Riehl. The longer we wait, the greater we risk fighting in the snows. And, we waste time--time for the Riehlians to arm and position themselves at a superior advantage."
He pointed to the great escarpment rising above the valley floor: the Rift Cut. It jutted eastward toward the Soldrat Mountains forming the narrow pass through which the Sherehn River flowed. It was a natural stopgap, a bottleneck that was easily defended from any encroaching army coming from the south.
"Are your warriors afraid of a little cold?" Kazan asked, his voice heavy with contempt. "It would seem the warm climate of Maretstan has made your men soft."
