“I think that Rokwolf will want to go to the Mariskal,” she went on, “to find out what is happening with the seklesem guarding the road west, and I saw Sutugno there with him, riding through the swamp, meeting a seklesi patrol, all about to be attacked by those wedaterem Tevvy heard about.”
“Why is that a problem?” Klaybear asked, not realizing what Klare hinted at.
“Because, I don’t think Rokwolf will want her to go along,” she replied. “In fact, I suspect that he will be adamantly opposed to her going along.”
Klaybear shrugged. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, “I’ll just tell him that he needs to take her along to keep her busy, and to keep her from sticking a knife in my back.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” Klare said, teasing. “She’d hit you with your own mace.”
“Exactly,” Klaybear replied, eyebrows disappearing into the curls covering the top of his forehead.
Tevvy swayed drunkenly atop a small round table, dodging mugs of ale flying at him from all directions; he sang at the top of his lungs a tune Rokwolf recognized at once as a bawdy song about a serving wench, but the words were his explanation of caravans attacked and the strange behavior and appearance of the wedaterem on the road between Kilnar and the Forsaken Outpost. As the awemi finished his “song,” his feet flew from under him and he fell off the small table, but as he fell, the inn’s common room melted into what must have been an inn’s cellar, packed with barrels and crates, lit only by a single, weak and flickering, lantern. Tevvy was about to land on his feet, and the noise of the common room started to fade, but then he fell through the floor of the cellar into a marsh with drooping trees, stagnant pools, and tall reeds. The little thief was barely visible in the semi-darkness; Rokwolf could just see him and another awemi, a female, with a round, innocent face and golden curls peeking from under her hood. They moved silently away from a darker mound among the trees and reeds, unaware of the green-skinned wedaterem surrounding them. Rokwolf shouted a warning and both seemed to hear him, stopping and looking up, but Rokwolf’s surroundings melted into the forested slopes along the road west, the same seklesem camp of which he had before dreamed, where his comrades sharpened and repaired, fletched and ate, while the caravan burned and the merchants were dragged south into the swamp. Rokwolf did not shout at them but instead ran toward the nearest seklesa and tried to shake her, turn her around, force her to see; the figure turned and he saw the blue-black hair of Marilee, one side of her face maimed. She took no notice of him but ran past him and into the arms of his older brother, Delgart, but then Delgart faded and she was sinking into a bog, face contorted with fear. He rushed forward and grabbed her reaching hands, pulling her free, and as he did so, her face became whole, her hair became blonde, her look of fear became a look of desire, and she was no longer Marilee but Sutugno covered with the muck from the swamp. She leaped into his arms; her lips found his, and he felt again passion inflaming him, discovering that the mud from the bog was all either of them was wearing. They fell together onto the ground next to the bog, oblivious of the seklesem around them, watching them, the wedaterem around them, watching them, and both groups began a slow march in opposite directions, like a dance, around the pair of them, and when seklesi passed wedateri, the two casually slew each other, although the number circling never diminished. When the flames ebbed, he noticed the audience and flung her from him, and she rolled into the bog; the fresh touch of the mud caused her desire to smolder once more, and she reached out to him, her face again lit with passion. He moved next to the bog and reached for her hands to pull her free, but the touch of her hands and the look in her eyes melted his resolve and inflamed his desire; he did not resist when she pulled him forward into her arms, where their lips met; their audience cheered as they sank, the sound fading to silence as the mud closed over their heads . . . .
Rokwolf jerked himself awake and sat up on the edge of the bed. In the dim light, he turned and saw that Sutugno still slept and was shocked when he realized she was naked; he hastily threw the blanket back over her where she lay on her side facing him. He looked down at himself and sighed with relief seeing that he, at least, was still wearing his breeches, although his shirt was unlaced and open. He recalled how she shook as he lay down beside her and held her in his arms, stroking her hair, how her lips had sought and found his, how reluctant he had been, and how his resistance had melted as she kissed him with more and more fervor. He remembered going to sleep with her head resting on his chest, but the memory was hazy, obscured by a purple fog. How and when she removed her clothing he did not know, but he thought that might have influenced the end of his dream; he shook his head and told himself he had to escape before things got out of control. Quietly and quickly he dressed, thinking he would slip out of the room and find his twin, and have Klaybear send him south to where Tevvy was, so that he could investigate what was happening there; he did still have a mission to perform, and he reasoned from what Tevvy had reported, and what he had dreamed, that he needed to investigate. He buckled on his sword belt, slung his bow and quiver over his shoulders, and moved silently toward the door.
“Going so soon?” Sutugno’s sultry voice asked. “Without even kissing me goodbye?”
“I need to speak with my twin,” Rokwolf replied without turning.
“Only a few hours have passed,” she replied, “I imagine that they are both still sleeping, and I know Klare’s temper: she would not appreciate being disturbed.”
“She’ll recover,” he replied, grabbing and pulling on the door handle; the door did not open.
Sutugno smiled and sat up in bed. “Also, I don’t think I have finished with you,” she noted.
Rokwolf looked back over his shoulder at her. “You should know, as Klare knows,” he began, “that what we have to do is more important than what either of you want. So you will please unseal this door, and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’ll have to be more persuasive than that,” she said.
Rokwolf whipped around to face her. “Do you think this is some kind of game?” he shouted at her. “Many lives hang in the balance while you hold me captive!”
“And what about my life?” she asked, voice getting louder as she got up out of the bed, not bothering to cover herself. “Do you know what it’s like to lose everyone you care about, everyone who is dear to you, and then have to wander those same hallways, like an ansu, doomed to haunt the place where the body was killed?”
Rokwolf tried to avert his eyes as Sutugno walked up to him, but her visible form, dimly lit, was difficult to ignore, especially since it reflected what he had dreamed, minus the mud.
“And do you have any idea,” she went on, standing face to face with him, “how much the last few hours of sanity mean to someone who feels as I do,” she said, her voice softening, her fingertips lightly brushing his cheek. “When I unseal that door,” she pointed past him, and the movement made him swallow hard, and he lost control of his eyes, his vision wandering over her curves, causing a burning deep inside, “we will leave together, and I am not ready to leave . . . yet.” She stroked his cheeks again and reached her arms around his neck, leaning closer and intending to kiss him.
Rokwolf shoved her away. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he exclaimed. “Have you forgotten the vows made when you entered the kailu order?”
Sutugno staggered back, looking shocked and hurt, but then she laughed. “What order is that?” she said. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Haven’t you noticed the destruction of Shigmar and the kailu order that used to reside here, of which I used to be a part? I have no order to be loyal to, for by refusing to go with the others, I took myself out of the order, if it still exists.”
Rokwolf shrugged. “Well, even if you are not willing to keep those vows, I still have mine,” he stopped.
Sutugno laughed again harshly, interrupting him. “You mean the same order that kicked you out,” she retorted, “for no reason.”
Rokwolf went
white. “How do you know about that?” he asked. “I haven’t told anyone, not even my twin.”
“I can see it in your face,” she replied evasively, “and I heard you talk about it as you slept. Besides, why else would you be here, alone, rather than out there somewhere leading a group of seklesem as you used to do?”
Rokwolf did not reply, knowing that there was nothing he could say.
Sutugno pressed her advantage, swaggering up to him again; he watched her but did not try to avoid her, keeping his eyes locked on her face, but this action drew his eyes to hers, and their enchanting blue depths. She wrapped her arms around his neck a second time and leaned close to him; Rokwolf felt his ears flame but kept his arms at his side, afraid to embrace her again.
“Now will you kiss me?” she asked, then added, “like you did before?”
“Only if you promise to open the door and let me leave,” he replied, trying to ignore her soft, bare, and very warm flesh pressed against him.
“Fair enough,” she replied, “but I’m coming with you.”
“Only down the hallway to find my twin,” Rokwolf noted.
“No,” she retorted, “I’m going with you wherever you go.”
“Absolutely not!” he exclaimed.
“Then the door stays closed,” she replied with a mischievous grin.
He tried to push her away but she clung to him tightly, pressing her advantage, trying to kiss him; he dodged to the side, and she, instead, kissed his cheek and neck, playfully biting.
“Stop it!” he said, trying to pull away, but the touch of her lips on his cheek and neck distracted him, and his attempt was feeble; instead, he changed tactics, reaching his arms forward as if he were giving in to her. This move caused her to pause and look at him, but he had raised his arms behind her back in order to signal Klaybear by touching the proper symbol on the verghrenum wrapped around his forearms.
Sutugno moved her face in front of his, suspicious of his actions. “What are you doing?” she asked, catching his eyes, which held his for a moment.
Rokwolf tried to move his head to see past her, but she kept her face in the way, her eyes still locked on his. “Trying to signal my twin,” he replied.
“He can’t open the door,” she replied as they continued to move their heads: she blocking his view, while he tried to see past her.
Rokwolf smiled at her. “He doesn’t need to,” he said. “He can make a new door.”
Her face changed. “And come here himself?” she asked; Rokwolf nodded, still smiling, but the look of adoration that held his eyes vanished, replaced by anger and madness. “Excellent idea!” she said, which made him pause in the act of touching the right symbol as she had stopped trying to block him. She let her arms slide from around his neck and down his chest to his belt, where one hand grasped the hilt of his dagger and jerked it from its sheath. She turned and ducked under his arms, then swaggered back to the bed; Rokwolf followed her with his eyes, arms still held up, one hand poised to activate the symbol on his forearm. She knelt on the bed, holding the dagger behind her back. She looked back at him, her face filled with both grief and hunger. “Then after you explain to him what you are doing here with me that would require that I be naked,” she used her free hand to draw his attention to her naked body, and his eyes followed, moving her hand slowly from her chin down to her knees, and as she did so her face changed, softened, becoming the face with the same passionate look that had drawn him into the swamp in his dream. “You do find me attractive, Rokwolf, don’t you?” she asked, changing direction suddenly.
Rokwolf swallowed hard but did not answer: he did not dare answer.
Sutugno read his answer in his silence; she got up from the bed and started toward him, still holding the dagger behind her back. With her free hand, she stroked his cheek and leaned forward to kiss him; he did not resist but kept one eye on her other arm and the dagger held behind her back. She kissed him for a long moment, further weakening his resolve, before turning away.
“Then, when you have told him about our night of passion, naked in bed . . . ,” she said, but he interrupted her.
“Night of passion?” he protested, his mood changing as quickly as hers. “Naked? I was still dressed, and I do not know how you came to be naked: I had nothing to do with it!” he exclaimed.
She whipped back around, and he realized at once that perhaps he should have held his tongue, for she pointed at him with the hand holding his dagger. “Nothing to do with it?” she shouted, waving the dagger very close to his chest. “Do you deny getting into bed with me?” she flung at him, jabbing the dagger at his chest.
“I did it because you were out of . . . ,” he stopped, suddenly realizing this direction might precipitate her action with his dagger, “because you were so upset, and you needed comfort, but . . . ,” he started to say; she cut him off.
“Do you deny kissing me as we lay there,” she began and then brought her face very close to his, so that he could feel the breath as she spoke each word that followed, “for a long time, ever more passionately?” she finished, brushing her lips across his.
“I do not deny that we kissed for a time,” he replied, “but then you fell asleep with your head on my chest, still fully dressed.”
“So you took advantage of a vulnerable, sleeping girl,” she went on, pointing the dagger again at his chest, then she moved her arm lower, aiming it straight at his groin. “An act as evil as this one deserves an equally cruel punishment, except that I know you better than that, because I remember what really happened.”
A second thought occurred to him, which was more troubling than the first. “What do you remember?” he asked, giving the same emphasis to the word as she had.
She let the dagger fall and stepped closer to him. “I remember the kissing,” she began, “that became more and more passionate, and our hands became more active,” she said, placing both her hands on his chest; he put his hands over hers, hoping to distract her enough to get his dagger back. “Then our clothes seemed to come off on their own,” she went on, noticing the dagger she held in her hand. She put it into his hand; “only you had the dagger, and I was your lucky victim,” she finished with a wicked grin, turning away.
Rokwolf heaved a sigh of relief and slid the dagger quietly back into its sheath. He looked up in time to see that Sutugno had gone back to collect her clothes and dress; the clothes were laid out carefully on the chair beside the bed, which contradicted her “memory.” Rokwolf had a fairly shrewd idea of where the “memory” had come from, and that her mind had been tampered with; he had to get her back to Klare and his twin, and he had to get away from her before her memory became reality.
“Rokwolf,” Sutugno’s voice purred.
He looked up and saw that, instead of getting dressed, she had gotten back into the bed; her position as she lay made his heart skip a beat and his ears flame, and the memory of her kisses tingled on his lips and desire welled up deep inside, but he knew the consequences would be greater as she was not in control of herself. He had to resist, but he had to do it very, very carefully, so he went to her and knelt next to the bed, taking her hand and staring at her eyes, an action that nearly caused him to forget his purpose.
“Nothing would please me more,” he said, “but we dare not, since there are lives that we can save, if we hurry.”
“I notice you say ‘we,’” she said, sliding closer to him and covering his hand with her other hand, “does that mean you agree to take me with you?”
He nodded; she smiled widely and then kissed him eagerly. She quickly broke the kiss, rolling away and starting to dress.
“Wait until I tell Klare,” she said.
“I’m not sure that you should,” he noted.
She paused. “Why?”
“Won’t that get us both into a lot of trouble,” he began, and went on before she could interrupt, “and prevent us from helping all those people?”
She frowned. “You are right,” she replied, “a
nd that evil brother of yours might punish us with that staff he carries, like he did to all of Shigmar,” and then her eyes filled with tears, “like he did to Rebeth.” She sobbed once but then dashed the tears from her eyes. She looked up at Rokwolf, and her face was twisted with hatred and rage. “Lend me your dagger, my love,” she said, “and I will free us both!”
“That would be the most unwise course of action we could take,” Rokwolf noted.
Her face fell. “You’re right, again,” she complained, grabbing and twisting a handful of the blanket, “then everyone would know what happened and who did it.” Her mood swung again, changing to loving adoration, aimed at Rokwolf. “I trust you will think of something.”
Rokwolf smiled outwardly, but inside, he squirmed.
“Rokwolf,” Klaybear said, looking up at his twin coming down the hall, “we were just coming to . . . ,” he hesitated, noticing an odd look on his brother’s face in the dim light illuminating the hallway. “What is it?”
“Bearman,” Rokwolf said, speaking in twin, “I must go to help Tevvy and my comrades in the swamp.” He glanced at Klare; Sutugno came up and stopped beside him, eyeing them both.
“Wolfman,” Klaybear began, “why use this language to speak of something of such grave importance?” He jerked his head to his wife. “She should hear this, as she is one of us.”
Sutugno shot a questioning glance at Klare; Klare looked to one of the windows and moved toward it; her friend followed her.
Rokwolf followed Sutugno with his eyes; Klaybear noticed but waited. “She must not know,” Rokwolf went on, lifting his chin toward Sutugno.
Why are they talking gibberish? Sutugno asked Klare in her mind.
“She wants to go with me,” Rokwolf continued.
It’s not gibberish, Klare replied with her mind, it is their private, ‘twin’ language.
“Why should that be a problem?” Klaybear asked.
Private language? Sutugno thought back.
Rokwolf rolled his eyes at his twin. “Because she is out of her mind and she has been tampered with.”
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 80
