The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  The girl moaned, low and soft. Despairing. “Master, no, please—”

  “Shut your mouth and I may yet find a use for you.”

  The misty green substance coalesced into a tall, narrow shape. As it drew together, the Necromancer was able to discern a long narrow lipless face, attenuated limbs and black-tipped talons. The creature was completely naked, its hide a muddy brown, hard and warty. It had four arms, segmented with what looked like more than the usual number of elbows, each bearing a wicked spur. Its legs were spindleshanked and knock-kneed and a thin spiked tail lashed behind it. No more than usual size, a limp phallus swung between its legs, but the organ was barbed, the wicked spines presently lying snug against its length.

  Interestingly enough, the demon’s huge round black eyes were fixed not on the slave, but on the master. They literally glowed with hatred.

  It took a lurching step forward, out of the mist, then halted as if it had run into a wall. Nyzarl was speaking again, a harsh rapid tumble of noise, so hard-edged and angular it sounded painful, as if he had a mouthful of thorns. The only syllables the Necromancer could distinguish from the guttural mumble sounded something like Xotclic.

  Indifferent to the creature’s furious attention, the diabloman paused and drew a steadying breath. “Demon, I conjure you to my will by right of your True Name,” he said formally.

  The thin-lipped mouth opened. “Sss?” Though technically, the Necromancer thought, watching carefully, the demon had no lips, only a set of opposing horny plates.

  “I have a treat for you.” The slave girl had sagged, her knees gone from under her, her body weight hanging from the diabloman’s grip on her braid. “No real damage, but you may add your own sauce.”

  “Sss.”

  Gods, the thing was so ugly, it was beautiful. He wanted it more than breath.

  11

  Xotclic paused in its progress toward the girl and shot the Necromancer a penetrating glance over one bony shoulder. Immediately, he dropped his gaze. I’m a scribe, nothing more than a terrified scribe. See? I’m shaking, going to piss my trews.

  When Nyzarl released the girl’s hair, the demon seized it in one clawed hand. Then it pressed its sunken chest against the girl’s back and nuzzled its horny mouth into her neck. A thin forked tongue flickered out and licked up the blood from beneath the girl’s ear.

  With a noise like a stricken puppy, she froze.

  The demon moved around to face her, and as it did so, it began to change, slowly at first and then more rapidly. The emaciated body morphed into a strong broad frame, the horrible narrow head became a mature handsome face with a pugnacious jaw.

  The girl’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around. Clearly, she knew this person. “No,” she whispered. “Gods, no.” Even with the demon flickering in and out behind the simulacrum, there was a clear resemblance between them. Her father, perhaps?

  This must be the sauce. There was a straightforward, uncomplicated cruelty to it he had to admire. Most ingenious.

  When the forked tongue flickered out of her father’s mouth to scoop up the blood on her chin, the girl’s eyes rolled up. Urine pattered down her legs to drip on the floor. Undeterred, the demon licked until every trace of blood was gone.

  Over their heads, Nyzarl pinned the scribe with a hard stare. “There are things worse than death.”

  “Oh yes, my lord, I know,” said the Necromancer, with perfect truth. “It would be my honor to work for you.” With some difficulty, he prostrated himself on the floor and banged his forehead three times on the tiles.

  Walker noticed the slip of paper straightaway, a pale square lying on the floor, a foot inside the door. He contemplated it for a moment, then squatted to pick it up. Balanced comfortably on his heels in the way of his people, he unfolded it with steady fingers.

  Yes!

  Nyzarl’s name leaped off the page, one word in a block of script, below which sat the modest sigil of Caracole’s spymaster, known as the Left Hand of the Queen. The Left Hand answered only to the reigning monarch, the office so secret that no one knew who he was—not even Uyeda, who was Queen Sikara’s Right Hand and her chief executive officer. The arrangement took the concept of separation of powers to a unique level, but it worked with perfect, ruthless efficiency.

  Walker had received notes like this before, written in the anonymous, well-formed hand of a clerk. To be precise—he’d had missives concerning diablomen six, nine, eleven and thirteen. Times, dates, places, names—the information was a gift he’d taken and used with relish. His lips drew back from his teeth in a hunter’s grin.

  He returned to the paper. So Nerajyb Nyzarl was about to leave the shelter of the tripartite palace? Thanks be to the Ancestors. He read on. Even better, the bastard would be vulnerable, traveling south to take up a new estate near—

  The note crinkled softly as Walker crushed it in his fist. Cold sweat sprang up on his brow, the back of his neck. ’Cestors’ bones, he hadn’t been back there in years, not since he’d sung the Song of Death for Amae. His throat went dry, as raw as if the last anguished note had just left his lips.

  He couldn’t.

  But he would. As he tripped the mechanism to the secret drawer in his dresser, a low menacing noise filled the air, a kind of rumbling purr. When he straightened, a long box of polished cedderwood in his hands, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. His eyes were wild and his teeth gleamed very white.

  Gods, he not only sounded like a direwolf, he resembled one too.

  Not displeased, Walker lifted the lid and stared down at his trophies. The bleached finger bones shone a shocking white—fourteen digits, fourteen diablomen. His lip curled in a hard sneer. Barbaric no doubt, but then Commander-Pasha Ghuis Gremani Giral had decreed the Shar to be no more than animals, vermin to be exterminated.

  Plans clicking in an orderly procession through his brain, he began selecting items and shoving them in a battered pack. He wouldn’t need to be gone long—two, perhaps three, weeks. Dai was very nearly back to full strength. Between them, he and Pounder could run the House of Swords without much trouble. They’d done it often enough before. He’d ask Rose if he could borrow her gardener. The elderly woman was no artist, but she was conscientious and thorough. No problem.

  His long fingers stilled on the Trinitarian head cloth he was folding.

  Mehcredi the assassin.

  Well, shit.

  Walker tossed the head cloth onto the bed and crossed the room to stare out the window at the beauty of his garden, but there was little comfort to be found there.

  His responsibility, in every possible way. The Mark tied Mehcredi to the House of Swords—and to him, though she didn’t know that.

  She was brash and ignorant and on the way to becoming the most gifted swordswoman he’d ever known. The potential of her shone so bright it dazzled. It was there in the happy silver of her gaze, in her strength and beauty on the practice floor, even in the devotion of that godsbedamned dog. The physical changes were indescribable. Mehcredi didn’t hunch into herself anymore. She stood tall and strong and proud, every muscle smoothly delineated, her hair a long shining fall like a river of ice speaking to the sun.

  Walker growled under his breath.

  The other week, he’d walked in on Dai teaching the assassin and the slum boy how to cheat at cards. They’d been laughing—laughing ! Yesterday, he’d discovered the man showing her his favorite defensive move, quarterstaff a blur of motion as he demonstrated under her admiring gaze.

  Mehcredi might have endeared herself to Dai, but Walker wasn’t such an easy touch. The assassin’s penance wasn’t over yet. By the Ancestors, a lifetime under his control wouldn’t be enough.

  He cursed aloud, his voice bouncing off the walls in the quiet room.

  Fuck it all to the icy hells, why hadn’t he seen it before? He couldn’t let her go, even if he wished to. Freedom would be her death warrant. Vividly, he recalled Deiter’s face, the wizard’s callous greed. Remove t
he Mark, and even with Dai’s protection, by the time he got back, the old wizard would have her. The hair rose on the nape of his neck. There wouldn’t be enough sense left in her skull to fill a teaspoon.

  Walker’s chest went tight with something that felt like anger but might have been regret. He pinched the bridge of his nose, seething. Godsdammit, he’d spent all the years of his adult life avoiding entanglements, and now look what he’d done. Vaguely, he wondered if the Ancestors were amused. Too dangerous to leave her, too risky to take her. A woman who looked like Mehcredi, who acted like Mehcredi, in Trinitaria? He suppressed a shudder.

  But he’d be there, wouldn’t he? Him, not Deiter. He’d cow her into obedience, frighten her so thoroughly she wouldn’t dare set a foot out of line. He’d keep her safe. Because the assassin—and her penance—belonged to him.

  Shit, shit, shit !

  The moment they reached the dock at the far end of the Melting Pot, Walker pulled Mehcredi behind a couple of tall barrels. “Tell me again,” he said. “Who are you?”

  Her head turned toward him, though he could see nothing of her face behind the dark veils, not even her bright eyes. He’d chosen them for that very purpose.

  “I’m a Trinitarian woman,” she murmured, obediently enough, though he could sense her positively vibrating with excitement beneath yards of black fabric. “Oh, is that our ship? I’ve never seen a ship. It’s not as big as I expected.”

  He ignored the question. “I am a blade for hire, no questions asked, Trinitarian style. Whose woman are you?”

  “Um, your woman?” Was that a smile in her voice?

  “That’s right. How much are you worth to me?”

  “Less than an old horse.”

  “Good. Slouch a bit, you’re too damn tall. Anyway, you’re supposed to be frightened of me. Of any man.”

  She slumped a little, the all-enveloping robes rustling around her. “That better? Oh look, they’re putting out a ramp. Is that what they call a gangplank?”

  “So if I slap you around in public, or do this”—Walker grabbed a handful of ass cheek and squeezed; Mehcredi yelped—“what do you do?”

  “Uh, uh . . .” She didn’t move away, but she was breathing hard; he could see her breasts rise and fall beneath the robe. “I take it.” A pause. “Without ripping your balls off and shoving them down your throat.”

  “Very good.” With a thin smile, Walker opened his fingers, ignoring the instinctive desire to shake the tingles out. “Remember, every female in Trinitaria is property. Your wishes mean nothing, you have no rights and you are worth very little in monetary terms.”

  He twitched his robes into place. “If something happens to me, try to disguise yourself as a man, because otherwise you’ll be prey. Right now, you are mine to do with as I will.”

  She might have muttered, “What else is new?” but a couple of burly laborers pushed past them to roll the barrels away and the words got lost in the rumble of wooden staves on the cobbles.

  “Come on,” said Walker, setting off toward the Spicy Venture. “Two steps behind me at all times, and for the gods’ sakes, at least try to look servile.”

  A small mongrel trotted out from behind a stack of bales and cocked its leg on the lowest one. The words “Best Silk Rugs, Produce of Trinitaria,” were stenciled on the heavy canvas. As it hastened to catch up with the Trinitarian couple, the bundle of robes that was the woman fell a few paces behind, as was proper. The dog dived under her skirts and disappeared from view.

  “Little scrounger,” murmured Mehcredi without surprise. A warm, wet tongue swiped her behind the knee. What had Dai said? Friends were loyal. He’s got my back. I got his.

  Excitement fizzed and bubbled in her blood. The veil was infuriating, reducing the vividness of sky and sea to a monotone gray, but still . . . She sniffed the crisp salt in the air, the tarry odor of wet rope and ripe fish and rotting piles. The dock was alive with shouting scurrying figures—sailors, laborers, traders, beggars, a woman with a tray of dubious-looking snacks. Flocks of shiny white birds swooped and called in high-pitched voices.

  With a cracking boom that hurt the ears, a starship sprang into the blue from somewhere beyond the horizon. The bone-shaking roar swelled, then diminished as it streaked westward. Offworld, thought Mehcredi, her brain scrambling to process the enormity of the concept. Different skies, new worlds, other peoples. One day, sweet Sister, one day she’d go, she swore it. Hell, even a kid like Florien had seen more than she had, though Caracole and the House of Swords sounded far preferable to Sybaris, where he came from, a world ruled entirely by Technomages.

  “Head down,” hissed Walker.

  Damn. Mehcredi bent her knees and dropped her shoulders as they climbed the gangplank. She did her best to shuffle, her head still spinning.

  This morning, instead of the usual dawn session with the nea-kata, Walker had sent her back to her attic room with a roll of black clothing and a bag of soft scuffed leather. “Get dressed, then pack,” he ordered. “You’re coming with me.”

  When she opened her mouth, he snapped, “Answers later. Pack now.”

  To her delight, the bag contained a serviceable sword belt, scabbards and two blades—one a long dagger with a plain black hilt, the other a dainty knife about four inches long. In addition, there were a couple of light shirts, her old boots and trews, her padded cloak and vest.

  When Walker met her at the water stair, dressed in the flowing robes and head cloth of a Trinitarian male, she gaped. With his bronze skin and hooded black eyes, he looked as if he’d walked straight out of a souk. Belted about his waist, he wore the exotic sword set she’d last seen on the walls of the fighting salle—the curved blade she’d cut herself with and the wicked poniard she’d tried to steal.

  A single glance raked her from head to heels. “Good, you’ll do.” He hustled her into a waiting craft and instructed the skiffman to take them to the Melting Pot. It wasn’t until they were past the first bend that it hit her.

  In a panic, she pressed both hands to her breast, to the Mark. The pain, where was the crushing pain? Why hadn’t her heart exploded?

  “Relax,” said Walker. “As long as you’re with me, there’s no problem.”

  Shakily, she sat back. “Where are we going?” she asked when she recovered sufficient breath to speak.

  “Trinitaria. I’ve booked passage on a spice ship across the Three-Pronged Strait.” After a moment, he waved a hand before her face. “Mehcredi?”

  She blinked. “Yes?”

  A black brow quirked. “Speechless?”

  She nodded.

  “By the First Father, a miracle. I’ll tell you more once we’re underway, but to get on board you have to be convincing as a Trinitarian female, do you understand?”

  Bemused, she’d shaken her head, so Walker had spent the rest of the short trip talking, explaining, grilling her when he was finished. Then he did it all over again.

  Now she peered down at the oily water sliding between the dock and the wooden sides of the vessel and swallowed. It was a long way down.

  A normal person would be completely disconcerted by the turn of events. Why wasn’t she?

  She’d go wherever the swordmaster led and be content to have it so. How very odd. The simplest explanation was that he’d bewitched her, stolen her will with his Magick. But that wasn’t it. Surely she’d feel . . . different? And she hadn’t gone suddenly mad either, she knew that—a half-wit in her own way, yes, maybe, but she could still think straight.

  Gingerly, she poked at her own feelings. Beneath the trepidation and the puzzlement, lay a deep core of calm. After all, she’d spent the last months trying to atone for what she’d done, to please him. Nothing in her life had thrilled her so deeply as his measured praise. Walker’s quiet presence had become the strongest, most dependable thing in her universe. She couldn’t give him up, not yet. Gods, she might not understand him, might not be able to read his face, but she wasn’t the only one. He was a difficult man
to understand, harder to like, even Dai said so.

  Beneath the veil, her lips curved in a slow smile. She trusted Walker. It might not be particularly clever, she was still a daft lump, but she couldn’t help it. From the moment he’d wrapped his hands around her throat, life had glittered with challenge and terror and excitement. What else did she have to do anyway? Go back to Lonefell? She’d rather die.

  More to the point, he hadn’t lied to her, not once, not ever. And he’d chosen her—Mehcredi the assassin. No, not the assassin, he’d chosen Mehcredi of Lonefell to go with him on an adventure. She longed to wrap her arms around herself and dance a jig. An adventure. Together.

  As they reached the deck, she suppressed the urge to grab his arm and swing on it like a child.

  “I am Wajar,” said Walker, fixing the nearest barefoot sailor with his usual hard stare. “My accommodations, yes?” His voice sounded different, oily and proud all at the same time.

  With a barely concealed sneer, the man waved at a dark hatchway. “Aft,” he grunted.

  Partway down the narrow passage, they ran into a harried-looking boy of about fifteen, clutching a sheaf of papers. “You’re Wajar? Says here, passage for one across the Three-Pronged Strait, two days, one night.” He shot a wide-eyed glance at Mehcredi. “What about? Um . . . her?”

  Walker shrugged. “No matter. Floor is soft enough.”

  The youth moistened a thumb and flipped through the pages. “Right. Well.” He appeared to come to some sort of decision. “Only one other passenger on this run so we can, uh, upgrade you. Second left.”

  With another wary, fascinated glance, he edged past. Was that pity in his eyes? It was hard to tell, what with the gloom and the veil and all her usual problems.

  The room—she supposed it was a cabin—was narrow. Two bunk beds hung suspended on chains from the ceiling, one above the other. A lamp was bolted to the opposite wall and a wooden chair had been jammed into the far corner. Above it, a small round window begrimed with salt let in a fitful light. That was all. But there was a lock on the door. Walker shot the bolt.