The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  “Your True Name,” said the Necromancer hoarsely. “Give it to me and I will give you mine.”

  Silence.

  By Shaitan, what the fuck was it thinking? Did it think at all? He’d gambled everything on its intelligence.

  Peripherally, he was aware of the Technomage at his elbow, muttering under her breath as a brush whisked across parchment. He was seized by an insane desire to laugh, but he forced it back. “Well?” he demanded. “You’ll be free in this world. Masterless.”

  Ah, now he had its full attention. The huge dark orbs were like liquid, incongruously beautiful in that repulsive visage. Something else swam behind its face, an echo of someone he’d once known, once desired.

  Resolutely, he continued, “I’ll give you more than you’ve ever dreamed—more power, more Magick, more lives.”

  Xotclic retrieved its tail and blood welled from the deep gouge in Nyzarl’s thigh. The Necromancer winced. “And more deaths, but not that one.”

  Tail lashing, a grating rumble issued from the demon’s chest. Its maw opened. “You can have his soul,” said the Necromancer hastily, “or whatever passes for it. But I need his body.”

  The demon slouched around to the head of the table and lifted Nyzarl’s chin with a taloned finger. For a long moment, it stared down into the diabloman’s terrified eyes.

  The Necromancer snatched up a towel and wadded it against the wound. Shit, it was going to hurt like Shaitan’s bitch, but hell, it would be worth it. “The drug I gave him won’t last much longer,” he lied. “Decide.”

  Xotclic patted Nyzarl’s cheek. “Ss,” it said.

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Ss.”

  Oh, thank Shaitan. He had to close his eyes for a second to regain his equilibrium.

  “Ss?”

  He blinked, only to see the demon staring at him, its head twisted at an impossible angle over one spiky shoulder.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “How to go about it? I thought . . . we might exchange one syllable at a time, very slowly. We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?”

  “Ss.”

  Was it laughing at him? He couldn’t be sure. Abruptly, he rounded on the Technomage. “Get the equipment. Check it all again.” He dug his fingers into her shoulder, watching sanity waver back and forth in her faded eyes. “Everything has to be perfect, Dotty. Do you understand me? Because if anything goes wrong, I’ll give you to Xotclic, I swear.”

  She made another bleating noise, threw the demon a last terrified glance over her shoulder and scuttled off.

  “Right,” said the Necromancer. Crossing the room in defiance of every human instinct was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. His hindbrain writhed, shrieking at him to run, run! Carefully avoiding the spikes, he laid a trembling hand on one scaly forearm and very nearly snatched it back. Shaitan! How could something be oily and freezing at the same time?

  He bared his teeth in a rictus of a smile. “Let us begin. As a gesture of good faith, I will start, but we will finish together, or not at all.”

  “Ss.”

  Show me how you ride, the swordmaster had said. At Lonefell, she’d ridden bareback in the summer, up in the high pasture where no one could see. Saddles she knew nothing about.

  He secured a mount for her, an elderly broad-backed mare with a sleepy disposition and an accommodating nature, boosted “Meck” into the saddle and walked him around and around the moving caravan in ever-decreasing circles. Finally, he tied the mare to Abad’s van. The dog favored her with a toothy grin as he leaped up to scramble over the backboard, but all Walker said was, “You’ll do.” Then he’d cantered off for his shift as advance scout.

  There’d been so little expression on his face, he might have been sculpted out of bronze. His hunter’s face, hooded eyes cold and calm. Mehcredi wondered . . . Gods, how she wondered.

  She frowned, thinking back. It’s not what he says, she told herself firmly, it’s what he does. That’s the only coin you understand.

  Sister save her, all the pain he kept locked up inside him—only someone as unperceptive as she could have missed it. On the other hand . . . She shifted in the saddle as the mare plodded on. To be the only survivor of the massacre of all your kin—that was truly tragic. She thought of his deep voice saying softly in the dark, Do you know what demons look like? and shivered in the sun.

  Awful beyond her comprehension. Her fingers tightened on the reins. Poor Walker. No, not Walker. What was it? A long liquid run of sound, beautiful in its own way, but incomprehensible. Welderyn . . . something, something. She must ask him to repeat it, slowly.

  At Lonefell, gossip had run on greased wheels. People adored it, she knew that much about human nature. If even a single person knew Walker was the last of his people and why, it would be nigh on impossible to keep such a deliciously dreadful story secret.

  But she’d heard not the slightest hint of it.

  This private, quiet man had trusted her with something no one else knew, a torment wrenched from deep within his soul. Sister in the sky, her, Mehcredi of Lonefell. A small sweet glow warmed her insides. She’d never had a secret to keep before, never had a . . . a . . . What was Walker, precisely? A friend? A teacher?

  Not a lover though.

  Scowling, she fingered her lower lip, remembering, and the godsbedamned feelings started up again. She wasn’t sure precisely how to describe them, but they made her so restless if she hadn’t been perched so high above the ground she would have had to wriggle to relieve her frustration.

  But she had only to close her eyes to feel his weight pressing her into the bed of feathergrass, their bodies sealed together from neck to knee. She knew he was made of muscle—gods, she’d watched him perform the nea-kata shirtless every morning for weeks—but she wasn’t used to feeling so weak and small, so very feminine. Not only was he damned heavy, but oddly enough, she liked it. In fact, she’d liked it so much, she’d arched up against him, frantic for more. And when it was granted to her and skin met skin, she’d thought she might die of wanting whatever came next.

  Despite herself, a disgustingly kittenish sound escaped her lips. One of the mare’s ears flicked back, but her steady gait didn’t falter. Somewhat heartened by this tacit show of support, Mehcredi gripped the saddle and ground herself down, grumbling under her breath.

  It didn’t help. In fact, it made her breath hitch and the liquid burn between her thighs intensify. Surreptitiously, she pressed one arm over her breasts. Imprisoned within the confines of the breastband, they tingled with the strangest sort of ache, with the physical memory of his lips and tongue moving over her skin, while his weight held her helpless, so strong, so hot—gods, so knowing.

  Her secret flesh had flowered for him, slick with her body’s honey, yearning so desperately that her thighs had fallen open and she’d reached for what instinct told her she needed.

  The scowl deepened.

  Shit, she’d ruined it. Brought all the lovely, breathless, soaring flight of mutual desire crashing to the ground. Stupid, stupid.

  But nonetheless, she, Mehcredi, had aroused him, given him pleasure, the evidence of it hot and rigid in her hand. Gods, he’d been thick, much thicker than she expected. Longer too. The memory made her insides squirm like a puppy being petted.

  She hadn’t known. How could she? All she’d seen of Nedward and his scullery maid were the pale hairy moons of his bum bunching as he drove upward again and again and the girl’s plump white calves wrapped around his waist. When he’d come, he’d just frozen with a final grunt and squeezed the poor girl even harder. The moment it was over, he’d laced up his trews, slapped the girl on the flank and walked back to the forge whistling. The maid had stood staring after him, her face red and her lip quivering

  I do want you, Walker said, his voice flat and cold. Just not enough to make you a convenience.

  Unlike Nedward, let alone Taso.

  Mehcredi sagged in the saddle and all the minor twinges associated with the unacc
ustomed exercise coalesced into a clamoring wholebody ache. The reminiscent tingles, the physical memory of joy, everything dissolved, leaving her miserable and heavy. Exactly like last night, except that now she was baking in the desert sun and covered in dust.

  “Hey, Meck?”

  She glowered at Abad. The waggoner swayed easily with the lurching movement of the van, reins held negligently in one big brown hand. “How ye doin’ over there, lad?”

  How was she doing? “Like shit,” she muttered. “Thanks for askin’.”

  Abad reached under the wooden seat and fished out a stoppered bottle. “Thirsty?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he tossed it with a flip of the wrist. Mehcredi had to bend and twist to snag it out of the air, nearly unseating herself in the process. Her heart thundering, she cursed Abad even as she wrenched the cork out and tilted it to her lips. Warm, flat water, nectar of the gods. Swishing it around her mouth, she spat to one side, then drank deep.

  “Needed that.” She tossed the bottle back and the waggoner caught it neatly enough.

  Abad grinned, brown eyes twinkling. “How’s your ass?”

  She glanced sharply at his face, but she couldn’t see anything to alarm her. “Fuckin’ hurts,” she said cautiously.

  “Ye can come up here if ye like.”

  Mehcredi studied him from under her lashes. The waggoner had a pleasant enough face, swarthy like most of his countrymen. Under the head cloth, dark greasy curls tumbled around his ears. Looked safe enough—unless he was the sort who liked boys. Mentally, she contrasted his expression with that of the man with the gold teeth. What was his name? That’s right, Letafa.

  To her, Abad’s face appeared a perfect blank, though his hands were relaxed on the reins. She wanted to hiss with frustration. Why the invitation? Perhaps he was bored? Only one way to find out.

  “Are you bored?”

  He shrugged. “Could use the company, but please yerself, lad.”

  Lad? She grinned to herself. He couldn’t be much older than she was.

  “All right.” Urging her mount a little closer, she reached out, grabbed the side of the van and freed one foot from its stirrup. A graceless heave, an undignified scramble and she arrived in a cursing sweaty heap on the seat next to the waggoner. The mare rolled an eye at her as if to say good riddance.

  Ow, ow, ow. Mehcredi eased from one buttock to the other. The hard wooden seat was no softer than the godsbedamned saddle.

  “Not much of a rider, are ye?” said Abad mildly.

  A grunt sufficed for answer. There were definitely advantages to being male.

  “So,” said the waggoner, elaborately casual. “Wajar any good with that fancy sword?”

  Her shiver was entirely genuine. “The best I’ve ever seen.”

  “What about you?”

  “He’s teaching me.” She shrugged. “I can hold my own.” A wry grin tugged at her lips. Of course she could, against a man like Abad at any rate. Walker could slice her to ribbons with his eyes closed. But this line of questioning was dangerous. Hastily, she said, “Are the beasts yours? Do they have names?”

  It seemed they were and they did. Nothing loath, the waggoner described each plodding beast, describing its every virtue, vice and ailment in detail. After a couple of miles, Mehcredi relaxed enough to rub the ache out of her thighs. She’d met Abad’s sort before—a man who loved the sound of his own voice, thanks be to the Sister. All she need do was insert the occasional murmur of interest and he rambled on and on, the wheels creaking as the sandy track unrolled beneath them.

  She’d never be the same, she knew that. Not after last night. Blankly, she gazed out at the sparse grayish vegetation. For the first time in her life, she’d seen inside another person, seen a soul laid bare—Walker’s agony and guilt, his driving need to avenge his people in blood and pain. Then he’d shown her his pleasure and he’d shown her his Magick.

  Her breath caught. How could it have slipped her mind? With his beauty and his tragedy, the swordmaster had driven every other thought clean out of her head. A woman had risen up out of the fire, disembodied, and spoken from the Sister knew how far away. Caracole it seemed like.

  And Walker, Walker had—Abruptly, the stunted trees blurred into a long gray splodge. He’d used his Magick to ensure her comfort. Such beautiful Magick too, of green and growing things. It had seemed to her the trees bent to his will with joyous abandon, the feathergrass swishing around his boots like an affectionate cat.

  She’d been privileged to see it. Her hand stole to the Mark on her breast. Perhaps to wear it too. And yet—she braced her feet against the floor as the van lurched in and out of a pothole—Walker was a man of such stark contrasts. His Magick bloomed with life and light, but his soul was shadowed in death and darkness.

  “Is he a good master then?”

  She started. “What?”

  “Wajar,” said Abad. “Looks like a hard man.”

  “I’d die for him,” growled Mehcredi, realizing with a kind of dull shock that it was true.

  By the time she recovered herself, the waggoner was speaking of his two wives, both of whom he clearly adored. He hadn’t meant to offer for the second, but he’d been so taken with her sweet eyes and lissome form, he couldn’t help himself. A good vanbeast the dowry had cost him, but the little sweetheart was worth twice that. When he smiled, in a sheepish kind of way, he was very nearly good-looking.

  “They do well together, my girls,” he said fondly. “No fighting. And next year, there’ll be two more mouths to feed.” Though he reddened, his chest swelled with pride. “Don’t like to do such a long trip, but Dinari’s a good master and, well, extra creds are always handy when a man’s got a family.”

  Well, well, love and honor did exist in Trinitaria. Who’d have thought it? Mehcredi cast a sidelong look at her companion as he rummaged about under the seat to produce a shabby box, which he opened to reveal a couple of rather squashed manda fruits and several greasy packets.

  “Here, lad.”

  When she investigated, suddenly ravenous, the packet proved to contain a cold savory noodle cake. “Thanks,” she mumbled, her mouth full.

  As if by Magick, a cold nose materialized in the vicinity of her neck, the dog peering over her shoulder, his panting breath hot against her ear. Mehcredi chuckled. “Scrounger.”

  Her heart lifted a little as she broke off a piece of cake for him. At least she still had one friend.

  You’re bluffing, Walker had said in a voice like ice.

  And she had been—at first. But he’d made her so mad she couldn’t see straight, let alone control the stupidity that fell out of her mouth. She’d had all night to think about it too, to flay herself with useless regrets and recriminations. Godsdammit, she couldn’t have made a bigger mess of everything if she’d tried! It had taken her hours to drop off, her mind a seething mass of confusion and wonder. Her sleep had been restless, her dreams nightmares of frustration in which she was running and running, desperate to get . . . somewhere, but when she’d looked down she discovered her feet were rooted to the ground, brambles curling around her ankles.

  Walker had shaken her awake with a firm hand on her shoulder, not long after dawn. She’d opened her mouth, ready to say she hadn’t meant it, would never—But then she’d seen his face and the words had died stillborn. Not only his hunter’s face, but colder than winter iron in Lonefell. She hadn’t seen that expression since the night he’d caught her in the Melting Pot and she’d known with absolute certainty he was going to kill her.

  Bastard. Double-dyed bastard.

  A harsh honk interrupted her thoughts. Three large birds passed over their heads and disappeared toward the distant hills. Abad leaned over the side of the van and spat. Then he made the sign of the Three. “Corpsebirds,” he growled. “Hate ’em.” From farther around the bend came the bellow of a vanbeast.

  Abad really did have a nice face, even frowning as he was now. He gave her hope. There’d be decent men in Trim
egrace, there must be. Perhaps a merchant or a well-to-do tradesman, young and clean, with eyes as dark as Concordian chocolat and high cheekbones and long black hair, as soft and straight as rain . . .

  The sigh came all the way from her boots. Who did she think she was fool—?

  Hoofs thundered from up ahead, approaching at breakneck speed. Men shouted. What the—

  Mehcredi leaped onto the seat and rose to her tiptoes.

  Walker pulled his horse up on its haunches at the lead van. He leaned over the animal’s shoulder, speaking urgently to Dinari, gesturing down the track, the Janizar’s sword flashing in the sun.

  “Fuck,” groaned Abad. “Knew it. Fuckin’ bandits, mark my words.”

  Walker wheeled his horse and raced off again, back the way he’d come, followed by another three men. More dashed toward the horse string on foot.

  “Shit! No, Meck, don’t—” The waggoner stretched out a hand, but too late.

  Mehcredi landed on the startled mare all anyhow, but she managed to settle her feet in the stirrups before kicking her mount into a jarring trot. Bouncing like a sack of taters, blade naked in her hand, she set off in dogged pursuit of the man she knew best in the whole world, the man who was her whole world.

  20

  By the time they hit the bend in the trail, the horse had slowed to a stolid walk and no amount of kicking and swearing would induce her to speed up. Then the wind changed, bringing with it a heavy abattoir reek. The mare snorted, reared and tipped Mehcredi off into the dust.

  Painfully, she rose on one elbow, feeling as if a mountain had leaned down and thumped her between the shoulder blades. She blinked, horror overwhelming the aches.

  The derelicts had once been caravans, drawn up in a defensive circle. For the rest, it was a butcher’s shop from a nightmare. Bodies lay scattered about, limbs contorted, clouds of bitemes buzzing over the carnage. A few vanbeasts struggled feebly in the traces, lowing with distress. Not more than ten feet away, a man stared at her with black sunken eyes, his mouth stretched wide in a rictus of terror, his chest a gaping ruin, black with clotted blood and white with shards of bone. He could have been any age from twenty to sixty, but it was no longer possible to judge.