The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Another pause. When she stripped, she did it quickly and without coquetry, before putting out the lamp. In the sullen rosy glow of the stove, the womanly swell of her hips, her endless legs, took on a golden glow. With a long contented breath, Walker slid an appreciative palm the length of her spine, unable to resist cupping the taut curve of her superlative ass. He turned his face into the curve of her neck. ’Cestors’ bones, that was good!

  He let himself fall.

  Sometime in the early hours, he woke with a choked cry. He’d been back at the farmhouse, beating the djinns off with a blazing torch, while the farmer’s wife writhed in her death agony at his feet. The creatures had screamed as they died, high-pitched shrieks that hurt the ears.

  But despite the fact that he’d been struck in the leg, the man clung to his dying wife. Gods, she had no hope, none at all, but the farmer did. Walker knocked him out cold, slung him over the saddle and spurred to a gallop. Out in the yard, two little girls lay dead in a welter of blood. In the dream, the bigger one sat up, her chest a bloody ruin of bone and flesh. “Da!” she screamed. “Don’t take our Da!”

  Callused palms cupped his face, slim fingers stroked. “Walker, it’s me.” Mehcredi dotted his face with frantic kisses. “Sshh. It’s all right.”

  A little while later, after his heart had stopped hammering, she freed him from his trews, crooning wordlessly as she feathered her fingers over his cock, coaxing him to an astonishing hardness, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. His body knew what it needed—to affirm life, to establish reality in the most primitive way possible. Hitching one leg over his hip, she guided him to her beautiful slippery heat.

  Silently, they rocked together in languid bliss. Walker’s climax grew like a twining vine from his balls to his cock, all the sweet way to the very tip. When the end came, his seed flowed out of him, not in spurts or ripples, but in a steady stream, until every muscle in his body relaxed, limp and sated. Judging by the pretty gasping cries in his ear, Mehcredi had reached her own pinnacle of pleasure.

  His thoughts all muffled and ponderous, all he could do was nuzzle her cheek, and sink toward sleep.

  So very, very good. A strange, but lovely, homecoming.

  “Here,” she whispered, rolling onto her back. A firm grip in his hair, she tugged his head down to rest between her breasts.

  Instinctively, Walker stiffened.

  “You did this for me, that first time.” Her breath stirred his hair. “Please, let me do it for you.”

  He raised his head half an inch. “It?”

  “The post-fuck cuddle.” She pressed him back down.

  Walker found himself smiling into warm creamy skin. Beneath his ear, her heart thumped in a steady rhythm. His fingers drifted over the pure pale beauty of her left breast, automatically tracing the path his Mark had taken.

  “Tingles.” She undulated beneath him, purring. “Maybe your Magick’s still there.”

  “Doubtful.” Her nipple felt like ruched velvet under his fingertip.

  “Walker . . .” She hesitated.

  “Mmm?” From ribs to waist to hip, her flanks were a long feminine curve, flowing as beautifully as any plant that grew.

  “What am I doing here? I mean . . .” Her lips brushed his forehead in a shy caress. “I know I’m here because you are. You’re important—you, and Cenda and Erik, but me?”

  “The Shar have a saying: The gods rattle our little lives like dice in a game with no point.” He frowned. “I have no idea, but you fit somehow.”

  “Truly?” She sounded so pleased. Then she sighed. “Prue hates me. Erik too. Though Cenda and Gray aren’t so bad and Rose is nice.”

  “You can hardly blame them,” he pointed out. “As for Gray and Prue, they have their gifts.”

  “Like what?” She sounded so skeptical.

  “You didn’t know?” Walker sat up so he could see her face. The gray light of dawn bleached her features, painted shadows beneath her fine eyes. “Gray is a sorcerer of shadows. Prue is a null witch.”

  Mehcredi frowned. “Shadows? What shadows? And Prue’s nothing like a witch.”

  “Gray’s shadow has a life of its own—a mind, if you will. If you watch, you’ll see it move without him. He calls it Shad. They have . . . an interesting relationship.” A rusty chuckle bubbled in his throat. “You should see your face.”

  “And Prue?” croaked Mehcredi, her eyes round.

  “Haven’t you noticed? You never see Cenda or Deiter anywhere too close to Prue. Magick doesn’t work within about ten feet of her.” He rolled his shoulders, wincing. “It feels . . . weird, as if part of you is numb.”

  “So that’s how—Florien told me she beat the Necromancer’s head in with a shovel, but I couldn’t quite believe it.” Her brow creased. “What about Erik? He’s a wizard and he’s all over her.”

  “Doesn’t bother him for some reason. Deiter says, deep down, she actually believes in his Magick. Suspension of disbelief or something like that.”

  Footsteps went by in the passage outside. A door banged. Someone rattled pots and pans.

  Completely unself-conscious, Mehcredi lay naked, lost in thought. Did she have any idea of how appealing she was? Like some strong sleek animal in repose, all supple muscle clothed in voluptuous contours. His Ancestors had been warriors. He was their son, blood and bone. The assassin drew him in a way that was blatantly, shamelessly direct. Like to like. Strength to strength. Even among the Shar, a woman so fierce, yet so uncompromisingly feminine, would be remarked and respected.

  Such an innocent, in every way that mattered. But she’d survived the trip back to Caracole without him. ’Cestors’ bones, she’d done more than survive—she’d triumphed, grown. Gods, what would she become when she spread her wings and truly soared? He’d set her free, whatever the cost. Once all this was done.

  He felt empty. Food would help, lots of it.

  Turning his back, he reached for his battered pack. “Get dressed,” he said. “The others will be waiting.”

  Mehcredi stood at the lip of the cliff, staring down into the ravine that gave Guardpass its name. The air was full of shouts and oaths, the clink of wooden staves being unloaded and distributed, the jangle of metal and the stamp of hoofs. Deiter and Yachi leaned over a map spread on a camp table, talking to the Guardpass headwoman. Over it all, keened the low moan of the chill wind that blew from the north. It was late afternoon, dull with the clouds low in the sky. A sharp silver sickle, the Sister rose above the shoulder of the range.

  She shivered, wishing she’d been able to eat. Not long now.

  All the preparations were in place. Florien and Scrounge had been left behind at the tavern, under the stern eye of the host. The boy had been so insulted, he’d very nearly wept with fury, but at the last minute, he’d relented and let Cenda fold him in her arms. In fact, every member of the company save Deiter had farewelled him in one way or another. Standing at the door watching them depart, he’d been the picture of sullen defiance, but Mehcredi suspected he was both surprised and touched. After all, in his place, she would have felt the same.

  Teams of men had spent the day sweating with levers and rollers, moving boulders to the cliff edge at the southern end of the pass. Cenda and Erik had disappeared, presumably to practice whatever it was they intended to do together. Deiter did a lot of arm waving and shouting.

  As the only one who had experience with the djinns, Walker worked with Yachi, drilling the guards, over and over. Early in the afternoon, the guards split off, each taking charge of a group of grim-faced farmers.

  Deiter cupped his hands to his mouth. “To me!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone ramparts, obviously amplified by Magick.

  Mehcredi narrowed her eyes, estimating. Staffs made of snow birch gleamed pink in the afternoon light, rustling and murmuring like a winter wood in the wind. But there were so few of them, perhaps fifty. Once the djinns descended in a boiling cloud they’d be overwhelmed. Oh gods . . .

 
A hard hand settled on her shoulder and she turned.

  Walker, the long tail of his hair swinging, finger bones and feathers tightly woven into his braids. Releasing a long breath, Mehcredi stepped into the warmth of his body, slipping an arm around his trim waist. Stiffening, he shot her an unreadable glance but said nothing.

  “You lot are just backup,” Deiter was telling the citizens of Guardpass. “Make sure none of the filthy things get past you and into the village. Apart from that, keep out of the bloody way.” He cocked his head like a wily old bird, listening. “Not long now.”

  Even the ever-present wind fell silent, waiting.

  “Go with Rose and Prue.” Walker stepped sideways and Mehcredi’s arm fell away.

  She watched the two women hurry toward a narrow, winding path that led down the side of the ravine. After about thirty feet, it opened up into a wide ledge and behind that was the large cave Deiter had designated for the care of the wounded. The village healer was already there, grim-faced as she sharpened her instruments and counted her pots of medicaments.

  “No,” Mehcredi said. “I’m staying to fight with you.”

  Walker’s lips went thin. “You know nothing about killing djinns. You’d be a liability.”

  “But I can fight!” Hurt, she stared at him. “Or did you lie when you told me I’m good?”

  The wind picked up, rising to an ear-aching whistle. Walker hissed. “ ’Cestors’ bones, there’s no time for this. Listen to me—” He gripped her upper arms, gave her a little shake. “Only three of us really matter—Erik, Cenda and me. The rest of you are cleanup crew.”

  The wind whipped Walker’s hair. Finger bones clinked softly. At the southern end of the gorge, the air became suddenly agitated, as though a mighty hand stirred it with a giant whisk.

  “Go,” said the swordmaster coldly. “I cannot do my job until you do.”

  His black stare bored into her as she backed away down the path. He was still watching when she whirled about, her vision blurred with tears. A small fist grabbed the back of her coat and tugged. “Get in here,” snapped Prue McGuire, her mouth tight with tension. “There’ll be wounded. You can make yourself useful, assassin.”

  But Mehcredi set her feet. The ledge in front of the cave was a fine vantage point. In a majestic wave, vortexes of boiling air rolled out of the dusk and into the ravine, billowing toward the four figures standing motionless in their path. An acrid reek filled the narrow space.

  Atavistic terror cramped Mehcredi’s guts. The stench permeated her clothing, sank into her pores. Sister save her, Walker was going to die! She sank to her knees, gravel biting into her skin.

  32

  Yachi’s voice screamed an order and from the cliff tops arched a shower of arrows. When Cenda raised both hands, every arrow burst into flame.

  Ah, so Walker had been right. The djinns did die. Mehcredi bared her teeth in a grin of savage delight. The high, wavering shrieks hurt her ears, but it was infinitely satisfying to watch the creatures explode in glittering shards that twisted slowly in the wind and fluttered to the valley floor.

  The volleys of arrows forced the djinns out of the air, down between the walls of stone. As they swooped and flew, Cenda threw her head back, opened her mouth and screamed. Fire burst out of her throat, then from her whole body. She looked horribly like a figure on a pyre, yet her flesh was not consumed. A huge fireball blossomed above her head, floating in the cradle of the wind.

  Gray stood so close he must be singed, but he only stared at the fire witch, his handsome face contorted with anxiety. Beside him, his shadow danced, never still. Gods, so it was true about the shadow!

  But there was no time to think of that. Erik’s mouth moved, his hands weaving shapes in the air. The fireball flattened out, expanding across the width of the ravine. With a roar like a thousand angry tygres, it dropped and sped forward, a moving wall of flame. Mehcredi shot to her feet.

  The djinns writhed and died, screaming and stinking. At Mehcredi’s elbow, Prue hopped from one foot to the other, waving her fists. Rose stood quietly, her hands gripped together at her waist, her eyes dark pits in the pale oval of her face.

  Abruptly, Walker dropped to his knees as if he’d been shot by a djinn stone. His head dropped, his hair falling forward to obscure his face. Mehcredi started forward, then stopped when he reached out to place the palms of both hands flat on the ground.

  The rock beneath her feet trembled, very slightly.

  Walker looked up, his gaze focused on the southern end of the gorge. Mehcredi saw his lips move. A huge boulder on the cliff edge began to rock on its base. With a kind of ponderous grace, it teetered toward open space, then turned end over end, spinning out into the open air. It landed with an echoing crash that shivered in the bones.

  Djinns sprayed in all directions and were forced down by another volley of burning arrows.

  The first boulder was followed by another, and another, until the valley reverberated with thunderous impacts and the hungry roar of flame. The air swirled with fire and fragmenting djinns and vicious eddies of wind and dust and chips of rock. Mehcredi bent double, coughing. The Brother had risen, bloodred and sullen, casting a hellish glow over the scene. Holy Sister, it was the end of the world.

  But she was wrong. With a long grating rumble, the cliff at the southern entrance to the pass split from bottom to top, a dark fissure opening like a crooked wound. So slowly they could have been mired in treacle, tons of rock peeled away, falling hundreds of feet in sandy arabesques. When the dust settled, the opening had disappeared beneath a wall of rubble. The pass was blocked, the djinns trapped inside, the air above them filled with flaming arrows.

  Deiter’s trap!

  But there was no end to the godsbedamned creatures. Even trapped in the narrow defile, at the mercy of Cenda’s fire and Erik’s wind, the remnants of them continued to press mindlessly north toward Guardpass, the only barrier a group of untried defenders. On a guard’s barked order, the ranks of burning staffs moved, the outer ranks thrusting outward, the inner upward. Seen from the vantage point of the cave, the patterns they made were eerily beautiful, like a shoal of phosphorescent fish moving through a dusky sea.

  It was extraordinarily effective—until the first formation shuddered and broke. Immediately, it was overwhelmed, submerged under a blanket of boiling air and another kind of screaming began—highpitched, agonized and all too human.

  After that, there was little time to watch, less time to think.

  By unspoken agreement, the village healer laid hands on the wounded as they were carried in, using her experience to assess their chances. Cold-blooded, but necessary.

  Mehcredi lost count of the number of mouths she pried open to pour in a concentrated sleeping potion. Without a moment’s hesitation, she used her knee to keep them still or shoved a smooth stick between snapping teeth. Her fingers slippery with blood, she tied endless tourniquets, knowing it was hopeless, but driven to try.

  To save her sanity, she closed her ears to the sounds from the back of the cave where the healer amputated at top-speed with the desperate, brutal efficiency of a battlefield surgeon, assisted by the two biggest and strongest of the queen’s guards.

  The sweet, fetid smell of blood combined with the djinns’ stench to produce a charnel house stink that filled her nose, invaded her head. As the healer labored, bloody to the elbows, she cursed in a constant, vicious undertone audible even over the curses and screams that rose and swirled around the rocky ceiling. The same chilling sounds drifted up from the gorge, muted slightly by the thickness of rock.

  There would be the butcher’s work of mercy to do soon. Mehcredi shuddered.

  Time passed in a delirium of horror.

  “Null witch! ”

  Deiter’s yell echoed around the stone walls like a thunderclap, thrumming with Magick.

  Oh Sister, Erik! Prue leaped to her feet, abandoning an elderly man who clutched at his forearm, whining between his teeth. Without a backward loo
k, she ran headlong out of the cave.

  In the sudden silence, Mehcredi blinked, rubbing her palms down her trews.

  Oh gods, Walker!

  The roll of bandages slipped from her fingers and rolled merrily across the ground, but Mehcredi had darted after Prue. No more than five steps from the cave, she stopped as if she’d run into a wall.

  On the opposite side of the gorge, stood a man with meaty shoulders and a darkly shadowed jaw. Djinns whirled about his head, detectable as individual whirlwinds thickening the air. Something about them stretched Mehcredi’s brain until it hurt, as if they were too alien, too other, to be real.

  Slowly, trembling, she came forward. Walker was there, still safe, and that was all that mattered.

  As Prue hurled herself into Erik’s arms, the stranger’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well. If it isn’t Prue McGuire,” he said conversationally. The wind had dropped and his voice carried perfectly in the night air, with the same Magickal reverberation as Deiter’s. “I should have known.” His teeth gleamed, large and white.

  Deiter glared across the narrow space. “Prue?”

  She shrugged. “Never seen him before.”

  “I have.” Walker lurched to his feet. His face was gray with exhaustion, his lips bloodless, but when Mehcredi grabbed his arm, he set her aside. “Nerajyb Nyzarl.” His tone was chillingly devoid of expression.

  The man’s smile widened. He bowed. “Nerajyb Nyzarl Necros now.”

  Walker’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “I am Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian,” he said, and waited.

  This close, Mehcredi could see his fists clench, the savage bone-deep shudders. He’d done as Deiter had asked, made boulders dance to the tune of his Magick, but Sister in the sky, what had it cost him?

  Nyzarl only shrugged and addressed himself to Deiter. “A bargain,” he said. “One wizard to another.”

  Before Deiter could answer, Walker snarled, “Where’s your demon, diabloman? Or do you have new pets now?”