Allowing his struggling mind to shut down, he reveled in the feelings that now poured through and uplifted him. He delighted in the way his body and Barta’s fit together, how their spirits meshed, and the excitement that lay in her touch. He reveled in the heat of her mouth and the way she clung to him. His new body understood what should happen next; he had only to follow its urging.
People could mate—he knew that very well. His body needed to mate with hers, and he never paused to wonder if she would be compliant. He merely explored her mouth with his tongue, tasted her deeply, and lowered her to the ground.
There, to his consternation, she began to talk again. She broke the wondrous contact of their mouths and showered his face with kisses interspersed with words.
“Oh, how I need you. I need this. I don’t understand. It’s as everyone says—we scarcely know each other. But I need you here, deep in my heart. Can you explain it to me?”
In answer he dove for her mouth again, captured her lips, and let the rushing feelings fill him. It did not escape him that some parts of this strange body had again become fuller than others. A primitive part of his brain understood that would let him slide into her, become truly one with her—ah, bliss! But she had clothing in the way, as did he.
And by the goddess, she would not stop talking.
Now she evaded his lips once again to say, “Have you an answer for me, True? Can you explain this connection between us?”
He could, but he didn’t dare, and anyway, unlike her, he failed to possess the words.
He captured her face between his hands and stared into her eyes. “Hush.”
She laughed in surprise. He caught the laugh in his mouth as he kissed her once more, still more deeply, till she became very nearly a part of him.
She tasted so good. He wanted desperately to lick her skin and to slide into her.
“Umm.” She breathed the sound and stretched her body beneath his so that hard part of him settled between her thighs. She became—for once in her life—very nearly cooperative and let him own her mouth with his tongue. Only the stars—and no doubt the goddess—could see them here. Dare he do as he desired?
Barta broke the kiss again but only to say, “Here.” He felt her thrust her fingers between them and begin working on the ties at the front of her tunic.
He sought valiantly for words amid the fog that was his mind. “I want to taste you.”
“I want that too.”
Gladdened, he began to assist her, tearing at her tunic with one hand while he propped himself on the other elbow.
She laughed again, a bit unsteadily this time. “Impatient, are you?”
He did not bother to answer. The front of her tunic came open then, half torn, displaying her two white breasts.
He had seen his mistress naked a thousand times. She’d frequently changed her clothing in his presence, and her body had never interested him. They’d swum naked together; at night she’d sometimes even used the slop pot while he watched.
But now he wore a man’s skin, possessed a man’s impulses, and by the goddess, he took notice. For a breathless moment he lay there regarding her by the thin starlight while her eyes asked him a question. What did she want from him? Given the buzz in his head, he could not tell.
He closed his eyes against the overwhelming feelings, listening hard to the instinct that filled him, then bent his head and tasted her.
Salty, warm, and the best thing ever on his tongue. In the past he’d licked her often, her hands, her arms, her cheek. An echo of that flavor still existed, but wilder, sweeter. He tasted her throat in a long swipe, his hound’s spirit appreciating that she exposed that most vulnerable place to him. He ran his tongue downward. Soft, soft. He could bite but remembered she didn’t like that. And the swelling between his legs urged other actions.
“True.” Half moan, his name on her lips further enflamed him. He lapped the swell of one breast and she twined her fingers in his hair.
Ah, so good—as intimate as the times they’d slept together, her limbs resting on his fur.
She urged his attention downward, where his tongue found the hard pebble at the top of one breast. She caught her breath, and he distinctly felt her tense and flood with delight.
Her breast—not large—fit nearly all in his mouth. The white light in his head increased and expanded, filling his reality. He hadn’t imagined anything could taste better than the inside of her mouth; he’d been wrong.
But curse it all, she began talking again.
“True, True, I want to give myself to you. Completely. If I do…”
He wanted to howl at her to be silent and let him enjoy this. Why think beyond the moment?
But if giving herself to him meant he could mate with her, slide that insistent part of him inside her, he should let her speak.
Busy tasting her breast, he made no reply.
“True, tell me it would not be a mistake.”
Could she not put her mouth to better use? He wanted her to lick him in return. But she seized his head, dragged him up from her breast, and looked into his eyes once again.
“If I couple with you, what then?”
Couple? Did she mean mate? He felt afire for that but sensed she needed some reassurance.
“What do you fear, Barta?” The words came to him dimly from a great distance.
“That you will take what I offer and then disappear as suddenly as you appeared.”
“I want only to stay with you for as long as the goddess allows.”
“And, True, would you wed with me if I asked?”
“Wed with you?”
“Join with me—your hand in mine—before the Lord and Lady.”
Were they not already joined? Surely the silver cord accomplished that. If she wanted him to swear it with words, what difference? “Yes.”
Again she caught her breath as if he’d said something significant. Then she unfastened her trews—those of a man—and began to shimmy from them.
True’s heart pounded in his ears and his mind shut down still further to but one impulse: need.
So efficiently did he block everything else, it took a moment to realize she’d frozen beneath him and a great clatter came from far off—shouts and cries and what sounded like the clash of weapons.
Air rushed into Barta’s throat. “What is that?” Before he could speak she answered her own question. “A fight. We are under attack!”
She sprang to her feet and had fastened her clothing almost before True could stand.
“Have you a weapon?”
“Eh?” He gaped at her.
“A dirk?”
“For battle? I need none.”
“Stay here and guard Pith.”
He drew himself up, shedding his desire like a cloak he no longer needed. “You ask me to let you go to a fight without me? No.”
“But…”
“Never.”
“I need you here.”
“You need me with you.”
Once again she gazed into his eyes. He felt it when her spirit relented. “Then come.”
Chapter Seventeen
Fool that she was, Barta had left her weapons at her father’s hut, all but the dirk she carried always in her boot. She cursed her carelessness as she ran, winding her way through the trees with True at her heels.
She should have seen this coming, should have stayed close to home regardless of how uncomfortable she felt with her father and Wick. Instead, she’d once again thought only of herself and gone looking for True because his company brought her comfort.
What her family and Gant said of her must be so.
Now terror clutched her heart—for once not on her own behalf—and she could not run fast enough. No time left to think of what she should have done. The Gaels had waited for nightfall to launch an attack, perhaps in retaliation for the one she had precipitated against them.
The Epidii could lose everything.
She stopped involuntarily at the edge of the
settlement, so abruptly True crashed into her from behind. The scene before her eyes froze her like an icy blast.
Gaelic warriors were everywhere, all iron and fire. They had invaded from the west side of the settlement in an arc, piercing the guard and pushing in with the dreaded chariots. Already a number of huts had been set afire and the flames revealed combat, struggle, and death on every hand.
Barta saw at once she had no hope of reaching her parents’ hut to fetch her weapons. Or to defend those there. She must trust others stood there in her place. But the hut wherein they stored the spare weapons stood closer; she had a chance.
She seized True’s arm. “Come.”
The weapons hut stood wide open when they reached it. Barta nearly collided with one of their own warriors on his way out, who stared at them and grunted before pelting away into the thick of the fight. She ducked inside, seized a spear and a long knife, and thrust both into True’s hands.
“Here.” She gathered more weapons for herself. “Come.”
The main part of the Epidii defense on the far side of the settlement already appeared ruined. A ragged line of Epidii warriors stood there facing the invaders and their chariots, but many had fallen. By the light of the leaping flames, nothing looked certain; fallen men appeared alive and numbers were impossible to calculate.
Barta saw Wick at the center of the Epidii line. Brude fought beside him and Gede on his other hand. Where was Gant? Even as Barta ran forward she searched for sight of him and found none.
Her heart pounded as it always did during battle, a great drum in her ears that blotted out other sounds, even the bellowing and screaming. She spared a thought for her parents and Tally—please, goddess, let them be safe—before she leaped forward to strengthen the line with True beside her. She had time only to register how natural—how familiar—his presence felt before her mind narrowed to survival.
Not her first battle but perhaps her fiercest. Gede roared constantly to one side of her; True growled and leaped on the other, the spear she’d given him an extension of his arm. Opposite she saw sweating faces of the Gaels, at least one of which she recognized. The leader with the flying yellow hair faced off against Wick and—at least twice that Barta saw—nearly took him down.
During the following moments, half mad with terror and determination, Barta felt grateful the knot of fighters close to her held and that the Gaels could not maneuver their chariots any farther in among the huts. Many lay dead on both sides before the Gaelic warrior with the yellow hair at last called a retreat. They went dragging their dead with them, some piled onto the carts before they rolled away.
Barta drew a breath—it felt like her first in a long while—and sank to her knees where she stood, her brain screaming. Her ears once more could make sense of the sounds that filled them—words and hoarse commands, the terrible howl of an injured hound and the crackle of flames.
Beside her?
True stood as if frozen, covered in wounds. Part of her had remained conscious of him all the while, but still her relief at seeing him there made the breath catch in her throat. The others?
She looked around and sickness rose to the back of her throat They’d fought standing more or less over the body of Urghast, whose place she’d taken in the line. She’d been aware of that all the while on some level; now she encountered his staring eyes and marked the slash to his throat that had nearly severed head from body.
She swayed on her knees, and True seized her arm.
“Wick,” she said.
“There.”
He stood not three paces from her, on his feet and dripping blood. Gede, who’d fought beside her? Now, like Barta, on his knees, head bowed and gasping.
She crawled to him. “Gede? You are injured.”
He held out both arms like a man in a daze—covered in sword bites, he too oozed blood.
“Where is Gant? Was he fighting with you?” Barta’s heart spasmed in her chest. “Did he fall?”
Gede ignored her as if he did not hear. She scrambled to her feet but could not see Gant anywhere. “True,” she gasped, “I need to find Gant.”
But for the first time, True had left her side. Frantic, she gazed about and sighted him beside one of the felled hounds.
She started toward him, but Wick caught hold of her. His eyes, wide with shock, engaged hers. Blood dripped from both his forehead and cheek, but he lived.
“Our hut,” he gasped. “They attacked there first. Mother! And Father…”
“Unable to defend himself.” Or his beloved wife. “Tally?”
“Stayed there. Come with me.”
Hand in hand, they ran. Barta dimly registered that True, still grieving over the slain hound, rose and followed them. Most of her attention focused on her parents’ doorway.
The hut looked far too still and dark within. Wick snatched up one of the flaring torches; they stepped in and saw…
Barta’s mind blanked again, unable to accept the evidence of her eyes. Destruction lay everywhere. Baskets and ewers had been overturned; a stream of ale coursed across the dirt floor.
And mingled with blood.
A sound came from Wick’s throat such as Barta had never before heard—a grinding roar that screamed protest and desolation. “Father!”
Radoc must have arisen somehow from his bed when the intruders came pushing in. His dirk still lay in his fingers. His lower limbs, hopelessly contorted, showed how wasted they had become. His eyes—very like Urghast’s—stared sightlessly and the hilt of a westerners’ dirk protruded from his heart.
Across his feet lay his faithful hound, Bright, a snarl still twisting her face. The sight struck Barta on two levels—she loved Bright for her own sake, and the sight of her lying so brought the memory of Loyal rushing upon her once again, paralyzing.
Behind Radoc…
“No,” Barta gasped. Now she saw why Radoc had arisen so impossibly. It had been in an effort to defend his wife.
Yet he had failed. They had all failed.
A second ragged sound tore from Wick’s throat. He fell first at Radoc’s side and touched him with wondering hands before crawling like an infant to his mother and gathering her into his arms.
Essa’s head lolled, her body lifeless. Pain blossomed anew in Barta’s heart and threatened to choke her. No, no, no.
“Tally?” she croaked.
She did not see her young brother anywhere. Not possible that he had fled—cowardice did not lie in the lad. Yet Barta could only imagine the scene here at its height—Radoc striving to defend their home and the raging Gaels, swords in hand.
A sob tore from Wick, who cradled his mother in his arms. “Ma? Ma!”
“Wick, we must find Tally. You said he stayed behind here.”
Wick stared at her, a great darkness in his eyes. True, who had gone down beside Bright much as he’d knelt by the slain hound outside, now rested his hands in her fur.
Very carefully, Barta stepped over her father’s body to Wick’s side. Her mother, gathered against his chest, looked strangely peaceful as if her life hadn’t just ended, as if all their lives hadn’t just been rent hideously.
“Tally,” she said again, this time into her brother’s ear.
Wick kissed Essa’s forehead tenderly. Ignoring Barta he gasped, “What will become of her wisdom, all the magic she held?”
Barta’s answer came from nowhere. “The goddess will guard it, and bestow it on another.” A sound caused her to look up overhead for the first time. “Wick, the roof is afire.”
The flames crept like a sneak thief, nearly silent, across the top of the thatch. How long before it collapsed on them?
“Wick, Wick!” She grasped her brother’s shoulders. “We must find Tally.”
“Bring them outside.” Wick arose with Essa in his arms. Before Barta could speak again, he shoved past her and carried his burden from the hut.
Barta turned to True. “Help me find Tally.”
He arose at once from his place beside B
right; tears wetted his cheeks.
Wordlessly, he shifted the body of the hound, the muscles of his arms cording. Tally lay beneath her, just as Barta had once lain beneath the body of Loyal.
“Oh, by the goddess!” she gasped. “Alive?”
True nodded, seeming unable to speak.
Barta, disregarding the flames overhead, dropped to her knees. Bright had guarded her master’s most dearly beloved child even as her son, Loyal, had guarded Barta, and paid the same price. Valiant, valiant hounds.
“Tally, Tally…”
He breathed, only just. Barta tried to gather him up as Wick had their mother; True halted her with a touch on the arm and lifted the boy effortlessly even as the first bits of burning thatch began to fall.
Outside, confusion reigned on every side. Survivors, many of them weeping, ran and called for family members. Most of the roofs were now afire, the flames having played a game leaping from one to the other.
True placed Tally on the cleared space where other wounded—and dead—already lay. He turned and pelted back into the hut.
Barta’s heart jumped to her throat. “True—no!”
He must have gone back in for Radoc, she thought. But before she reached the door he reappeared—not with Radoc’s but Bright’s body in his arms.
Chest heaving, he set the deceased hound down beside Essa. Wick stared at him.
“We must get my father. Come!”
Wick and True together headed for the door of the hut. They hadn’t reached it before the roof fell in, sending a violent volley of sparks and flames through the doorway.
“True!” Barta screeched. She leaped for his arm and hung on. If she lost him too…
Wick whirled to face True. “Why did you bring the hound’s body rather than our chief’s?”
True, a storm in his hazel eyes, faced Wick down. “Because Master Radoc would have wished it.”
With that, Wick could not argue.
Loyal and True Page 11
