Biondine, Shannah

by Shadow in Starlight(lit)

  "You could not restore my neck to wholeness once Cronel's executioner has severed it. Speak no more of such insanity."

  She'd been determined not to resort to womanish tears, but there they were, coursing down her cheeks, adding to her humiliation. She swiped at them with the edge of the blanket and turned back toward the door.

  She'd been obedient and tried to overcome her tendency towards brazen speech most of her life. Too much of it. Her father was dead and gone, her former life lay in shreds. What was the point in obedience now? If her soul be forever damned for her wild thoughts and impulses, so be it.

  She abruptly spun back, stretched up on her tiptoes, and braced herself with her hands on Preece's shoulders. Her face was very close to the beautiful pale one that had been obscured so long from her sight. "You betrayed my friendship. I want recompense, Warmonger."

  He did not speak, only swallowed. The action drew her eyes to his throat again, to his thudding pulse, up to his mouth. His well placed, beautifully formed mouth.

  "You owe me a boon. Honor demands this." She strained upward and pressed her lips to his.

  What she intended as a chaste brush of lips, a taunt, a game, deepened into something much more. Preece's powerful arms came around to embrace her. He melded his mouth with hers, and left them both struggling to catch their breaths when he at last pulled away.

  "I should not have been so bold," she gulped, blushing to her core.

  "Nay, lady, but the damage is done." He lowered his face and kissed her again, this time forcing his tongue past her teeth to rub hers in a slow mating dance.

  All thoughts of her righteous ire or state of undress fled. She might have stood there in his chamber the whole night, clinging weakly to him with her fingers wrapped in his long hair, had Preece not ended the kiss and led her back into the hall. "Go back to your bed, Moreya Fa. We'll both rue this night enough without making matters worse."

  Moreya returned to her bed wondering how matters could possibly get any worse.

  She'd confronted the beast, only to discover in his stead an earthbound angel. A man with the face of a saint, who inspired this unwise, ignorant maiden to sell her soul to the devil.

  She was promised in marriage to a vile creature who would likely pay her less mind than one of his servants. He'd wed her and leave her alone in their marriage bed. Alone in her need for closeness, alone and wanting a man's touch...

  She would have only this one scrap of memory. Memories of a Waniand's searing kiss.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Preece noted his men avoided him. They kept their gazes focused on the surroundings and spoke little, as though they sensed his fouler than usual mood. They couldn't begin to guess the reason for it. Thankfully, not even inquisitive Lockram had asked questions. Preece would not explain his irritation. To do so would mean admitting his folly of the previous night.

  He rubbed the stiffness from the back of his neck, recalling the look of surprise and hurt in Moreya's eyes that morning as they'd left the inn. He'd ordered everyone to mount up. Moreya hesitated at the steps of the coach and turned to him, indecision plainly written on her face. She hoped he'd reconsidered her bribe.

  Ignoring her silent plea, he announced they would continue on across the wastelands, to a small enclave some twenty leagues distant. There to spend the night at another tavern before forging on to Greensward's borders the next day.

  Moreya flinched as though he'd struck her.

  He felt as miserably conscience-smitten as if he had.

  Madness, what she wanted. What he'd allowed to unfold the eve before in his chamber...Sheer, incredible madness.

  He must have lost nigh every one of his wits yestereve. He should never have allowed her so close, never tasted her lips. His only excuse was the Yune herself, and her peculiar insistence that he was far from repulsive. Nay, well favored and comely to the point of angelic. He'd been undone by her assertions, though he disbelieved they were even partly based in fact.

  After years of hiding his Waniand coloring, coping with the scorn and outright shunning from ranking nobility, he'd been totally unprepared to hear a noblewoman declare him attractive. Even less prepared for a bold, if chaste and maidenly, kiss.

  He would have told any other maid to stop teasing.

  But he suspected this Yune did not play wily female games. He'd seen the clear intensity of truth and desire in her eyes. Those damnable, gleaming violet eyes.

  So damn his weak and rotten soul, he'd capitulated. Given into his own weakness and curiosity. He'd dared to hold the source of the faint purple gleaming fire in his arms and sample her forbidden charms. Dared to indulge in the headiest of spirits - a forbidden kiss - though he should not have craved such whilst out of rut.

  Then had come the dawn, and as oft befell any fool who indulges unwisely, he'd awakened burdened with lingering remorse and rue for his actions the night before. He feigned no recollection of anything unusual, though, pretended naught had changed. He'd behaved like the unfeeling beast those around him expected, nay needed, him to be.

  The role grew tiresome. His mercenary life grew tiresome.

  They stopped briefly at noontide. Moreya refused to leave the coach. Her maid offered a weak excuse about the chill winds chapping her mistress' tender face, but Preece knew better. Moreya hid from him. She was hurt and angry, and he could do nothing to lessen that. He withdrew deeper into his cowl as they set out again after their meal, praying they reached Greensward before he completely lost control.

  For, despite his determination to forget his mistakes of the eve before, he could not stop thinking about Moreya. He could still see her there in his chamber, the room lit only by the light of a single taper. Her dark violet tresses gleamed, the outline of her willowy form a mere hint beneath her thin night garment. Her eyes glittered through angry tears, reached to the core of his soul.

  Which she should not be able to touch, nay even find, unless she was -

  "Preece, beware! Raviners!"

  The warning shouts came too late. Even as Preece jerked from his reverie and saw the danger, a mounted band of small, dark men surrounded the coach and slaughtered its driver.

  How had Preece fallen so far behind? The coach was a half-league ahead of him. Damn! He vaulted into a blur of motion, knees prodding his tahr as he reached for the swords hung from scabbards on either side of his saddle. Within seconds he entered the fray, swinging dual broadswords with all his might.

  The Raviners set upon the pack animals. Two men hacked through the ropes securing the Yune's trunks and chests. A third Raviner on horseback stole one of Cronel's horses and rode off. Dugan and Sieffre kept their backs to the coach, successfully holding the attackers from rushing the conveyance.

  Preece cut down three of the marauders advancing on foot and whirled his mount back around for another pass. Sieffre fell, clutching a bloodied shoulder.

  Lockram moved to take up his abandoned position, physically blocking the door to the coach. Two Raviners immediately engaged him with their swords. Dugan was outnumbered four to one. Preece heard the old woman with Moreya shouting; her face was framed by the narrow window of the coach. Preece cursed and spurred his mount forward again. That damned serving woman should be on the floor, shielding her mistress with that plump body of hers, not uselessly shrieking like some she-devil!

  He reached the disabled coach and struck at the knot of men around Dugan. His tahr leaped and scrambled, then spun and dashed in what seemed like three directions at once. Preece lopped off heads and arms, ignoring the gouts of blood that spattered him and the screaming around him. He had killed several Raviners, but saw more running towards him, and suddenly one roped the tahr's great curving horns. Preece's animal jerked in mid-flight and thumped to the ground, kicking and bellowing.

  Preece was unseated in the fall. Enraged now beyond rational thought, he shot to his feet, ignoring that his cowl had slipped back onto his shoulders. He slashed at everything around him that ye
t moved. Three Raviners appeared above the melee, swooping low, swinging heavy maces and clubs from the backs of their griffons. No matter how many ground soldiers he killed, the Raviners found fresh reinforcements. Preece and his men could not make the same boast - and they were tiring quickly.

  Even as he reached the conclusion he might not live out the day, Moreya darted from the coach.

  She tore across the open ground, away from the carnage. She jerked her wimple from her hair. She dropped to her knees, keening and wailing.

  To see her driven mad with terror cut at Preece the way no sword could. She must be raving in stark fear, else she'd not have left the coach. The accursed female had refused to leave the security of the thing even to break bread! Now, when it made no sense, when it defied all his instruction on what to do in case of attack, she ran away into the open. And placed herself right in the path of greatest peril.

  Mayhap she'd also sensed the inevitable, and couldn't bear to wait for what she'd suffer at the hands of the dark horde.

  Preece vowed to slay her himself before he'd allow them to rape and savage her.

  He shouted and raced across the uneven ground toward her, still slashing, though his arms felt heavy as twin stones.

  Moreya began whirling in place. She turned her face to the skies and howled. The unearthly sound curdled Preece's blood.

  The lone Raviner who'd begun to chase her faltered. A fatal mistake, for Preece hacked his dark head off. Then Preece whirled his tahr around, putting his back toward Moreya, ready to die shielding her.

  An immense shadow passed overhead. A griffon screamed, then plummeted from the sky. A boulder crashed down, seemingly out of nowhere, striking two other raiders. Three more broke rank, scrambling for cover behind a nearby rock.

  Preece looked up and blinked at what he saw.

  Dragons.

  One circling directly over his head, more descending toward the coach. The beasts hissed and spewed their great belly stones. Pelting stones crushed two of the men Dugan had been battling at swordpoint. A griffon darted in for the kill, hurtling toward Lockram as he feinted away from the coach. The griffon was seized in massive talons and smashed to a bloody pulp along with his rider.

  Moreya spread her arms. The dragon above them swooped down, snatching Moreya in its talons. A trio of Raviners scrambled toward Preece over the rocky barrens. Preece dodged a club and struck with both swords. The last man tried to run, screaming and clutching at his gut.

  Preece spun back around, but was buffeted by the force of mighty leathern wings. The dragon rose directly overhead. Preece flung a sword at the beast's underbelly, but it had risen too far aloft and the blade fell short. He ran for his tahr and vaulted up into the saddle. A mighty blow struck the side of his head. Limbs splaying, Preece crumpled to the ground.

  Preece winced. He wasn't certain where he was, other than on his back on the unforgiving, stony ground. The object prodding his left shoulder blade had to be a sharp rock. A face loomed over his. The features were blurred. He heard a voice. It sounded feminine, insistent.

  "Lady Fa?" he croaked, nearly choking on the dust clogging his throat.

  The plump maidservant answered. "She is not with us, sir, but she's unharmed. I swear as much, only your men will not listen. She's safe. You may be certain of that."

  "Whyever would we doubt it, I wonder?" Preece recognized Lockram's voice, heavy with sarcasm. Preece winced again and glanced around. Yes, Lockram stood slightly to his left, glowering at the maidservant. "Just because we all saw your mistress carried off by a firedrake! Safe she may be, but only until the beast plops her down as a morsel for its hatchlings."

  "Nay, the reptile will not," Glaryd argued. "They never harm her."

  "What say you?" Dugan groused. "Never harm her? As if such has befallen the Yune ofttimes before. You're either daft or - "

  "Such has before now! My master ordered me to remain silent on the matter, but he's dead, and I fear I cannot save my lady by holding my tongue."

  Preece gingerly felt along his ribs and thighs. Finding he wasn't covered in blood and could draw a steadying breath, he sat up. The world spun. He seized a handful of the bodice in front of him and levered himself to his feet. "If your mistress has been taken by a dragon, your life may be forfeit, right along with ours. Speak plainly, old woman."

  He wasn't wearing a cowl now. Everything surrounding him looked too bright, colors too vivid. The smell of fresh blood added to the roiling in Preece's gut. His skull pounded. He was in no mood to quibble with a servant. He shook the plump partridge by the fistful of bodice he still clenched. "Tell me where your mistress was taken. Do you know?"

  The maid shook her head. "The dragons take her to their nests. She's likely not far. Some high point, upon a rock ledge, or amongst the tallest trees. You or one of these stout fellows must find the firedrake's nest."

  Sieffre burst into a fit of deranged laughter. "We risked our throats for that Yune bitch, who's likely as mad as this hag! No wonder she was promised to that foul creature in Greensward! Cronel found a mad Yune beauty, with her equally mad servant, and sends them both to Velansare."

  Preece ignored the outburst, ignored Dugan pacing back and forth only a few feet away, ignored the dead Raviners lying all around them, ignored the pain in his own skull.

  If there was yet a thread of sanity left in this region of Dredonia, 'twas up to him to find it. His men were benumbed by the freakish turn of events; the servant clearly suffered from shock. Preece would have to think of a course of action.

  In the first seconds after Moreya disappeared in the skies, Preece had been unable to move or think. Then it washed over him in a flood. An excruciating sense of loss and failure. Crushing finality.

  He'd tried to deny it from the first, but could dispute reality no longer. He had been oddly affected by Moreya Fa Yune from the moment he laid eyes upon her. Felt peculiarly disconcerted by her every word and gesture, and somehow had forced himself not to examine what those reactions meant.

  But he knew now, with certainty. He would not harbor this intense rage, or suffer these unfamiliar twinges of helplessness, were the Yune just another noblewoman. She was an extraordinary female. And she touched something deep within him.

  He confronted the serving woman. "Firedrakes prey upon humans. The beast would not have taken Moreya, except to feed itself or its young."

  The woman goggled at him and seemed incapable of speech.

  Lockram seized Preece's forearm. "You're terrifying her," he pointed out. "This woman has never before seen you bareheaded. She was nearly killed. Her mistress was carried off by a monster. Let her go." He pried Preece's fingers from the fabric of the woman's rough kirtle. "I recovered your sword." He placed the hilt in Preece's open fingers. "One of the Raviners tossed a mace at you from whence he lay on the ground. I lopped his head off for you."

  Preece swayed a bit and Lockram frowned, reaching to steady him. "Fie on our luck, eh? Our charge snatched by a dragon. Cronel will be livid, but even he must understand we could not have prevented it...particularly as we were fending off a Raviner attack at the time."

  Dugan fretted, "Cronel is not known for leniency and understanding."

  Lockram sighed, scowling. "Aye, but we must face his wrath, nonetheless. We've complete disorder here...and a damnably long ride back to Glacia."

  They gathered their weapons and buried the dead driver. Preece was accosted by Glaryd when he neared the coach. "You cannot go back, my lord! You cannot abandon Moreya! She's alive, I tell you, and will try to find us. The beast will let her go and she'll try to find us. Seek the highest point nearby. A hill or rocky pinnacle. She'll be there, I swear to you."

  "Glaryd, I am not a lord," he said tiredly. "You are overwrought, with good reason. You may disbelieve me, but by the blood of my ancestors, I wish Lady Fa were still alive as desperately as you do. We must accept that such is not possible."

  "Look at this, good sir." She thrust out her hand and opened it. On her palm
lay a very large onyx. Rough, uncut, but worth a king's ransom still. "She gets them from the dragons. She has others. The beasts came the first time when she was just a child. They spit and rend those around her, but never Lady Moreya. They simply abduct her. 'Tis why she's never left home afore this. Anthaal would not allow it."

  "He knew of this strange...attraction you speak of?"

  "He did. He discovered firedrakes came when Moreya ventured into a meadow or field. Anywhere in the open. She knows too, Sir Preece. She told me you'd all be killed. She couldn't bear it." The woman began to weep in great heaving sobs. "She risked her life for you and yours. Yet you propose to ride off and forsake her."

  Preece reached out and wiped a damp smear of dirt from the maid's sagging cheek. "She called the dragons. That's what you mean. She knew they would come if she left the coach. Knew they would smite the Raviners attacking us?"

  The maid nodded. "I begged her to stay inside. Leave me; put me out with my things. Take your men and go, if you'll not hearken to what I say. But go nowhere without Lady Moreya."

  Cursing, Preece stalked across the pebbly dust to untangle the rope snared round the horns of his tahr. The beast had been grazing with the hemp trailing behind it and appeared unharmed. Preece swung into his saddle. He rode toward woodlands barely visible in the distance.

  He'd lost the Yune to an accursed firedrake. Which - if he could believe the rantings of her maidservant - was akin to a friend or personal pet. A pet with talons like steel blades and a gizzard full of stones and acid, ready to be vomited onto fools riding large, goat-like tahrs.

  Here was a tale for the minstrels.

  Preece the Warmonger, the spurned and denigrated Waniand mercenary, fearsome Royal Blade of Cronel, riding in search of a dragon's lair. He'd left the others tending their wounds, agreed to meet at Tivershem's, then taken off alone. Because he'd been unable to bear a fat serving woman's tears.

  Because you cannot bear to think of Moreya dead, his mind argued. Well, aye. That, too.