She was only a woman, damn it, one of many mortal lovers he'd taken. Yet there was something about her--in her--that deeply affected him. Even now, after her demise, he wanted her, sometimes thinking he could feel her in the pulse of the blood they shared when Anlese joined them.
Damn that old woman! She sent Julienne to her death, filling her head with words of the occult and its many forbidden temptations. Who would not hunger for it? The stupid girl died in vain, deceived by the lies.
Then why couldn't he put aside the nagging notion that, somewhere, she was alive and seeking him? It was impossible. She'd died in Xavier's dungeon. He had seen her mutilated corpse.
His hand rose, pressing hard against his chest. He almost believed he could feel the mutant digging through his own flesh, settling into the cavity of his ribs. It would be heavy, pressed against the lungs, a suffocating parasite that would feed of its host until rebirth. The sensations he imagined he felt were agonizing, but bearable. He'd known worse.
Pushing thought of her survival aside, he began to dress, slipping on a long-sleeved linen shirt that hung over form-fitting leather leggings. Over this, he put a tunic, a sleeveless verged garment slit down the sides from waist to knees. Laced knee-high leather boots and a simply cut skirted linen coat completed his wardrobe. He hung the ring Xavier had created on a gold chain. He rubbed his face, feeling the sharp stubble. He could use a shave, but decided not to bother with it.
The hollow sound of his footsteps echoed in the chamber when he departed. The sound grew fainter when he abandoned the tunnels.
Chapter Fourteen
Morgan stood at the rim of the canyon. The winds of the evening ruffled his hair, brushing his long bangs off his forehead. He glanced to the sky. Above, a myriad of soft, luminous blues and purples danced in a graceful duet, churning clouds bearing the breath of winter. From his high perch he could clearly survey the landscape. Far removed from the skeletal Northlands, a cornucopia of activity spilled forth. Though usually a nomadic people, the Raiders were settling in for the cold season and the storms it would bring in. Already, the air was frigid, nipping at his exposed skin like tiny little mouths. He ignored the cold, hardly feeling it.
The crossbow across his back, loaded and ready for use, felt comfortable. In addition, he carried three daggers; each was precisely balanced for throwing and fit his hand perfectly. One he sheathed in his left boot. A second was strapped to his right forearm, concealed by his long sleeve. The third was smaller and concealed in a seam of his coat so it would not be easily detected in a frisk. He had been in more than one jail and no matter the century, some rules never changed. It was rare for him to be totally unarmed.
As he watched the people go about the business of living, his hand tightened on the strap across his shoulder. Even among these outcast people, he was an outlaw. His return might not be a welcome one, even though he had saved Rutola's life. Still, he was willing to take the risk.
Ah, well, he sighed in silence. Someone has to be damned. How long would his freedom last? They have to find me first. And for every man they send, I shall return to them a body.
"Guess I will soon find if I am still welcome in the camps." A fast runner would have already been dispatched to alert the tribe he was among them.
Lynar, perched on a rock to allow a better view of the camp below, turned his golden eyes in an upward arc. "How much do they hate you?" The colored beads in his white hair rattled. He'd recently rearranged their style to indicate he served a new master. It was possible he would soon be putting them into the style of mourning.
Morgan spread his hands in a wide gesture. "This much," he said, not entirely in jest. Hitching up the heavy crossbow to sit more comfortably on his back, he jumped off the ledge. "Come on. Let us see what trouble we can make."
There was a walk of at least a half-mile yet to be covered. With an unerring eye, he picked out trails the animals trod in their search for food and passage to clear streams of fresh water. He felt sharp, alert, more alive than he had in centuries. He was at his best when at the hunt to bring down his prey.
The two moved on a downward slope, leaving behind the steep cliffs for the valley. Small fires dotted the edges of the water, and he could see people watching from a distance. Suspicious eyes glared out of dirty faces. A few gestures were made as the men drew themselves to their feet and waved their women aside. The women ceased their activities and hid in the ruins where they made their homes. Curious and frightened eyes peeked out of cracks and crevices in the stone huts assembled from the ruins of the greater castles.
These were a varied people. Some were entities, stripped of their legacies and exiled from their cults. Some had left voluntarily, as he himself had. Others were mortals, some brought over to Sclyd and abandoned when their masters turned them out or died. Many of the humans had been born in Sclyd and knew nothing but this damned realm.
"Why do you stay in the dead place?" Lynar asked, casting an uneasy glance.
Morgan fixed his gaze on the gathering crowd. He assessed each man, measuring size and apparent strengths and weaknesses against his own. He knew they were half-curious about his exile in the mortal world and how it might have changed him. Rutola did not seem to be among their ranks.
While not exactly young, Morgan was strong and healthy and unselfconsciously confident in his abilities. His whole life had centered around the taking of lives. Killing was what he did, what he was best at when he put his mind to the task.
"I like the dead-lands," he replied, his mind not on conversation. For the sake of the gods, could that elf please shut up for awhile? "Quiet yourself and pay attention. We may have to move on…quickly." Despite his words, he made no obvious move toward his weapons. Though armed, he was not in a mercenary mood.
"They don't look like they're going to leave us alone," Lynar chirruped nervously.
Morgan did not stop or look down when he answered. "I see they have sent the greeters out."
The men advanced to the edge of their camp. They began to circle the newcomers, cutting off escape as they formed a loose, wide arc. There were about twenty in all. He was definitely outnumbered but did not give a damn. It would only make the fight more interesting.
"You dare show your face, madra, now that you've caused us such trouble?" one called out. He was a powerfully built man. His face was plain and large, and his wide-set eyes perched over a large nose and mouth. His beard was thick and long. Barrel-chested, with powerful arms and legs, he was short, stocky and clearly accustomed to the hard life of living off the land. His vestments were primitive: leather boots, loose trousers tied with a thong and a sleeveless tunic. His blond hair was long, tied loosely in a ponytail. He looked to be about forty, though years of hard living and harder fighting had surely added some age to his features. His frank stare was appraising, showing disapproval.
Morgan eyed the man squarely. "I do."
Graeymon drew his finger across his throat in gesture of execution. "You should be killed. Since Rutola stood with you, Xavier's Jansi have taken four of our women. You've brought the dark days back with your return."
The assassin made a dismissive motion. "And you think I am responsible for Xavier's actions?"
Nevertheless, he made no move for his weapons. That would be a last resort, to be used only if the rest of the crowd grew unruly. For the present, the men seemed content to let one of their people speak for all.
"Xavier's vengeance comes because fools stir his hive!" Graeymon spat angrily, bitterness coloring his tone. Grunting, he drew out his knife. The men on either side of him stepped back. The fighting was about to begin, and so was the wagering.
"Perhaps it's time some man collected the bounty on your head, Lethe." He made a leap, the blade of his knife slashing.
Morgan ducked to catch the flying figure, slamming the man's body to the hard ground, a single move of grace and speed. He caught Graeymon's wrist and twisted his arm. His bearded assailant howled. Fingers unclenching, the knife fel
l from his fingers. Morgan caught the strap of his crossbow and brought it around his shoulder, lowering the deadly weapon to the man's face even as his booted foot came squarely down on the man's throat. A bit of weight would crush the larynx. His finger was on the trigger, but he did not pull it.
"Good try." He shot a glance to the crowd of men, just in case a new attack was in the offing. No one moved. They wanted to see the outcome. "My turn now."
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Surprise, then anger flashed across the Raider's face.
"Then kill me!" he snarled, panting from his failed effort. His gray eyes held no fear. "I'm not afraid to die."
"If you are not afraid to die…" He narrowed his eyes just a bit, and a half-smile came to his lips, "…then spend your efforts killing Jansi."
He lifted the crossbow away, slinging it across his back. He held out his hand. Graeymon took it and was pulled to his feet in a single movement. Dusting the dirt of the fight off his face, he bent and retrieved his knife. There seemed to be a look of relief in his eyes. The two men had tested each other's strengths and weaknesses, and neither had been found wanting.
A new voice spoke. "You are welcome as a brother of this clan."
Rutola emerged from behind his men; they had been blanketing the presence of the elder leader. He raised his hand in the accepted gesture of friendship when he came into the circle, indicating the men should disperse. They straggled away--some claimed their coin, others groaned over their losses.
"You have plans for going after Xavier's warriors?" Rutola asked. He looked better, stronger. That Morgan had healed him would never be mentioned again. What was done was done, and old debts were paid.
"I do and I am."
Rutola grunted and indicated agreement. "I wish to talk of these plans. I have men who are eager to fight."
"Even though the council and the legion have an alliance?"
Rutola shook his head. "The dark wars will never be over as long as the legion slaughters our people."
"I agree."
"And you?" Rutola's piercing stare fixed on him. "Are you going back to the battle, all the way?"
"I am."
"And your stand? Will it be against the council as well?"
Morgan gritted his teeth. He thought of his twin's threats, of her betrayal of her position and her turning to Ouroborous. "Yes."
The Raider leader nodded again.
"Good." He found and indicated the elf, quivering behind a rock. "I see you have gained a shadow. Didn't we leave that thing behind us?"
"So I believed."
"Why you even let him out of his cage, there's no telling. Elves are useless, like bugs." Amusement reached Rutola's gray eyes; and he laughed, hearty and deep in unexpected exuberance.
"Even bugs have their place." Trying to shrug off his black mood, Morgan shifted to a lighter tone, though his voice held no hint of humor. "Come here. Hiding like a woman is beneath you."
Lynar scurried, taking a place behind his legs, concealed by the folds of his long coat.
"Eating on your bones, it looks to my eyes." Rutola's mouth moved down in a frown. "From the look of you, you barely have a pulse, much less blood in your veins."
"Forget that." He drew a leather pouch of his coat pocket and tossed it over. "A keg of lhune roie will put the life back in me."
A stout malted ale that was hardly the good whisky he was accustomed to, it would still do the job of getting him drunk--very drunk.
Rutola caught the pouch, heavy with gold coin. He weighed the sack, tossing it between his hands.
"This will pay for your drink." A queer smile parted his mouth, somewhere between a grin and a smirk. "You want a woman as well?" His eyes twinkled. "Maya has asked for you."
Morgan shook his head. "I have sworn off those for awhile."
"The mortal woman--"
He lifted a hand. "Do not speak of her."
"I understand."
"I was a fool," he said as his final explanation. Rutola accepted his explanation and said nothing more.
Lynar tugged at Morgan's coat. "That's not a thing you need," he said.
With a shrug, Morgan brushed the elf aside. "Do you think I care about what I need or do not need right now?"
Rutola threw the sack of gold to one of his men.
"Go to the villages and buy several casks. Show you'll pay and not steal it." He walked to the entrance of a stone hut, a shanty built half above and half below ground. He pushed open a wooden door and beckoned into its murky depth. "Come. You'd better see this. I doubt you'll believe your eyes."
Morgan graced Rutola with a skewed glare, half-annoyed, half-curious. "What is it?"
"You don't trust me?"
"I trust no one. It is easier that way."
Nevertheless, he followed the Raider inside. Rutola indicated the woman huddled under a pile of blankets. "I believe this belongs to you."
Morgan didn't think--he reacted.
"By the gods!" he gasped in absolute astonishment. "I do not believe my eyes. How…?"
There was a moment of awkward silence as he tried to pull his wits together. His heart pounded in his ears and his breath seemed wedged, a choking hitch in the back of his throat, one he believed would strangle him.
He glanced at Rutola. Disbelief must have been written all over his face, for the Raider nodded, saying, "We found her on the steppes barely a night ago. She was almost frozen to death. I was about to send a runner your way."
Morgan accepted the information without comment. He hesitated a moment, as though considering whether or not he should go to her. He'd settled it in his head she was gone. This threw a monkey wrench into his mind and his emotions. All decisions he'd made earlier were shattered in an instant. He'd set his mind toward dark and morbid things. Now, he had to stop and reconsider the idea that his life was an expendable thing.
He decided in an instant; he would not walk away and leave her a second time.
Rutola gave him a gentle shove. "Go to her."
Recovering his scattered composure, he put aside his crossbow, walked over and hunkered down beside the woman. He reached out, stroked matted hair away from her torn face. Semi-delirious, disjointed words spilled from her swollen, cracked lips. Her eyes were open, but she was unseeing and unaware of anything around her.
He searched her face. It was bad, possibly worse than the damages of the mutant. Clearly, she was in much pain. Her features were obscured by the mask Xavier had raked into her face. The festering cuts were yellowing around the edges where the skin was dying. The sorcerer had deliberately primed his fingernails with an acidic substance designed to infect and scar. He well recalled that it was a wicked potion, feeling at first like a sliver of ice cutting through the nerves before turning into a raging heat that made the victim literally want to rip off the skin.
I do not think she can survive this. He pressed his fingers to her neck. Her pulse was sluggish, her skin clammy and chilled. He saw the fear, the agony in her eyes. She is too weak.
"Julienne," he murmured.
His voice seemed to awaken a spark inside her. Her searching gaze found and focused on him. Her haggard face became radiant, a look of almost painful hope lighting her eyes. She stretched her hand eagerly toward him.
"M–Morgan?" she questioned, as if disbelieving. Her voice was a wracking whisper, breaking in agony. Breathing hard, trying to master her pain, she struggled to raise herself. Unable to find the strength, she grunted in frustration.
He gently pressed her shoulder, encouraging her to lie back.
"I'm here." Seeing her so weak, so helpless, guilt gnawed further into his tortured spirit. Despite her savage disfigurement, she had never seemed more beautiful. "Lie back and be still. You must rest."
Calmed by his presence, she let a wry smile settle on her lips as she lay back down in relief.
"I can't. This thing inside me. If I go to sleep, it'll eat me," her words sadder than any tears she could shed. Her hal
f-hearted grin turned into a grimace. She could never hide her feelings, but now there was no reason for her to try.
All of a sudden, her body arched and her head dipped back, eyes rolling to the whites. She moaned and clawed at her chest with a terrible tearing motion as great convulsive spasms began to rip through her.
Morgan captured her flying hands before she harmed herself. Finally, all her strength was gone, and she lay gasping. Beneath his gently restraining grip, she relaxed.
"It is all right," he soothed compassionately. He linked his fingers with hers, willing his strength into her desperately depleted body, as if by sheer mental force he could make her unhurt and whole again. Her grip on his hand tightened.
In that moment, their minds met, briefly merging. Her undercurrents of emotion and thought blazed like wildfire through him. He could feel her fear, her searching, her needs. Breaking the connection, he felt dizzy and lightheaded from all she had fed into him.
He bowed his head, pulling his hand through his hair. He was not a man given to ready, easy expressions of warmth or concern, and the rush of these new feelings confused him. As much as he did not want to admit it, this young woman with her scarred face and wounded-sparrow soul had captured his heart in an unrelenting grip. Seeing her alive, he finally had a reason to live and--dare he think it?--hope.
Almost as if she could discern the tumble of his thoughts, she blurted, "Promise you won't let me die here."
Brow knitted intensely, her face was flushed. The lines around her mouth tightened as the mutant wriggled, stealing her breath.
"You are not going to die." He looked away briefly, strangled by the incredible grip of remorse.
She shook her head, disbelieving.
"Please, take me back home." Lips tightening stern and grim, her voice, despite its weakness, had a resoluteness that allowed no argument. "I want to be with Grandmother. And you--" A spike of pain briefly halted her speech. She closed her eyes, voice thickening, "You'll be free of me."
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