Immortal Warrior

by Lisa Hendrix

  “I like this dream.” She sounded intoxicated.

  He was intoxicated, drunk on the scent and the feel and the heat that burned off her. “Not a dream. I am here with you.”

  He kissed her again, this time higher, behind her ear, and felt the shiver that ran down her spine. She stirred, curled down to kiss his fingertips there where she had his hand trapped, and as she did, her hips pressed back to touch him.

  “Mmm.” She squirmed a little, moving her bottom against him as she shifted her hand—his hand—over her breast. Bigger there, too, but not just bigger. More womanly. Even the peak felt different. He strummed over it until it puckered. Sudden awareness tensed her muscles as she came fully awake.

  “You’re home!” She twisted and flung herself on him, peppering kisses over his cheeks, his eyes, his chin before she settled on his mouth and their tongues tangled in greeting. Another of those soul-easing sighs warmed his face. “You are safe? Unhurt?”

  “I am,” he said. As if she didn’t believe him, she ran her hands over him, checking: face, arms, thighs, belly, then boldly, his cock. “All of me,” he said, muffling his laugh against her hair as he pulled her hand away. “Stop that. Your women are here.”

  She reached over him to yank the curtain shut, plunging them into darkness and muffling the sounds of snores from beyond. Her whisper was pure wickedness as she tongued the curve of his ear, “Then be quiet lest you wake them, for I will not stop ’til I am satisfied you are truly with me.”

  “Nor will I.” With her. In her. That’s all he wanted, to bury himself in her and know he was truly home. He drew his hands over her, learning her new shape.

  “Now I am fat,” she whispered against his ear. “You will never want me.”

  For answer, he took her hand and guided it back to his cock, straining against his breeks. With a tiny sound of delight, she explored him through the cloth, tracing the ridge with a fingernail. He choked back a groan and steered her fingers to his laces. Moments later he was free, the breeks lost somewhere at the bottom of the bed in the franticness of need.

  She was too round for the usual way, so he stayed on his side and dragged her legs over his hips, drawing her close. He slipped his fingers down, found her slick and ready, and made her more so, until he couldn’t bear it any longer. She understood, reached for him and shifted, and suddenly he was in her.

  When they were locked together, the need eased and time slowed. She was his, laid out in the blackness where he could see her only with his hands. He explored her slowly, discovering this strange-yet-familiar body by feel alone, learning, remembering, reminding her what he had taught her on other nights.

  She began to move, to stir like a restless sea, surging against him in waves of heat and scent that ripped him from his last moorings. He touched her again, found that favorite spot, and felt her tighten, tighten. The swift intake of her breath in the darkness told him she was there even before she arched beneath his hand. He pressed into her, letting her pleasure embrace him, until he spilled into her, his release as silent as hers as she welcomed him home.

  A long time later, when he thought she slept, he reached down to find his breeks and worked them on beneath the covers.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nothing has changed, sweet leaf. I still must be away by dawn.”

  Her accusing silence stung worse than words—he could have argued with words. As he worked the cloth around his laces, she reached over to tug the curtains open. A single wedge of light from the lamp fell across the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I wish to see your face a moment,” she whispered. “Move a little. Perfect.” With him organized to her liking, she found his hand and drew it to her belly. “There. Now wait.”

  A chill settled over Ivo. He’d dreaded this moment and had been hoping he could somehow avoid it. But this was Alaida; she never let him avoid anything. It was all he could do not to pull away, in fear of what he might feel, but as he lay there with his hand curved over her, he schooled himself once again to respond as she needed.

  “Wait. Ah, here.” She moved his hand a few inches and pressed it flat. “Feel?”

  Something round moved beneath his palm, shifting and rolling, alive. Even the threat of the curse faded in the wonder of such a thing, to feel a child move within a woman’s womb. His child. The mound rolled past his palm again. He pressed a little harder, trying to discern what it was. “Is that the head?”

  “Buttocks, I think,” she said, and the smile he had thought would be difficult came to his face with ease at the idea of a bum so small. She reached over and stroked Ivo’s cheek. “Ah, you do smile at him. I am glad.”

  “And I am glad you’re glad,” he said, speaking pure truth.

  “Here.” She guided his hand up near her ribs, where a harder oval stood out against the taut skin. “His foot.”

  He traced the outline. “’Tis so tiny. Are you sure?”

  “Aye. He thinks my ribs exist solely for him to scratch his toe against.” She yawned and slid around to settle her head on his shoulder, and he pulled her close. “Please stay, just this once. I would show you the tiny shirts I’ve made.”

  “Show me tonight. I’ll be here as quickly as I can.”

  “I still do not understand these strange comings and goings.”

  “It is not important you understand them.” That sounded harsher than he had intended, so he yielded what he could. “I can stay a moment longer, if it will please you.”

  “It will,” she said with a sigh and wrapped her arms around him. “But only because it must.”

  THE EASTERN SKY was already brightening as Brand walked down into the dene where the bear would spend its day. The early morning was warm but damp, clear overhead but with ground fog that curled around his knees like sea foam. Mugga, they would have called the weather back home. He didn’t know what they called it here, even after all this time.

  He closed his eyes and let the morning noises wash over him. Before he’d sailed to this cursed land, this hour before dawn had been his favorite time, when he would lie listening to Ylfa mumble in her dreams and sometimes wake her for loving. He wondered what Merewyn was like in the night, whether she snored or muttered or just lay there, as peaceful in sleep as she was awake. He had spent many hours thinking about such things over the past hundred days, a pleasant, if futile, way to pass the time. He would have to stop now. It would be too tempting, now that he would be seeing her again. Tonight. He smiled.

  Only moments now. The sun’s disk sat just below the horizon. Brand was making his final preparations when he heard the crack of a twig on the bank above.

  “Who’s there?” He spun toward the sound, searching the underbrush but seeing no one. His heart pounded as the panic rose up. “Show yourself.”

  The first wave of pain ground down on him just as a figure stepped out from a thicket near the top of the ravine. “You’re back, messire!”

  Merewyn. Merewyn!

  She got a good look at him and her smile gave way to confusion. “You have no clothes.”

  “Run,” he shouted as the second wave ripped across his back and claws split the end of his fingers. “Run!”

  But she stood there as if in a trance, watching as he was slammed to the ground with the pain of changing. He tried to shout again, but the word swelled into a roar. The sound shook her, woke her. The last thing he saw before the bear took him was her eyes, wide with shock and terror. Then the haze rolled over his mind and the bear began to hunt.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE BEAR CAUGHT Merewyn’s scent and reared up, standing like the man he had been moments before.

  “Mother, protect me!”

  Her plea followed the bear’s roar skyward. In her heart, she knew that she was about to die, that she could never outrun such a beast.

  She ran anyway, tearing back the way she’d come as she bought a few precious moments of life. The bear crashed to the ground behind her, a thundero
us sound, and she ran harder, her breath growing as ragged as the mist that tore and feathered around her.

  The mist. Perhaps. “Mother, please!”

  Looking around wildly, she spotted a great tree a few yards away, half-dead but still standing, its bark split to reveal the hollowness within. She threw herself into the crack, knowing it was slim shelter, but needing someplace, anyplace. Wedging herself back as far as the tree would let her, Merewyn closed her eyes, found the quiet within, and reached out with her mind.

  She called the mist, barely breathing the words, summoning, summoning. The dampness swirled around her; darkness enfolded her. The bear roared again, only feet away, but she continued calling, gathering, weaving until the mist hung so thick around the old tree that it muffled everything beyond and made her shiver in the summer warmth.

  The bear paced around the tree, snuffling and snorting as he tried to find what he could no longer see. He passed by the crack, and his scent wafted in, musky and rank. Certain he could smell her, too, Merewyn pressed back and squeezed her eyes more tightly, like a child trying to hide behind closed lids. If she let herself see, the bear would have her, for she would be too frightened and the magic would fall away.

  An animal cried out in pain nearby, and the bear moved off, seeking easier game. His footsteps slowly faded. Still Merewyn clung to the mist, certain every crack and rustle was the beast returning. Only when the sun breached the branches overhead did she release the mist to burn away. Tentatively, she crept out into the sunlight, half expecting claws to rip into her.

  Instead, Sir Ari was there, sitting on his horse a little way off, his beautiful face ablaze with anger and concern. He rode over to her and extended his hand. “Come, Healer, before it returns.”

  Shaking with exhaustion and the aftermath of fear, she let him pull her up behind him. “I was gathering dew for … I did not know. I must help him.”

  “You cannot help,” he said bitterly as he turned his mount toward her cottage.

  “The Mother thinks I can,” she said, sure that must be what the gods intended. “What evil laid this curse on him?”

  “It is not my place to tell you.”

  “But you …”Her mind flashed over the things she knew. “Are you the raven?”

  His back turned to stone before her. “I will take you home and see to your safety. Ask your questions of Brand.”

  He did as he said, leaving her at her door then standing watch at the edge of the clearing as the sun traveled across the sky and down, until finally he had to ride away.

  MEREWYN.

  Half-crazed with the knowledge of what the bear must have done, Brand started searching even before the last of the beast left him. There was nothing—no body, no blood, no stench of death—but as his mind cleared more, he realized this wasn’t where he’d last seen her. The bear had wandered. Still twisted with pain, he stumbled toward the dene. He found nothing there either, and the nothing gave him hope, for even if the bear had devoured her, he would have left scraps. Nothing meant she might be safe. Please, Thor, let her be safe.

  He was still laboring to return to himself when Ivo came tearing through the woods leading Kraken.

  “She saw me. The bear …” said Brand as he wheeled to a stop.

  “I know. She’s fine.”

  Brand’s knees nearly went out from under him with relief. He grabbed at Kraken’s mane to steady himself. Thank you, Thor. “Where is she?”

  “Ari took her home. Brand, she knows what we are.” Anger mixed with the anguish in Ivo’s voice, the prospect of having to abandon Alaida clearly at the front of his mind.

  “Only me. I’ll … I don’t know.” Brand began yanking on clothes. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll figure it out.”

  Jaw working, Ivo stared off into the trees, as though he searched them for the means to control himself. “You never said she was a witch.”

  “She’s not.”

  “She used magic to save herself—she called up a mist.”

  That brought Brand up short, but he cast off the idea. “No. She’s like Ari, touched by it, but no more.”

  “Ari can’t call a mist,” growled Ivo. “He can barely call his visions.”

  “She’s not a witch, and she doesn’t know about you. We can salvage this.” Brand threw himself onto Kraken and tore off, leaving Ivo behind as he raced toward Merewyn’s cottage.

  The helplessness crashed back down on him again as he saw her standing in the doorway, waiting for him as she always did. He slid out of the saddle and threw his arms around her, but not until she sighed into his chest and he felt her breath, warm and alive, was he convinced. Safe. She was safe.

  “I thought … I could not stop it. If it had …”

  “Shh.” She lifted a hand to hush him, her fingertips grazing his lips like a kiss. “I know that creature is not you.”

  Thank the gods, her face contained no fear. He couldn’t stand it if she were afraid of him. The bear, yes, he understood that, but not him. Please, never him.

  Ivo galloped up just then, and Merewyn drew away to meet his seething fury directly and without apology. “The gods put me there, my lord. I had to know.”

  “Know what?” demanded Ivo.

  “Why they sent you all to me. A knight who is a bear. Another who is a raven. And a lord who is”—she glanced to Ivo, with a lifted brow—“an eagle?”

  Ivo swore violently and flung himself off Fax to loom over Merewyn, his face white with rage. His hand went to his sword. “Swear you will never speak of this, Witch, or die now.”

  “Ivar!” Brand shoved Ivo back and stepped between him and Merewyn.

  “She will swear!” blazed Ivo. “I will not have her talking. I must be here when Alaida has the child!”

  “We will be. She won’t talk.”

  “The babe,” breathed Merewyn, yanking them both around. She dropped to her knees and raised her clasped hands to Ivo. “I swear on my life, to all three of you, your secret is my own. May I die if I reveal it to anyone.”

  “Are you satisfied?” demanded Brand, furious, as he helped Merewyn to her feet. “Or must she swear in blood to please you?”

  “He only seeks to protect his own,” she said, more forgiving than Brand was inclined to be. “Do not fear me, my lord. The gods intend me to help you.”

  Ivo’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

  “I don’t know yet, but they must. Why else would they have set our paths to cross? They brought you to Alnwick, led Sir Brand to my door, showed me Sir Ari calling to them and speaking to the eagle. The Mother even drew me into the woods this morning so I might understand.”

  “And risked your life,” fumed Brand, incensed that she’d been put in harm’s way, even by a goddess.

  “She sent the mist to protect me,” she reminded, laying a calming hand on his forearm. “There must be some purpose in all this beyond me becoming your …” She hesitated, then a hint of a smile curved her lips as she finished. “Alewife.”

  “Are you a witch?” asked Ivo bluntly.

  “I told you, no,” snapped Brand.

  She gave him a searching look, and when she spoke, it was to him, not Ivo. “The gods speak to me. They use me to heal and give me what skill I need to do it, as they have all the women in my family since time began.”

  “Healers don’t call the mist,” said Ivo.

  “No. That is something I could always do. As a child, I used it to hide from my mother. A game.”

  “’Twas no game that saved you from the bear. I ask again, are you a witch?”

  “A small one.”

  “No,” said Brand, his disgust for Cwen and her kind boiling up. “You cannot be.”

  “But, messire, I …” She stopped, her dark eyes widening with understanding. “A witch did this terrible thing to you.”

  Brand couldn’t bring himself to answer, but Ivo spat it out. “Aye. One called Cwen.”

  “Why?”

  “We killed her son,” said Ivo.

&n
bsp; “I killed him,” said Brand heavily. “And I’ll tell the tale. Go, Ivo. Your lady will be wondering where you are.”

  Ivo started, as if he’d been so concerned with the future that he’d forgotten that Alaida awaited him in the present.

  “Go to her, my lord,” urged Merewyn. “You have barely returned and she needs you.”

  “I will be back before dawn to see if you do indeed have any help for us,” Ivo said, threatening her without actually voicing the threat.

  They watched him ride off into the dusk then went inside, where Merewyn drew Brand some ale. “The fear is so thick on Lord Ivo, I could smell it.”

  “He has much to fear.” He took the cup, brushing her fingertips on purpose, just to touch her. “But he shouldn’t have threatened you.”

  “You would have done the same for Ylfa.”

  “Aye.” As he would for Merewyn, even if she didn’t know it. He turned to stare into the fire. He would have fought Ivo tonight for the sake of this woman—this witch, he told himself, though everything in him rejected that name—yet today he had nearly killed her. The gods taunted him at every step.

  “Tell me of this Cwen,” she said softly behind him.

  “Evil made flesh,” said Brand, forcing the words out past the acrid taste that filled his mouth, metallic as the blood spilled that long-ago night. “There were two full crews of us. Five score and ten. Now there are but nine, all cursed, and all of it is on me.”

  MEN WHO BECAME animals and lived to be tortured for eternity. Visions of a curse that carried to their children.

  Merewyn stood staring into the fiery red heart of the embers as she tried to absorb it all. She and Brand had traded places several times as he’d talked, one moving to the hearth as the first took a place at the table, as though neither could stand to look into the eyes of the other as the story unfolded. He leaned on the table now, his head heavy in his hands. She’d poured a fair amount of ale into him, trying to make the words come more easily, but he’d struggled all the way through, still weighed down, after all these years, with the knowledge that he’d led his men into the witch’s trap.