He urged her along beside him, and after a brief struggle she fell into step with him. Her eyes went all around them as if seeking out new enemies, but Kyrik walked with only his empty belly in mind, and paid little heed to what few passersby they might meet.
In time they came to the Inn of the Spotted Dog. Kyrik still held the girl, and pushed her between the tables until he found one that was empty. He pushed her down onto the bench against the wall and raised a hand to call to the tavern maid.
“Chilled wine," he ordered, “a lot of it. And a stew, with bread. Fruit also, girl."
From the maidservant to the girl beside him he turned his stare. Slowly his eyes went over her, from the pale face and brown eyes to the dark brown hair that tumbled across her shoulders. Her breasts, pushing into the thin stuff of the ragged garment that did its best to cover her nakedness, were full and heavy.
He said slowly, “Now what's this trouble you're in, that makes you so afraid to admit who you are?"
She sat quietly, her eyes darting back and forth from one table to another. Almost under her breath she murmured, "I was kidnapped from my palace and brought here. I know no more than that."
Kyrik hunched his shoulders, exasperated. "You play games with me, Myrnis. You're safe enough here with me." His huge hand lifted, gestured. “Every man and woman in this room has some secret or another that they don't want the law to learn about. They would die rather than betray one another."
The girl stared up at him with woebegone eyes, in which tears were starting to form. Her lips quivered, she whispered. “My n—name is Adorla Mathandis. Until today —or perhaps yesterday, I was q—queen in Alkinoor.”
Her eyes were fastened on his face. They pleaded for belief. There was an intensity about her, a quiet regality which seemed as natural to her as breathing. Kyrik scowled.
This was Myrnis. He was confident of that. No two women could be so much alike and not be the same person. Someone— or something—had interfered with her memory, that was all.
He rumbled, “You'll remember soon enough." He grinned, showing his big white teeth. "I'll help you remember."
His hand sought out her soft thigh, slid along its smoothness. Instantly her hand came down to knock his palm aside and she sat up straight, angry and resentful.
"I'm no street wench for your handling," she hissed.
Kyrik blinked. What he might have said then, he did not know, for the serving wench was at the table with platters heaped with stew, with breads, with fruit. The girl eyed that food with longing, Kyrik saw. He pushed one of the platters toward her.
"Eat," he told her gruffly. “We can talk later." She ate, but very daintily, without the gusto for food which Myrnis always possessed. As he swallowed the stew and broke the big loaves of bread, he watched her from the corners of his eyes, and grew the more puzzled.
She did not eat like Myrnis, nor did she have any of her mannerisms. Yet she was the same girl. She was too like the Romanoy gypsy to be anyone else. And yet, her skin seemed milkier than Myrnis, untouched by sun and wind.
Kyrik drank deeply of the wine, and not until every last scrap of food was gone did he push away from the wooden table and heave a sigh.
"I have a room upstairs, he told her. “We can talk there. Nobody'll overhear us."
As though fearful she might run away, he closed his hand on her wrist and drew her with him to the counter, where he paid for their meal with a gold piece. Then he drew her with him up a flight of narrow steps and along a hall.
He pushed the door inward and shoved her inside. He came after her, closing the door and leaning his bulk against it. The girl gave one look about the room, seeing the bed and the chair and washstand, and moved toward the lone window.
"Jump out, if you want," Kyrik told her. "But I'll come after you.”
She nodded dumbly, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Her eyes looked around the room as might those of a wild animal seeking escape.
Kyrik growled, "We're alone. We can talk. Now what's this nonsense about you being somebody named Adorla Mathandis?"
“I am," she whispered. Her hands slid up to her temples under her thick brown hair. "At least—I think I am. Maybe I'm mad."
Tears formed in her eyes, ran down her cheeks. Kyrik rumbled sympathy and moved to sit beside her. His arm reached out to hold her but she sprang aside and leaped from the bed. She ran for the door, caught hold of its lock and tried to open it.
Kyrik muttered, "You won't find any friends out there. Nobody will listen to you the way I will. They'll have their sport with you and then throw you in the gutter."
The girl began to sob, dry sobs that shook her body, even as her head bent and her knees weakened so that she slid to the floor. Crumpled in a ball of soft skin and torn cloth, she fainted.
Chapter TWO
A lighted candle quivered in the breeze through the open window when Adorla Mathandis opened her eyes. She was lying on a bed, and there was an arm about her, a body against her own.
She tried to sit up but the arm tightened, holding her still. Desperately she put her hands to that arm, sought to break free of it. She struggled, she panted, and when she could not budge that arm she began to weep again.
Kyrik said gently, "You come from Alkinoor, do you? And you're its queen?"
She nodded, staring at him through tear—wet eyes. "Yes! I am Adorla Mathandis—and I am—queen of Alkinoor."
"Alkinoor's quite a far distance from Domilok."
"I know. They wanted to kill me. I escaped and ran away, and then—you found me."
The warrior-warlock scowled. “Now why would anyone want to do that?"
"They—they want to worship Marrassa, who is an evil god. I was opposed to it. I think they decided I was better off dead."
“Na, na. There’s more to it than that.” Kyrik eyed her grimly. "If you're telling the truth, that is."
"I am. I am," she panted.
He shook his head. "I wish I could believe you. Because...."
She did not struggle against his arm any more. Adorla decided she liked the feel of his body against her own. And this was strange, for she was a virgin. She had never met a man who could stir the animal appetites of her flesh.
Almost subconsciously, she let her body soften and move against him. “Because—what? What is it you have in mind?"
"I'm having crazy thoughts. They make no sense."
“What thought?" she whispered. "Those men tried to kill you. Suppose they—or men like them —have stolen Myrnis to put her in your place?"
Adorla gasped and sat up, and this time the arm did not hold her. "Make this woman queen of Alkinoor—in my place?"
“They'd steal her mind from her with certain Eastern poisons. They'd put her on the throne as queen. In that way, they'd have a puppet queen to rule in your place. But that's ridiculous."
Adorla sank down into his arm, almost cuddling her body against that of the warlock-warrior. "It makes sense, what you suggest. Those men who tried to kill me earlier would have been well paid to do it. Without a living Adorla Mathandis, there would be no trouble."
"But you still live." Her brown eyes stared down into his. “But I am an outcast, now. Alone and helpless."
he grinned at her, then let his eyes assess the smoothness of her skin where it showed through the rents of her lone garment. Her breasts were half tumbling out of the low bodice, and where her torn skirt gaped, he could make out the shapeliness of her leg.
She was like a twin of Myrnis, he thought. The face and the body were the same, though she was slightly more plump than the gypsy girl. This one would be soft, almost melting in a man's arms. .
The itch of desire stirred his loins. He said, "We could do it, you and I. If I wanted to.""
Her brown eyes widened. "Do—what?"
"Take you back to Alkinoor and put you on its throne."
Adorla was shocked. She forgot that she was a woman and that Kyrik was a man. She leaned closer to him, so that her breasts pre
ssed their nipples against his chest.
"You could—do that?" He grinned and his right hand went about her middle, holding her to him. “I could. But I have no heart to attempt such a project." He shrugged. "I've just come back from the Desolate Lands where I found Nath's tomb and —what was in it. I have a need in me to rest and to enjoy life."
She seemed to grow aware that his arm was about her, that her breasts were nudging his rib-cage and that he was taking an interest in her as a woman. Adorla sought to free herself, but could not.
Then she relaxed her body and sank upon him. "If you could do what you boast of so easily, there would be great rewards," she whispered.
He shrugged. “My pouch is filled with gold. I have all I need. Though, to be quite honest about it, I suppose I should go after Myrnis."
Fury clouded her eyes. “Who is this Myrnis who means so much to you?"
"She's a gypsy wench, a Romanoy.
“A gypsy!”
“Why, yes. If she were here—if you were she, for instance—I'd do something like this."
His arm was a steel band against which she could not fight. It crushed her against his chest so that her breasts hardened and her nipples stood up and her loins tingled to his touch.
Her soft mouth was drawn to his and then he kissed her, long and hungrily.
Adorla Mathandis tried to fight, but he was far too strong. Push as she might, she could not free herself from the arm that held her. And his lips! They were like living flames that burned her flesh, that made her limp as flax, that lit a fire deep in her soft belly.
His big hand moved to cup her buttocks, to fondle that soft flesh. Adorla Mathandis whimpered, deep in her throat. She could not fight this man. He was like no other man she had ever known. If he wanted her, if this was the price she must pay to regain her throne, then she was willing.
Her mouth loosened, she felt his tongue slide between her lips. No other man had ever kissed her so. No other man had ever stirred the fluids of her loins, had made her want to part her thighs and accept his manhood.
Then he let her go and chuckled. “That is what I could do, were you Myrnis." Adorla Mathandis felt herself abandoned. She lay there, her face in the pillow, and felt the blood pounding all through her flesh. Nothing had ever stirred her so much as that kiss, as that hand roving her body.
She was too proud to tell him so. Yet she murmured, "I will make you a noble in
Alkinoor, if you will make me queen again."
Kyrik stretched lazily. “I could be king in Tantagol, if I were minded to be. Two others hold my kingship for me while I roam the world, Aryalla the witch-woman and Almorak who was an outlaw at one time."
She stared at him. "You—a king?"
"I was a thousand years ago." He told her of the nearly forgotten years so many centuries ago when he had ruled in Tantagol, of his grandfather, Kornak, of his father Kyron. Of how he had been turned into a six-inch-high statue and had been brought back to life by Aryalla. For a thousand years he had lived in that statue, and now he felt the need to enjoy life.
"That need takes me to all corners of my world," he growled. "I fight, I make love, I do what pleases me."
She inched herself forward until her soft body rested on his. He could see her breasts, half out of her torn tunic, and their shapeliness. He could smell the natural perfume of her flesh.
Never before had Adorla Mathandis wanted to seduce a man. Never had the blood churned so in her body. Yet she was a woman, she knew instinctively those things which would please a man. Her palm ran up and down his chest.
"Take me," she whispered. “Take me as a woman, then take me to Alkinoor as a queen."
“Go to sleep," he told her, and rolled over on his side.
Adorla stared at him with wide eyes, not believing what he had said. Her hands balled into little fists, which she beat upon his back and shoulders.
“You dare? You dare refuse me?” She panted, she sobbed. She was so furious, she could not speak. No one had ever denied her anything. Not even Ulmaran Dho, her high councilor, not even Lyrrin Odanyor the high priest. This—this barbarian—was turning down the gift of her royal body.
After a time she fell asleep, still sobbing weakly. She woke to the slap of a big hand on her bare behind. She came off the bed screeching, putting her hands to her rump, exposed during her sleep when the torn tunic had risen upward, and stared from under her tumbled brown hair at a grinning Kyrik.
"You sleep too much," he told her. “Now cover yourself up, you're mighty tempting that way. We have things to do."
Flushing, she tried to pull down the tunic to cover her nakedness. Kyrik was unrolling a parchment, she saw, and her curiosity was aroused.
“What's that?" she asked sullenly. "I've been to a mapmaker and paid him good coins to draw me a map of the Barren Lands that lie beyond the river Hister."
She came off the bed to stand beside him, watching him unroll the map. Her eyes studied the ink markings on the parchment, and here and there she saw names that she knew.
“Alkinoor lies north of those barrens,” he said. “To get there we have to go over the river and through those barrens. Men say they are haunted, that no one lives who travels through them."
Adorla muttered, "There is a safer way. There is a caravan road from Domilok to Alkinoor."
Kyrik hooted. "And those roads will be filled with men who may know the queen of Alkinoor."
She licked her dry lips. “Then you'll take me to Alkinoor?”
“I want to get Myrnis back." Adorla Mathandis breathed deeply. She had never been confronted by anyone who did not drop to his knees in terror at her royal fury. She began to understand that this warlock-warrior was not as other men. In her mind, she thought about this woman who looked so mu like her that she could pass as her double.
They were not nice thoughts. If she had had the power, she would have ordered that other woman killed. And not prettily, either. Her eyes ran over the shoulders and deep chest of this man beside her. He would make a good king, if he could ever win back her throne.
She said sweetly, “Of course. I want you to get back that girl. But she is queen now, in my place."
"Then we'll put a crown on your head." He moved toward the door and Adorla followed. To her surprise, she was not quite as eager to have that crown put on her head as she had been. Right now, she was more eager to learn about Kyrik, to have him beside her on a bed as he had been last night.
Next time, she told herself, he would not turn his back.
They ate in the tavern, feasting on eggs and meat and cold milk. Kyrik had hired a horse for her, a dainty Ocarian mare, and a pack-horse to carry what food and equipment they might need. He himself still rode the big stallion.
They set out in the early morning sunlight, riding easily across the grasslands that moved lazily in the winds that swept southward out of the Doravian Hills. Kyrik was in a hurry, but he knew well enough that he could not push his beasts beyond a certain limit.
Myrnis would be safe enough in Alkinoor, if what he suspected were true. She would be guarded and pampered as befitted a queen, though she would have no power. This too, he knew, for neither Ulmaran Dho nor Lyrrin Odanyor wanted anything but a puppet woman to rule beneath their thumbs. Time, then, was not so important.
He scanned the plains across which they rode, distant enough from the caravan routes to be an almost empty land. No curious eyes would see them here, or if they did, would pay them little attention. Certainly Adorla Mathandis looked more like a hired strumpet than a queen.
Kyrik let his eyes run over her as she rode beside him. That torn tunic showed off her bare legs, naked to the curve of her hips, and those breasts of hers were almost bouncing out of the neckline as her horse cantered. Kyrik grinned. It was almost like having Myrnis riding with him.
Except that Adorla was a cold thing, without blood in her veins. If he attempted to caress her, she would probably rake his face with her nails. Still, last night, for a moment, he almo
st fancied that she wanted him to make love to her. But he must have been mistaken.
All that day they rode, and in the cool of the sunset hour they camped at a little stream where the water was cold and sweet and there they ate the meat and bread from one of the sacks on the pack-horse. Adorla was saddle-sore. Kyrik stifled a grin when he watched her hobble about, legs stiff.
When they were finished eating, the girl asked, "How do you intend to go about this? You can't just ride in and swing that big sword of yours and hope to conquer Alkinoor."
"I'll think of a way." He chuckled and glanced sideways at her. "I can always climb up your palace wall and take Myrnis out, you know. All I'm really interested in is getting Myrnis back."
"And what about me?" He shrugged. “You’re queen, there must be somebody in that city of yours who wants to see you back on your throne."
"Ulmaran Dho is very powerful. So is Lyrrin Odanyor.''
She sounded so woeful that Kyrik felt like taking her in his arms to console her. But he decided against that. She was a regular spitfire and he had enough trouble with the men of his world to risk fighting with a woman.
So he said, "I've never met a man yet I couldn't kill. One way or the other, with Bluefang or without it, I've managed to slay those who needed death."
Adorla brooded at him from under her long brown lashes. He was more of a man than anyone she had ever known; bigger, too, with shoulders covered with muscles and a yard wide, and arms bulging with power. In that chain-mail shirt and his tattered kilt, he seemed like the elemental male.
She caught up her sleeping blanket and walked away, saying over her shoulder, "You can't fight an army. No man can."
Well, that was true enough, he decided. Alone, he could do little. But Fate had a way of intervening when you forced it. He sat staring into those flames for a long time, just thinking.
At the first red rays of dawn they were up an riding, moving across the grasslands at a steady trot that ate the miles. They had a far way to travel, from Domilok to the river Hister. If it had been Myrnis with him instead of Adorla Mathandis, Kyrik would have enjoyed it more.
Kyrik and the Lost Queen Page 2
