Blood gushed from her side. She jerked her hands back and gasped for air. Sweat streamed down her neck and slid beneath her bodice. All her strength leeched onto the dirt. The man sat up, wide-eyed and heaving. The child tore from her mother and flew into his arms. The woman dropped beside Perdita.
A shot fired in the distance. Another one sounded closer.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she uttered over and over before the man grabbed her and dragged her off.
With her last ounce of strength, Perdita crawled into the shadows of the building and crumpled to the ground.
Sometime later—she had no idea when—she woke, drew a deep breath, and tried to get her bearings. Thank the stars she was in the same spot and no one had found her. ’Twas a risk she had taken, but one that was worth it as she remembered the look on the woman’s face and the way the child had embraced her Papa.
Struggling to rise, Perdita ran a hand over the wet patch covering the right side of her gown. Blood. Not her own, but the man’s. The blood, the scales on her hands, the pain—she had no idea how it all worked, only that it did.
She stumbled down the street toward the sound of battle. Her strength returned. Along the way, she plucked a pistol and a short sword off two dead men—just in case. She’d endured enough pain for one night and had no desire to suffer the agony of a wound that would not end in her death. And besides, mayhap she could help save a life.
Somewhere a child cried. The sandy streets gave way to cobblestones, wooden houses transformed to brick with red tile roofs and iron fences. Citizens, their backs loaded with goods and hands dragging children, raced through the cones of light flung by lanterns onto the street. Several carried sick loved ones on makeshift cots.
Pistol shots pummeled the air, along with horrified shrieks. A horse-drawn carriage flew by, nearly running over Perdita. A woman with a baby strapped to her chest darted up to her, her eyes filled with terror. “Dear, you should hide. They’ll hurt a pretty young thing like you.” Perdita blinked at the genuine concern in her eyes.
The baby started to cry, and the woman sped off.
Fear of death. Perdita could feel it in the air like an icy mist. ’Twas a plague that squeezed the life from people. Yet it was not a fear she knew. Rather, her greatest fear was loneliness, emptiness, and despair—the fear of being unloved forever. This fear of death surrounding her now was one she longed to know.
Ducking into the shadows of a small shop, she cringed at the sight before her. Men—some from the Scepter—fought against a horde of Malum. At least twenty. Some hand-to-hand, some with blades, others firing pistols from across the square. One Malum held a knife to a man’s throat while his family begged for mercy. Farmers and merchants and fisherman fought bravely to defend their town. The dead and wounded littered the ground like horse droppings. Another group of Malum set fire to nearby buildings. Flames leapt into the night sky while smoke curled from the crumbing remains. A woman lay weeping beside a storefront.
Holding her sword out, Perdita scanned the mob. There. Savion entered the square parrying with two Malum. Both attacked him at once, yet, with a sword in each hand, he fought them off with more skill than Perdita had ever seen. His movements were so quick, graceful, slick, and measured—each hitting its mark, each forcing his opponents back—that Perdita found herself mesmerized.
Flashing shapes of light caught her eye—large, distinct, positioned around the edges of the square. Glimmering forms of men, warriors fully armed. Yet no evil hovered about them—just power and hope. Then they vanished. She blinked.
But there was no time to ponder the odd sight as six more Malum dragged a group of terrified citizens into the square: women, children, and a few struggling old men.
Petrok and Hona, the two men she’d met on the Scepter, along with the comely man who’d been gaping at her, started for them, weapons drawn.
“Ryne!” the lead Malum yelled. “Call your men off, or we cut these people’s throats.” Grabbing one trembling man, the beast held a blade to his neck.
Quickly dispatching his two combatants, Savion approached this new threat, breath heaving and sweat gleaming over his neck and chest. “Warriors of Natas!” he bellowed. “You have no power here!”
“Aye, but we do, Prince of Abbas,” the largest of the Malum spat. “We were invited. Were you?”
“Silence!” Savion shouted.
Prince of Abbas? Perdita hadn’t time to consider what that meant when two men leapt in front of her, battling with knives as thick as fists. They paid her no mind as they continued their fight, and she slipped to a nearby vacant building and stood before its smashed window.
“We need no invitation.” Savion leveled his sword before the warrior. “This land belongs to King Abbas. You are only here by the invitation of one ignorant fool, the man whom your infectious illness has already killed.”
Perdita watched with great interest, her heart thrashing. How would Savion and his crew escape such a formidable force? Malum were expert fighters, strong, skilled, not to mention some of the ugliest beasts she’d ever seen—lusty, snarling fiends who smelled like rot and sulfur.
The tall one addressing Savion towered over the rest. “I’m Prince Skivian, the rightful ruler of this town!” The other Malum grunted cheers and waved their weapons in the air.
Savion wiped a sleeve over his brow. “You will never rule this town.” He spoke the words with a confidence that belied the swarms of Malum now spilling into the square.
“You know in whose power I come,” Savion proclaimed loudly.
Prince Skivian snorted arrogantly. “You will lose this war, and our king will reign.”
“You serve no king, but a snake impersonating a king.”
As if in agreement, the large Malum’s eyes became slits. He pushed the blade deeper into the old man’s throat, spilling a stream of his blood. Yet, oddly, the other Malum stopped rushing into the square, and the ones with victims dragged them backward as if frightened by Savion’s words. Yet, Perdita saw no reinforcements, no warriors rising to Savion’s aid. Clearly Savion and his men were outnumbered. Why, then, did the Malum tremble?
“I will fight you,” Savion said. “For the lives of these people and this town. You and two of your best warriors.”
“No, Cap’n!” Petrok shouted defiantly.
Ignoring him, Savion continued. “If I win, you will leave and never return to this town.”
Prince Skivian chuckled. “And if you lose?”
Savion spread out his arms. “Then the town is yours.”
“And yet, it is already ours.” He shoved the quivering man he held to the ground then kicked him as he crawled away.
“Is it? Come and see.” Savion motioned him forward with sword held high—regardless of the fact that he was outnumbered.
Perdita could only stare, dumbfounded. What baffled her even further was the terror burning in Prince Skivian’s eyes while only courage brimmed from Savion’s. Not from his crew, however. Fear gripped their expressions. Hona urged Savion not to fight. Petrok drew his sword and stood by his captain’s side, while the handsome one slipped into the background. The others merely stood by watching their captain make a deal for his death.
Perdita’s throat went dry. How could Savion ever win against three of Natas’s best? And for what? Farmers, shopkeepers, and fisherman? The same people who Savion had said invited the Malum here, people Savion didn’t even know!
She looked at him in awe. He was the bravest man she’d ever seen. A true savior. And just the type of man she needed to break her curse. Trouble was, the fool was about to get himself killed.
Chapter 8
“This is my fight, Petrok.” Savion pushed his friend aside, then stepped toward his enemy. “Shall we?”
Prince Skivian gestured behind him. Two men of equal brawn stepped forward, both with equally-evil glints in their eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Savion sought the peace within, feeling the medallion warm on his chest. There. Fl
owing through his veins like a calm river—the peace of Nevaeh. The peace that assured him he was not alone. The peace that told him he followed the right path.
Prince Skivian and his men swooped down on Savion. Blades caught in the air with mighty clangs, joining distant screams and the crackle of fires. Savion pursued the sense, the flow of power, the movement that directed his hands. Tapping into it, his muscles, arms, hands, and feet became one, moved as one, joined in a graceful dance of strength and authority.
Focus! Focus! He swung his blades this way and that, allowing the peace and power to direct him—striking, thrusting. Clank, Gong! Groan. Cussing bit his ears. He swerved, dipped, hunched, and swung about, all in rhythm to the music within. A painful howl! Lifeblood tainted the breeze.
Sweat stung his eyes. He shook his head and blinked. A muscular forearm slammed into his neck, shoving him back while the tip of a blade reached for his side. He jumped to the left, kicked one Malum in the shin, and thrust his sword into the other one’s gut. Before the first Malum knew what hit him, Savion tossed his blade in the air, caught it by the hilt, and pounded it on his jaw. Blood spurted from the Malum’s mouth as he spun to the ground. Following the sense, Savion ducked just in time to avoid a pistol shot from Prince Skivian. Then dropping to one hand, he swung his legs at the brute’s feet and knocked him to the dirt.
He landed with a thunk that shook the ground and sent a cloud of dust into the air. Turning away, Savion coughed. A flash of lavender caught his eyes. Perdita! The daft woman stood alone next to a battered shop, a pistol in one hand, sword in the other, staring at him as if he were some creature from the otherworld. Two Malum headed her way.
Foolish woman! She would be killed. He started for her, but Prince Skivian recovered and charged him. Savion swerved to meet his challenge. Blade on blade, he shoved the fiend back, all the while stealing glances at Perdita. The two Malum halted before her. Savion blocked an incoming slash, then searched for one of his men to aid her. The tip of a blade struck his shoulder. He leapt out of the way and whirled his sword through the air. He must focus! A hurried glance back revealed the two Malum dismissed her and proceeded into the store.
He could make no sense of it. Peace fled him.
Prince Skivian let out a threatening growl, his face a pulsing bulge of sweat and dirt. Raising his sword, he spit on the ground. Savion steadied himself, desperately seeking his lost focus. Too late. The savage must have followed Savion’s concerned glance toward Perdita. A slow grin lifted Prince Skivian’s scarred lips. One signal sent his Malum advancing toward her.
Brandishing his blade high, Savion swept it down upon the beast, but the monster met his thrust with an eerie hiss of grinding metal. Savion’s heart thundered in his chest. He tightened his grip on his sword as the second man rose. Together, they came at Savion as one, pounding mercilessly on him, slash after slash, thrust after thrust.
He sought the power within, but his moves were clumsy, his peace gone. His eyes snapped to Perdita. With sword high and pistol drawn, she stood defiantly waiting for her attackers. Not running, not cowering, but ready to fight off the approaching Malum warriors! Was that blood on her bodice? Petrok and Hona finally spotted her, grabbed Nuto and Verrad, and rushed to her aid.
Relief filled Savion. He strained to latch onto the place where the power originated—the dance of the three. There. He felt it surge through his veins once again. Swords came at him. He swung his own to assuage the attack. Blades chimed. He stumbled. Pain sliced his side. Agony drained him of strength. The peace returned. The light remained. Ignoring the pain—or rather absorbing it—he fought back his attackers. Ducking, swooping, leaping, shifting, he grew weary of the exchange. One of the Malum drew a pistol. Savion kicked it from his grip. He whirled around, slicing deep into Prince Skivian’s shoulder. Dropping one of his swords, Savion snatched up the gun and shot the other Malum, who barreled backward, gripping his arm.
Blood gurgled from Prince Skivian’s shoulder as he crumpled to his knees. “You won this one, Savion.” Hatred mangled his features.
“Leave town at once and never return,” Savion commanded loudly, his breath heaving.
Glancing at his two fallen warriors, Prince Skivian struggled to rise, then gestured toward the townspeople. “If they invite us again, we have every right to come.”
Savion nodded. The dark warrior was right. Hopefully, the people had learned their lesson. People who now crowded around him, cheering. One glance told him that his men had rescued Perdita and were standing guard around her. But there was no longer a need. The Malum were leaving—some marching defiantly, others limping, and some sneering at the cowering citizens as they left.
Savion shouted, “The town of Skivia now belongs to King Abbas! This defeated Malum is your prince no longer. You have been set free—do not give up your freedom again.”
“You saved us!” one man yelled, clinging to Savion.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you!”
“Savion! Savion! Savion!” They began to chant, but he shook his head. Extricating himself from their clutches, he leapt onto a broken wall, wincing in pain, then lifted his hands until the cheers silenced. “They will come back if you invite them. They bring sickness and death. You know this!”
“But how did we invite them?” one old man asked.
“Your own magistrate agreed to trade with them. Struck a deal to purchase their stolen goods to make a profit for the town. But any of you could have made a deal with them. They are deceivers and liars. Do not be fools!”
Gasps filtered about. “Where is our faithful magistrate now?” one lady spoke with spite.
“He died o’ the sickness,” another answered. “Jist last night.”
“Let this be a lesson,” Savion said. “You can never deal with Malum. They always bring slavery, despair, and death.”
Muttering sifted through the crowd over heads bobbing in agreement. Savion’s eyes met Perdita’s. She wore the oddest expression. Shock? Admiration? But, inexplicably absolutely no fear. Astonishing for a woman who’d entered a fierce battle and was nearly killed. He turned back to the murmuring crowd.
“Go back to your homes!” he said. “Bury your dead. Tend the injured. Those who are sick will soon get well now that the Malum are gone. Live your life in the peace of King Abbas.”
But instead of honoring the King, they continued to cheer, “Savion! Savion! Savion!”
Ordering them to stop, he stepped down and slowly headed toward his waiting men. Petrok and Hona met him with wide grins, Nuto a knowing look, and Verrad proud eyes. The rest nodded his way, gathered their weapons, and stood awaiting orders.
They parted as he approached Perdita, eyes blazing. “For the love of Nevaeh, I told you to stay on board.” Stains covered the side of her gown. “You’re wounded!” He gently lifted her arm, studying the pool of blood, but saw no rip in her clothes.
“Not my blood,” she replied calmly, but then gaped at him in shock. “How did you? How …?”
He dropped her arm and snorted. “You could have been killed.”
“I thought you might need help.”
His crew chuckled.
Savion would love to banter with this woman, but the sky was spinning at the moment, and he was having trouble finding his breath. He pressed a hand on his side, and a moan escaped his lips.
“You’re hurt!” Petrok rushed forward, the others following.
Moving Savion’s arm aside, Hona opened the captain’s coat. A stream of red soaked most of his shirt and dribbled down his breeches.
Perdita gasped.
Voices shouted. The world grew fuzzy and hands grabbed Savion just before he toppled to the ground.
Chapter 9
Perdita remained in the shadows of Savion’s cabin while the ship’s doctor tended the captain’s injury. The fact that his men hovered over him like a flock of nervous hens spoke volumes about the man’s character. Not one of her Ivans—not even those who had professed their undying love—had e
ver cared for her that much. What that revealed about her, she didn’t want to consider. All that mattered now was that this honorable, kind, fascinating man had been injured because of her. She hadn’t meant to distract him—to break whatever powerful trance had come over him. Whether a trance, an inbred skill, or a supernatural power, ’twas like nothing she’d ever witnessed. And she’d seen numerous battles through the centuries. His was more like a dance than a battle, his movements fluid, assured, beautiful … and terrifying.
Who was this man? So much more than a mere sailor. No wonder these men followed him.
“He will live,” Haddeus announced as he washed his hands in a bowl of bloody water. “Thank Abbas the wound wasn’t too deep.”
“Did you stitch him up?” Perdita asked, drawing the gaze of the five men in the room: Petrok and Hona, standing at their captain’s bedside; the dark-haired man leaning against the bulkhead, whose look even now made her squirm; a lanky man with short red hair and a grumpy face who sat on Savion’s desk; and the doctor himself.
“Aye, of course,” Haddeus answered, as if insulted by the question.
“With the whisker of a sea lion? They provide the best comfort and strength.”
They all merely gaped at her.
“And of course you poured rum on it?” she added.
The thick man’s eyes narrowed. “I perceive you have some doctorin’ skills, miss?”
More than all of them put together, she imagined. “Some.”
The lithe redhead they called Nuto rose from the desk and pointed a finger at her. “You! You’re the one who caused this. You shouldn’t have been there. You should have listened to the captain!”
“That’s not fair, Nuto.” Petrok ran a hand through his springy brown hair. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”
Perdita took a step forward. “Indeed. I meant no harm.”
“Still, after all the captain’s done for you.” Hona frowned.
Haddeus gathered his utensils and rags. “Holler if you need me. I’ve other wounds to mend.” And off he went—leaving her with these men who stared at her with a mixture of curiosity and hatred.
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