Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

  Stop it! She shook her head, bewildered at the turn of her thoughts. She was a Maje. A Maje did not marry for pleasure or carnal desire, but to perpetuate the race, that there might always be someone to heal the pain inflicted by others, someone to see beauty in the midst of ugliness, someone to speak for peace in time of war.

  She stared down at Jarrett when he touched her arm, so lost in thought she hadn’t been aware that they’d stopped.

  “We’ll rest here for the night,” he said.

  She nodded, her senses reeling as his hands closed around her waist to lift her from the back of the horse.

  He held her for several moments, his dark-green eyes gazing into hers, making it difficult to breathe. She wondered why he didn’t put her down, wondered why she couldn’t read his thoughts as he held her, suspended in the air, her eyes on a level with his.

  “What is thee staring at?” she asked.

  “At sky-blue eyes and lips that would tempt a heavenly messenger.”

  “Thee should put me down.”

  “Should I?”

  There was fire in the depths of his eyes, flames as hot as the pools of Mereck, heat that threatened to melt her defenses. “Please,” she whispered.

  Slowly, he lowered her feet to the ground.

  Slowly, he took his hands from her waist.

  Slowly, he bent his head toward hers. Freed of all restraint, she was still powerless to resist and she stood quiescent as his mouth descended on hers. Featherlight, his lips caressed hers, more tempting than sweet Freywine, more tantalizing than a Siren’s call.

  She gazed into his eyes, felt the fervent heat of his desire leap between them even though their bodies were not touching. There was only the undemanding pressure of his lips on hers, silently entreating, quietly pleading for her surrender.

  “No.” Unable to draw her gaze from his, she shook her head. “No. I cannot give thee what thee desires.”

  “I haven’t asked thee for anything.” His voice was deep and low, husky with yearning.

  “Thee does not need to ask. Thy desire is clearly mirrored in the depths of thy eyes, in the silent entreaty of thy lips.”

  “It displeases thee?”

  She stared at him in confusion. She should be angry. She should be offended. Why, then, was she pleased that he found her desirable?

  “Thee has not answered me. Does my ardor displease thee?”

  “No…yes…” She drew a deep, steadying breath, willing herself to think of Majeulla, of her betrothed, of her duty to her people. “Please let me go.”

  He lifted one black brow. “I am not holding thee.”

  But he was. His deep green gaze imprisoned her more surely than chains or iron bars.

  “Jarrett, to give in to thy desire will give thee a moment’s pleasure, but it will destroy everything I am, everything I hold dear. Please do not ask it of me.”

  “And if I did?”

  “I fear I would give it to thee.”

  Her words filled him with joy, and pain. Summoning every ounce of self-control that he possessed, he turned and walked away from her. Even if she were willing, he couldn’t take her innocence, couldn’t rob her of her gift just to ease the awful ache that plagued him. She was a Maje, born to heal. She belonged in a world far different from his. High in the mist-shrouded mountains of her homeland, she would live in peace and harmony with her people. She would listen to the song of the Hoada and the whisper of the south wind. On moonlit nights, she would tell her children tales of Dragora. And, perhaps, some dark eve, she would tell them of the horrors of the Pavilion, and of the renegade warrior whose pain and misery she had alleviated over and over again.

  She did not like the silence between them, but she didn’t know how to mend it. He had withdrawn from her in a way that made her feel lost and alone.

  In the days that followed, they rode from dawn ‘til dusk, pausing only to eat and rest the horses. He never touched her, either intentionally or by accident. He spread his blankets across the fire, ate his meals with his back toward her, making her feel as if she were unclean, a pariah.

  As the flatlands gave way to gently rolling hills and shallow valleys, she tried to tell herself it was for the best. Soon they would reach Majeulla. He would return to his own people and she would never see him again.

  For the best. For the best. The words became a litany, repeating in her mind as they traveled across the green-gold hills toward home.

  It was near dark several days later when they reached the Cyrus River. Beyond lay the rolling foothills and the Mountains of the Blue Mist.

  “We’ll spend the night here,” Jarrett said, indicating a quiet vale, “and cross in the morning.”

  Leyla nodded. Dismounting, she removed the saddlebags from behind the saddle and began to prepare Last Meal. She could feel Jarrett’s gaze on her back. Almost, she looked into his mind, wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling, now that their journey was near its end. Tomorrow they would start up the mountain. The following morning, she would be home again, back among her own people.

  The thought did not cheer her as it should have.

  They ate in silence, a horrible tension-filled silence that brought tears to her eyes. She yearned to touch him, to tell him that she cared for him, that she would never forget him, but she knew it would only make it harder to say goodbye when the time came.

  She wished he would look at her with affection just once more.

  She wished she could… The thought died unfinished as she felt Jarrett’s hand close over her mouth. When she tried to pull away, his hold tightened in warning.

  She heard it then, the faint sound of crackling leaves as something, or someone, crept toward them.

  “Drop your sword, rebel,” called a familiar voice, “or the Maje dies. My arrow will not miss at this range.”

  Jarrett swore under his breath. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard the approach of the intruders until it was too late.

  “Do as he says,” warned a second voice. “We will not ask again.”

  Leyla shook her head, knowing that surrender would mean Jarrett’s death.

  There was a sudden hiss as an arrow arched through the sky and pinned Leyla’s skirt to the ground. “That is my last warning, Rebel. Throw down your sword.”

  Jarrett drew a deep breath, then, with slow deliberation, he tossed his sword toward the voice in the trees.

  Leyla’s eyes widened in alarm as Gar limped out of the shadows. A moment later, Siid came striding toward them, a smug grin on his face.

  Stricken with guilt, she glanced up at Jarrett, silently pleading for his forgiveness, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the two men, and though his face was impassive, she could feel the tension radiating from him as he waited to see what they would do next.

  “So, Lord Jarrett, we meet again.” Gar made a mock bow of respect. “It was impolite of you to leave the party before the last course.”

  “My apologies,” Jarrett retorted, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “But I did not wish to be the last course.”

  Siid’s smile was cruel as he rubbed his crippled right leg. “Your wishes are no longer important. We have one more Game to play and a comrade’s death to avenge.”

  Gar nodded. “The last Game will be played here, in the morning. And there will be no Maje to heal you this time, even if you survive.”

  Jarrett’s head came up with a jerk. “What do you mean?”

  With snakelike speed, Gar reached for Leyla and drew her to his side. “After tonight,” Gar said cryptically, “she will be powerless to help you or anyone else.”

  “No.” Jarrett took a step forward, only to come up short as Gar laid his blade against Leyla’s throat. “Do what you want with me, but let her go.”

  “We will do exactly as we want,” Siid replied. “With you. And with her.”

  “I’ll do anything you ask,” Jarrett said. “Grovel in the dirt. Crawl on my belly. Anything. Only let her
go.”

  Gar’s laugh was cruel. “You’ll do all those things and more before you die, Rebel, I promise you that, just as I promise that your dying will take many days.” He wrapped his free hand in Leyla’s hair, jerking her head back as he pressed the edge of the sword to her throat. “Siid, bind him.”

  Jarrett kept his gaze on Leyla as Siid bound his hands behind his back. Don’t be afraid. I’ll think of something, I swear it. He sent his thoughts toward her, hoping she would read them in his mind.

  He thought she nodded slightly, but he couldn’t be sure.

  With malicious glee, Siid drew back his fist and buried it in Jarrett’s stomach, howling with delight when Jarrett doubled over, retching.

  Again and again Siid lashed out with his fists until Jarrett lay on the ground, his body drawn into itself. With a grunt, the Gamesman kicked Jarrett in the ribs, then turned away, his eyes glinting with desire.

  “Bind her,” Siid remarked. “I’ll get the dice.”

  “We’ll use mine,” Gar informed him with a cold grin. “I’ve lost to you too many times.”

  “As you wish,” Siid agreed. “I won’t mind losing tonight, since the prize remains the same.”

  In moments, Leyla was bound hand and foot, forced to sit between the Fen warriors while they played a game of nine points to see who would be the one to deflower her.

  Frightened as she was for her own fate, it was fear for Jarrett that pounded in her brain. They might abuse her. They might steal her maidenhead, but Jarrett’s life would be forfeit, and it would be all her fault. If only she had let him kill the Fen as he’d wanted. If only she could go back, she would do it herself!

  Leyla gazed at Jarrett. He lay so still, she wondered if he was dead. Heartsick, she willed him to move, to breathe, even as she hoped that he would never regain consciousness, that he might be spared whatever torment the Fen had planned for him.

  Jarrett opened his eyes to a red mist of pain and the taste of blood and dirt in his mouth. It hurt to breathe, to think. He could see Gar and Siid sitting cross-legged before the fire, their heads bent as they rolled the dice. Leyla sat between them.

  Slowly, laboriously, he strained toward the knife sheathed within his boot. Pain slashed through him as he tried to reach the knife. He curled tighter into himself, drawing his leg as close to his body as he could, stretching his arm, his hands, his fingers, praying to the All Father that he wouldn’t pass out. From the cries of his captors, he knew time was running out.

  With a last mighty effort, he made a grab for the blade, felt his fingertips brush the haft of the knife. So close. Grimacing with pain, he tried again, willing hands gone numb to respond. It took a moment before he realized he’d succeeded.

  He glanced at Gar and Siid, making sure they were still distracted by the game. Then, moving slowly and awkwardly, he began to saw at the thick rope around his wrists.

  Leyla’s scream warned him that the game was over.

  Chapter Ten

  His wrists were slick with blood, his brow sheened with sweat, by the time he cut through the rope. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, willing his hands to stop shaking, blocking the pain from his mind as he concentrated on what he had to do.

  Moving slowly, he glanced over his shoulder. Siid was holding a wildly struggling Leyla while Gar stripped off his breeches.

  It was now or never. Gripping the knife in his right hand, Jarrett rolled to his knees and crawled stealthily toward Gar.

  Struggling to stay conscious, Jarrett raised the knife. It was then that Leyla lashed out with her feet, catching Gar in the chest, driving him backward into Jarrett’s blade.

  Jarrett grunted with pain as Gar fell against him.

  Siid drew his knife and cocked his arm, ready to throw the weapon.

  Freed from her captor’s grasp, Leyla rolled to her side and scrambled to her knees.

  Jarrett jerked his knife from Gar’s back and shoved the man’s lifeless body out of the way.

  It was then that Siid hurled the longboar knife.

  It was then that Leyla rose to her feet.

  She screamed as the double-edged blade buried itself in her back. Eyes wide with pained surprise, she sank to her knees.

  With a cry of disbelief, Jarrett charged Siid, driving him to the ground, plunging his knife into the man’s chest over and over again, until the warrior lay in an ever-widening pool of blood.

  “Jarrett…”

  Leyla’s voice, weak and frightened, penetrated his rage. Tossing the knife aside, he hurried to her side. She lay facedown, the haft of Siid’s longboar knife protruding from her back. Her upper body was covered with blood.

  “Leyla?”

  “Thee is all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He choked back the gorge that rose in his throat as he stared at the knife, knowing he would have to draw that long length of steel from her flesh. “Leyla…”

  “It hurts,” she murmured.

  “I know.” As gently as possible, he took hold of the knife and with one quick jerk, pulled it from her flesh. He tore a strip of cloth from her petticoat and pressed it over the wound, holding it in place with one hand while he stroked her cheek with the other. “You’ll be fine, Leyla,” he whispered tremulously. “I promise.”

  She tried to smile at him, tried to reassure him, but the pain was too strong.

  When the bleeding subsided, Jarrett bound the wound and made her as comfortable as possible. He sat beside her through the night, holding her hand, praying that she wouldn’t die.

  By morning, she was burning with fever.

  Sick at heart, he saddled the stallion, lifted Leyla into the saddle, and climbed up behind her, groaning softly as his battered body protested every move. Face set with determination, he urged the horse across the river, heading for the Majeullian stronghold high in the Mountains of the Blue Mist.

  It was midmorning when he reached the foothills. Reining the stallion to a halt, he stared at the mountains rising in the distance.

  Dragons, he thought. Quicksand. Poisonous water.

  He gazed at the woman cradled in his arms. Her face was pale, etched with pain. Her skin was hot beneath his hand.

  Filled with a sense of urgency, he touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks.

  They rode for about a league before they reached the foot of the Mountains of the Blue Mist. He pushed the horse hard, climbing steadily higher through a forest thick with trees and ferns. Sometimes the greenery above his head was so closely intertwined that it completely blocked the light. And sometimes there would be an opening in the branches that allowed a single shaft of sunlight to penetrate the darkness.

  Birds twittered high in the treetops. Leaves crackled as small animals scurried out of his way. A low roar sent a shiver down his spine. The dragon?

  It was near dusk when he came to a winding river. The stallion lowered its head to drink and Jarrett gave a sharp tug on the reins, afraid the water might be poisoned. He stared into the icy-blue depths, wondering if it was safe to cross, wondering if the sandy bottom hid a pool of quicksand.

  “Leyla?” He shook her shoulder gently. “Leyla.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she stared up at him, her expression void of recognition, and then she smiled. “Jarrett.”

  “Leyla, we’re in your mountains. Is it safe to cross the river here?”

  She sat up a little, frowning as she glanced around. Then she pointed to her left. “There,” she said. “See those two trees near the rock? And the two trees directly across the river?”

  Jarrett nodded.

  “It is safe to cross there.”

  “Can we drink the water?”

  “Yes, but thee must draw it from the river to kill the poison.”

  Nodding that he understood, Jarrett stepped carefully from the saddle. Moving like an old, old man, he knelt beside the river and filled a waterskin with the clear blue water. He offered it first to Leyla, hoping it would help to ease her fever. She
drank greedily, protesting weakly when he took the waterskin from her mouth.

  “Not too fast,” he admonished. “Rest a moment, then you can have more.”

  Jarrett took a deep drink, closing his eyes as the cold water trickled down his throat.

  He offered Leyla another drink, then poured some into his hand and let the horse drink.

  Refilling the waterskin, he took a deep breath, then climbed painfully back into the saddle and rode downriver, crossing where Leyla had indicated.

  It was dark by then. For a moment, he contemplated spending the night where they were. His body cried for rest. It hurt to breathe; every step the stallion took jarred his bruised ribs. But Leyla was burning up in his arms.

  With a sigh, he urged the weary stallion upward.

  Night birds called to each other. The cry of a great horned cat rent the stillness, echoing and reechoing off the mountainside. He heard the call of a spotted wolf, the shriek of some unwary beast as it met its death.

  And then he heard the roar that had sent shivers down his spine earlier. The sound was closer now, more ominous. Instinctively he dropped the reins and reached for his sword.

  Another roar shook the earth, and then he saw a faint glow, as though from a distant campfire. He gazed cautiously from left to right, noticing that the trees ahead were charred, that the ground at his feet was thick with ash.

  The dragon.

  He reined the horse to an abrupt halt as a flickering tongue of fire lit up the darkness.

  The stallion began to prance, its ears twitching nervously back and forth, its nostrils flaring.

  Jarrett tightened his hold on the reins. “Easy, boy,” he murmured. “Easy now.”

  A second burst of flame ignited a tree and the stallion panicked.

  Jarrett swore as the horse reared, then spun on its hocks, unseating both riders. He landed hard, holding tight to Leyla, cushioning her body with his own. A roar shook the earth and the horse bolted down the hillside.