Drawing rein, Gregar nodded toward a force amassed against them outside the village. “If the approaching outlanders are any indication, Khul, all you will find at this time is a kae’don.”
Rhaekhar shaded his eyes to estimate how many outlanders gathered against them. Easily ten fists of men awaited his warriors’ charge. “Great Vulkar, they’re on foot!”
“There will be no honor in this kae’don,” Varne muttered gloomily.
Even with their greater numbers, the outlanders had no chance on foot, not against the na’kindren. Higher at the withers than the outlanders stood tall, the warhorses would crush them beneath churning hooves until the ground ran red with blood.
“I almost feel sorry for them.” Gregar shook his head. “Let us finish this quickly, Khul, so you may find your Rose.”
TWO
A little battle is good for the blood!
Kneeing his stallion forward, Rhaekhar pressed the ragged line of outlanders even harder. His golden warhorse plunged and another outlander screamed as he disappeared beneath the massive hooves.
The raw, thick scent of blood and death filled the air, and his warriors whooped with pure battle joy. Dodging a wild, desperate thrust, Rhaekhar slipped the point of his sword through the shoulder joint of the closest outlander’s metal clothing.
The man dropped his sword and ran, glancing back over his shoulder, only to be trampled from the side by one of the Blood. Gregar’s eyes flashed with dark pleasure as he saluted Rhaekhar with his sword.
More outlanders turned and ran, discarding their swords on the field. One man cowered on the ground, his arms over his head, wailing like a lost child. All across the green fields, the outlanders’ defenses trembled and shattered in the wake of powerful na’kindren.
Disgusted, Rhaekhar shook his head. What honor could his warriors expect to find against these pitifully inferior outlanders? They knew nothing of honor. Killing them was a wasteful blood sacrifice, bringing no glory to the Great Wind Stallion.
Rhaekhar decided to end the battle without further delay and reined Khan toward the outlander leader. Only this man’s determination had prevented the outlanders from scattering within moments of battle. Mounted on a small pony, the leader might provide at least some entertainment in this kae’don.
Sheathing his sword, Rhaekhar drew the smaller blade on his hip. The outlander deserved at least some honor in death, so he would sacrifice the leader’s blood with rahke only.
With fiercely bared teeth and punishing hooves, his warhorse shouldered through the panicked outlanders. They parted like silk, giving him a clear path to their leader. Khan reared, screaming a challenge.
The outlander’s red pony shied and squealed with terror. Another outlander on foot grabbed the leader’s leg and gestured frantically toward the village. Rhaekhar expected the leader to drop his sword and gallop to safety like his men, but he adamantly shook his head. The two outlanders argued briefly, but the one on foot finally nodded. He sheathed his sword, stood aside, and shot a fierce glance at Rhaekhar.
The outlanders’ leader raised his sword, his gaze steady. Rhaekhar nodded back respectfully. Good. The leader understood the challenge and accepted. Some small honor might be found in this kae’don after all.
The leader leaned forward and the red pony charged.
Anticipation surged in Rhaekhar’s veins. Khan laid his ears back and pawed the ground, waiting for the signal to attack, but he held the snorting warhorse in place with a firm hand on the reins.
Stretching out well beyond his defenses to compensate for his inferior mount, the leader swiped at Rhaekhar’s chest. He easily leaned aside to avoid the blow. It would be ridiculously easy to slit the leader’s throat as he galloped by, but Rhaekhar stayed his hand. He wanted to see exactly how much heart this outlander might have.
Pivoting, Khan struck viciously with both front hooves. The weary pony stumbled and fell to its knees, and the leader flew out of the saddle. Tucking his head, he rolled and thumped across the torn ground. He struggled to his feet and pushed off the metal covering his face.
Rhaekhar's heart raced, and his hands clenched on the reins so hard his stallion reared again. Great Vulkar, a woman!
A black braid as thick as his wrist tumbled past her waist. She stared up at him, her dark blue eyes shining with fierce determination. Even defeated, unhorsed and unarmed, she stood before him with more courage than any of her men.
Facing insurmountable odds. Battling his warriors when she had no hope of victory. Challenging him, Khul of all the Nine Camps, with a glint in her eye and pride in her heart.
Such courage—he had never seen her match.
Emotion crashed through him. Bands of iron tightened about his chest until he could barely breathe. His whole body resonated, tuning toward her with vicious, single-minded joy. At last, I’ve found my Rose.
Sucking in a long, deep breath, he sought her scent over the rawness of mud, blood and terror. Too far away to identify her from the remembered dream. Still, heat twisted his gut, muscles tightening, bracing for battle. Surely she was his Rose, but he couldn’t know for certain until he stood close enough to breathe her scent.
Twenty mounted men galloped out of the village and slid to a halt behind the woman. She walked toward them, and blinding panic nearly sent him charging after her. How could he claim this outlander woman for his own when he knew nothing of her customs?
The nine Blood rode close, Gregar and Varne on either side of him as usual.
“Will another outlander step forward in challenge?” Varne asked. “Or do you think they’ve had enough?”
Irrational yet adamant, every instinct urged Rhaekhar to haul her up on Khan’s back and gallop for the Plains without delay. “It matters not. For her, I’ll fight them all one by one if I must.”
“Please, Captain, ride for Rashan,” Fenton pleaded. “Let me take your place in the surrender.”
Defeated. Under her leadership, the Guard had never lost. Until today.
The morning sun had barely climbed midway into the sky, yet sweat trickled down her spine. Her arms were so tired she feared she wouldn’t be able to lift her sword again. All her plans, all the years of careful political maneuverings, for nothing. “You know I can’t, Sergeant. I’m responsible for our soldiers. I led them, and I failed them. It’s my duty and my right to stand in their place.”
“It’s your duty to live!” King Valche retorted. “Lady only knows what these barbarians will do to you if you surrender to them. Think, Shannari! Think of the Lady’s Green Lands devastated by plagues, war, and famine. You’re the Lady’s Last Daughter. You must not die!”
“What else can I do?”
“I agree with Fenton. Someone must take your place. You can’t do this!”
Fury raged through her, and she clenched her hands into fists. “I will not run! How could I ever sit on the High Throne and demand the full respect of our people if I did such a thing?”
“Sweet Lady above, what if they don’t execute you? What if they torture you first? Or rape you? Please, Daughter—”
Her stomach rolled queasily. “They could have slaughtered us to a man without even breaking a sweat. You saw how easily their warlord waltzed through our lines. I was foolish enough to accept his direct challenge, and he toyed with me. He could have killed me at any time, but he acted honorably. Besides, I can’t believe Our Blessed Lady would abandon us. Father Aran said She heard my prayers this morning.”
“What are you going to do?” King Valche’s voice broke with his sorrow. “What can I do?”
“Pray for me. Keep the faith that Our Lady will intervene. Otherwise, I’ll do my best to die with honor.”
Choking back tears, Shannari turned and walked toward the waiting barbarians. She fought another battle now, to keep her shoulders squared and her chin high. She refused to reveal how much the fearsome barbarians intimidated her. There was nothing she could do to hide her shaking hands.
The barbarians watc
hed her approach with hooded eyes and fierce expressions. All of them were well over six feet tall—giants by Green Land standards. The warlord’s implacable face was carved from granite and he gripped a vicious dagger at his waist.
Halting before the warlord, she held her sword as loosely as she dared in her sweaty palm, blade down. She’d never seen such magnificent warriors before, and their horses were equally impressive. She didn’t know how to fight massive warhorses that plowed over her infantry. If she lived long enough, she would rectify that deficiency in the Guard’s defenses.
The warlord stared back at her, his golden gaze strangely intense. His long brown hair was intricately braided at each temple, heavy with colored beads and rings. The only clothing he wore was a green cloth wrapped about his hips, leaving his legs from mid-thigh completely bare.
His immense chest gleamed like polished bronze in the sunlight, crisscrossed with white scars. In fact, his entire body bore such fine lines, all except his chiseled face. Bands of gold, leather and horsehair encircled his biceps. A broadsword nearly as long as she was tall hung across his back, thankfully sheathed. She would have no hope of deflecting this warrior’s blows if and when he decided to kill her.
She stopped as close as she dared, close enough to smell him. A barbarian had no right to smell so divine. No unwashed stench wafted from him, but the mouthwatering smell of baking bread and flowers of all things, combined with the raw, earthy scent of horses, leather and warrior. Swallowing the sudden moisture in her mouth, she tried to think of something to say. What did he expect? An introduction, a confession? “My men...”
“They are free to go.”
His low, rough voice thrummed through her body. Trembling, she nodded and the sick knot in the pit of her stomach loosened a bit. Her soldiers would be spared.
“I’m Rhaekhar, Khul of the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan.”
The barbarian spoke slowly in her language, heavily accented but understandable. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, his fist locked about the knife on his hip. He looked like he was on the verge of tearing someone apart. Hopefully not her. Worried, Shannari waited silently for the rest of his demands.
“Do you yield to me?”
She nodded, barely daring to breathe. Her father and Fenton stepped up on either side to face the Khul with her. Grateful for their moral support, she prayed they didn’t interfere with the inevitable sentencing. “What are your surrender terms?”
“One fist of my warriors will remain in this village to prevent further outlander encroachment on our Plains.”
Keeping her features smooth, Shannari resisted the urge to turn and question her father. The Madre Desert served as a forbidding barrier to the huge fields of grass that lay beyond the burning sands. To her knowledge, Allandor never intruded on the Plains.
“Agreed,” King Valche answered.
The barbarian’s attention whipped to her father. “Who is this man? Why does he agree to the terms your Camp must accept?”
“I’m King Valche of Allandor, and this is my daughter, Shannari dal’Dainari. She’s Captain of the Guard, Princess of Allandor and Our Blessed Lady’s Last Daughter. Someday she will rule all the Green Lands as High Queen.”
Heat blaze across her cheeks. Standing defeated before the mighty warriors, she struggled not to drop her gaze to the ground. The litany of titles was embarrassing, especially when she’d lost the battle, but he hoped to sway the barbarian toward ransom instead of execution.
The big Khul stepped closer to her, golden eyes blazing like the sun. He seized her chin in strong fingers, tilting her face upward. “Do they also call you the Rose of Shanhasson?”
The simple caress of his fingers on her face exploded through her starved body. Belatedly, she regretted her refusal to take another lover after Devin had died.
Too late, she tried to jerk her head free, but he merely tightened his grip. She raised her sword, but he casually knocked her blade aside with his forearm, never looking away from her face.
In a husky whisper, he repeated, “Are you the Rose of Shanhasson?”
“No!”
Leaning down until his mouth hovered above hers, he breathed deeply. Tilting her head slightly, he sniffed at her neck. His long hair trailed across her face, sweet hay and flowers.
“I know your scent, Shannari. Vulkar help me, I recognize you. You are the Rose I seek.”
So close, so tempting, his scent and words and threats. Breathing shallowly to avoid his alluring scent, she brought the sword up between their bodies and pushed the flat of the blade against his chest.
He didn’t budge.
“You must be mistaken, Khul Rhaekhar. I’ve never been called the Rose of Shanhasson. In fact, I’ve only been to Shanhasson once in my entire life.”
Closing his eyes, the barbarian breathed deeply, still close enough to kiss. A smile suddenly broke the guarded expression on his face. The transformation from formidable warlord to seductive danger stole her breath. Full lips curved, baring strong, white teeth which softened the hard planes of his face. “You recognize me, too, or at least your body does.”
Her pulse raced, her heart thudded, and a hot coil of desire tightened deep in her stomach. Her body remembered the touch and weight of a man in her bed, and it yearned for this man, this barbarian. Fiercely. How does he know?
Clenching her teeth with determination, she slid the sword up his body, deliberately digging the point into his neck. “I have no idea of what you speak.”
Ignoring the deadly weapon at his throat, he smiled and pressed closer. Blood dripped down his bronzed chest. His scent intensified, flooding her senses. His thigh brushed hers, his arm slipped around her waist, and it was all she could do to keep from falling wholeheartedly into the barbarian’s embrace.
Warningly, she said, “I will kill you.”
“Wait!” Father Aran pushed his way through the Guardsmen. “She is the Rose of Shanhasson!”
Bewildered, she turned her head toward the High Priest. The barbarian released her. “How could you?”
Father Aran knelt before her and took her right hand, kissing the knuckles. “Princess Shannari belongs in Shanhasson with the Rose Crown of Leesha on her head. As Our Lady’s Last Daughter, she is truly the Rose of Shanhasson.”
“You are mine, then, na’lanna. You will come with me without delay.”
Terror and dismay roiled in her mixed with betrayal. She stared into the High Priest’s face as tears trickled down her cheeks.
What would become of Allandor and her people if she left them to Theo’s merciless care? What of the darkness Father Aran prophesied for the Green Lands if she failed? Carried off by barbarians to the ends of the earth, she would never be able to wrest the High Throne from Theo. “What have you done?”
Father Aran pressed the back of her hand against his forehead and then stood, his face lined with guilt and sympathy. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the way has been provided.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, brushing the tears away impatiently. “How—”
The High Priest turned to the barbarian and raised her hand to him. Wrapping his large, calloused palm around her fist, still gripping the sword stained with his blood, Rhaekhar kissed her knuckles, too. She shuddered, swallowing the moan that threatened to escape.
“Will you let me claim you here and now?”
From the heated thickness in his voice, she dreaded asking for an explanation. “Claim?”
“Gregar, what is the proper word?”
“Marry, wed, consummate, pleasure, mate, copulate, tup,” the dark-haired warrior replied with a wicked smile of delight.
Her eyes widened at the progressively coarser descriptions of intimate activities. She jerked her hand free and stepped backward, giving herself room to fight. “Absolutely not!”
“This is an outrage!” Usually the calmest head during the most heated negotiation, King Valche was so angry that a vein thumped on his forehead. He glared a
t Father Aran. “Our own High Priest hands my daughter over like common chattel to a barbarian, who then demands she wed him on the spot! Are you forgetting the betrothal ceremony in which you promised her hand in marriage to the Crown Prince?”
Rhaekhar shrugged. “The man is not here to protect what is his. I’m warrior enough to take what I want and keep it. If this Crown Prince wants to challenge me, let him come.”
“Do you want the might of the Green Lands marching into your Sea of Grass?” King Valche retorted. “If you take the Lady’s Last Daughter into your Plains, the Crown Prince won’t challenge you. He’ll send his armies to murder her!”
The barbarian’s face darkened and he gripped the knife at his waist. “Anyone who attempts to harm her will suffer my wrath.”
“Silence!” Shannari raised her voice, her head thumping with alarm and their shouts. “Arguing is pointless. Our Lady’s will—”
King Valche broke in. “How can you trust the High Priest after he handed you over to the enemy? He could be lying! What if he’s secretly trying to eliminate you as a threat to Theo?”
“Impossible,” Father Aran retorted. “May the Lady strike me down if I lie!”
“It doesn’t matter.” Numbness filled her, for which she was truly grateful. So much arguing and political posturing left her feeling empty and sick. “I’m tired of being moved on the board like a pawn.”
She looked into the barbarian’s ruggedly handsome face and sorrow pierced what was left of her crippled heart. She would never be free, never marry for love nor bear children without plotting to secure a throne and ensure the continuance of a dying royal line. He still dreamed that happiness, while she was surrounded by death. “While I appreciate your proposal, Khul Rhaekhar, I must decline. Although few nobles recall the truth of the legends, I must rule as High Queen or the Green Lands will fall into darkness. It’s my destiny and my duty. I can’t come with you.”
The Horse Master of Shanhasson (Blood and Shadows) Page 6
