Her anger built, drowning out any other emotion. On the far side of the village, naked, burnt timber stood from the ground. Others lay scattered haphazardly on the ground. From their position, she’d guess it was a meeting house of some kind. The wood still smoldered slightly. They couldn’t have gone far. She found an overturned barrel still half full of dried fruit, dropped a handful in her pouch and munched on a few more. After circling the village, she found the path the Rugians had taken.
Ilythra whistled low in her throat. The sound would not carry, but Melior heard it and thundered close. With one last look at the village, she hopped on the stallion’s back and continued on her way.
* * *
Music drifted down the corridor, along with the occasional tinkle of female laughter. Ryliann paused outside the door and took a deep breath. The guards at either side of the entrance glanced at him. They were both friends. He grinned and held up one finger. He took another breath. He could do this. He was a prince.
He nodded to the guard, who then stepped inside the room and announced him in a loud voice. Ryliann entered as every head turned his way. His father sat on a dais at the far end of the room. Brishne sat by his side. Ryliann ignored the dark-haired counselor and walked to his father. He bowed low. “Majesty.”
“Son. You do clean up nicely.” He waved his hand over the room. “You see there—a buffet of choice women. Remember your duty.”
Ryliann’s stomach soured. Was it possible to forget? “As you command.” Ryliann turned. Men and women mingled through the room in a colorful display of cloth and gems. Along the wall, several younger females whispered to one another behind their hands. He looked for one familiar face and couldn’t find it. Stepping off the dais, he removed a cup of wine from a passing tray and drained it.
“Prince Ryliann.”
He turned to see a dark head bob into a perfect curtsey. Large dark eyes gazed up at him with obvious admiration. He’d seen the woman before but couldn’t quite remember where. He glanced around for her chaperone to introduce them but didn’t see anyone.
“My name is Martina.” She rose gracefully to her feet. “We met last year at the harvest celebration.” She smiled, showing even, white teeth. She was about a head shorter than he was with the kind of curves Vann preferred. Her face was pretty, but he thought it lacked character. Her dark eyes dominated her face, but the rounded cheeks, small nose and full lips were also attractive.
A vague memory surfaced but not enough to inspire a topic for conversation. “Well, it is nice to see you again.” He nodded and stepped away.
She placed a hand on his arm. Her dark eyes sparkled. “Based on how many people are in attendance this year, the crop should exceed our wildest expectations.”
If only it were that easy. Ryliann glanced around the room. There was an unusually large number in attendance. “Your father is a lord...” He trailed off and raised an eyebrow.
Martina smiled sweetly and let her hand drop. “We have an estate on the edge of the Tir Rhos.”
“At our border with Lydda.”
“Yes, but we are most loyal to you.” Her full lips turned up at the edges in a sultry smile. “And Edriel.”
“Is your father here?” He glanced around. He thought he remembered him now. A portly gentleman who could never say no to his daughter.
“No, he fell ill but bid me come in his stead.” She dropped her gaze.
He placed his hand on her arm. “I am sorry. I hope he returns to health quickly.”
She looked up at him through her lashes. “You are very kind. I am so glad he insisted I attend. I had forgotten how handsome you are.”
Ryliann smiled. “I owe that to my father and mother.”
“And modest too.” She inclined her head. “So do you have high hopes?”
“For?”
Her smile was seductive. “The harvest.”
He stepped away. “I’m a little worried about the blight.”
Martina wrinkled her petite nose. “I’ve heard the commoners speak of the blight. It gives them something to worry about.”
“You are not worried?”
She shook her head. Her dark hair gleamed in the candlelight.
Ryliann breathed out slowly. What he hated most about these kinds of events was trying to extricate himself from a conversation without bruising anyone’s ego. “It has been wonderful chatting with you, Martina, but I must speak with some of the council.”
She reached for his hand and again curtseyed. When she rose to her feet, she was so close her floral scent surrounded him. “The pleasure is mine, my prince. And of course. I understand the needs of the kingdom are pressing.” She stepped even closer; her breast brushed the side of his arm. “I hope we can spend more time together later. Perhaps in less crowded surroundings.”
He forced a smile.
“Oh,” she added, “and please call me Tina. Everyone who is close to me does.”
“Tina.” Ryliann nodded and reached for another goblet of wine. This was what his father was looking for? She was pretty. No doubt. But she didn’t stir his imagination or his loins. He took a deep breath. It was going to be a long day.
* * *
Ilythra gripped the sword. The blade felt good in her hand. Her palms itched to feel it bite into Rugian flesh. Anger coursed through her body, heightening her senses. They were close. She could feel them, a presence in the forest with her, along the winds of Teann. A warning fired in her head. She shouldn’t look forward to killing, crave someone’s death. There was something about that line that shouldn’t be crossed. She shrugged it off, once again seeing the mother’s face as she’d frantically checked her baby for breath, heard Bredych’s voice taunting her, saw Arien fall beneath a pile of Rugian soldiers. No. She would find them and she would make them tell her how they contacted Bredych, then she’d follow that source to its end.
She peered between the trees into the darkness and breathed deeply. Definitely the scent of smoke and cooking meat. She let instinct and Teann guide her. The Rugians left little trace of their passage through the dense forest. A few snapped branches, the random hoof print in the deep loam, the carcass of a deer that had been further ravaged by the scavengers of the night. They were good at hiding their tracks.
But now she had them.
Soundless, she approached their camp. They’d have at least one set of guards, perhaps two. Slowly, she circled the camp until she’d spotted two Rugians sitting on a log playing some sort of game with small bones.
They looked like ordinary warriors, not capable of such cruelty, but the Rugians were Bredych’s hands and feet. They did his work for him. They deserved to die. Each and every one of them.
One of the men said something in the guttural dialect of Rugia. He rose and headed deeper into the forest. She followed and soon heard the steady stream of urine against the forest floor. She flicked her arm. The solid bone handle of a knife slid from her wrist sheath into her hand. She sheathed the sword. With care, she crept behind the guard, reached up to pull his head back and slit his throat in one fluid motion. He was heavier than she’d thought but she lowered his body silently to the ground and moved to take care of the second guard. Warm blood sprinkled against the thick layer of leaves and needles, but no one came to investigate. She cleaned the knife on the Rugian’s fur and moved silently toward the source of the smoke. She could only hope the rest were so easy.
Five Rugians sat around the fire, talking in low tones. Every so often, they’d look around the forest as though they heard some kind of noise. One shuddered when a wolf cried out to the moon. Why were they so nervous?
Five to one. Her smile was grim. She’d had worse odds. There was always a possibility there were more sentries on the other side of the clearing. Seven to one? Anger bubbled up. She breathed deeply until calm once again cooled her thoughts. You need to see ev
erything. Anger only narrows your vision. Her grandfather’s words from long ago. She closed her eyes. Would he approve of what she was about to do? It didn’t matter. He’d been a warrior. He’d understand.
The scene was eerily reminiscent of when she and Mohan had fought the Rugians guarding the secret entrance into the mountain valley. Only now there were five Rugians instead of two, and she didn’t have Mohan. An ache of longing pierced her chest. Where was the Benai now? Was he well? She shook away the thought and concentrated on the men sitting around the fire.
Tension wavered from the group, filling the air with unease. She listened to their murmuring speech but didn’t understand the guttural tones. Did they worry about the Dawn Children? The townspeople? She pictured the last sacked town and thought not, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were edgy. Maybe scared.
One of the Rugians sat slightly higher than the others on an old stump. The leader. Firelight reflected against the metal woven into his braids and burnished his high cheekbones and long, straight nose. He didn’t stare into the flames, like the others, but out into the night. His vision would be the sharpest because of it.
A noise drew her attention. A short distance away, a woman sobbed quietly. With caution, she moved closer. A group of women huddled near the Rugians. Thick, corded rope tied them together, and as she’d guessed, two more guards stood nearby. She’d heard the Rugians didn’t rape women captives. They prized the purity of their blood too much to breed with any other race, but she supposed they needed slaves just like any other brutal society.
The women wouldn’t be of any help. They were frightened, defeated. She was still on her own. Without thinking, her hand found Ilydearta. A way if there is a way. And there would be. She had surprise and the stone on her side. Once, long ago, a Rugian had mistaken her for Thira, the Rugian goddess of war. She’d used the mistaken identity in her favor before; it wouldn’t hurt to try it again. She might just get lucky and capitalize on their unease and superstition.
She would need to take one of the Rugians alive. But only one. Ilythra took a deep breath and let it out. The tension left her body. Before she even stepped into the light, the leader swung his head in her direction.
“Thira!” she yelled as she brought her sword down on the nearest Rugian where his neck met his shoulder. The crunch of bone vibrated through Naidel. She spun and buried the sword in another Rugian’s stomach before any of the other Rugians stumbled to their feet. Two down, five to go. With her foot on his torso, she spun the dead Rugian, using his body as a shield as the enraged leader charged. She straightened her leg, pushing the dead man off her sword and into the leader. The flames flickered, fed by a breeze, and distorted the features of the remaining Rugians.
Rugians fought with thick, wide but short blades, rendering their reach no better than hers.
One of the Rugians kicked her arm and her knife flew from her grasp. She twisted into the momentum, bent down and picked up one of the burning logs, shoving it in the Rugian’s chest. He screamed as his beard caught fire and frantically pulled at the greasy braids. Instinct caused her to duck and the hiss of steel through air sounded over her head. Spinning away, she slashed at the back of a Rugian’s legs. He fell to his knees. She continued the spin, pulled his braid back and slit his neck.
Turning, she raised her sword in time to meet another Rugian blade. The impact sent shock waves down her arm, and the fire warmed her back as her sword met his. Her fingers tingled with the force of his strikes. The Rugian pressed forward. Ilythra hopped back and landed on one of the stones they’d used to ring the fire just as the Rugian stepped forward. He lost his balance, and she sliced his neck, severing one of his braids. Blood gushed from the open wound.
The heat from the fire licked at her boots. Ilythra jumped sideways, landed in a crouch and rolled to a side. Dirt and small rocks flew into the air as a sword hit the space she’d just occupied. She picked up a handful of dirt and old needles and threw it at the nearest Rugian. He blinked, and she sliced him across the belly.
A blow hit her back, sending her sprawling into the dirt. She slid for a wheel until a large tree stopped her. Pain flared across her lower back and side. She struggled to take a deep breath and looked up into the gaze of the leader.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness.
“If you are Thira, stand and prove yourself.” He spoke broken Anatarian. A shuffle sounded behind him. He cursed and then yelled something in Rugian.
The two remaining Rugians lowered their swords and stepped back.
Ilythra struggled to catch her breath as she rose to her feet. The Rugian towered over her. The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin. She snorted through her nose. The big ones were at least slower and usually overconfident. She rolled her shoulders and adjusted her grip on the sword.
The big Rugian moved to the side. She followed the motion but glanced at the other two.
“They will not interfere. Between you and me, small woman who claims to be a goddess,” the Rugian spoke. The two Rugians threw down their swords.
“Where did you learn Anatarian?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You think we stupid barbarians.”
She observed the man before her. Long, greasy braids littered with small pieces of metal and a few acorns hung around his face. His fur clothing covered the majority of his torso and was stained and dirty, but intelligence shone from his dark eyes. “Stupid, yes. Your choice of a leader proves it. Barbarians? I’ve seen worse.”
He spit. “We do not choose leader. Leader must be strong enough to defeat weaker.”
Ilythra raised an eyebrow. So Bredych had defeated a few Rugian leaders. “And you think Bredych would defend your weak?”
The Rugian’s jaw hardened, along with his eyes, but he didn’t speak.
“Has Bredych defeated you?”
The man’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
Ilythra struggled to catch her breath. If she defeated the leader, would the others run or would she have two more Rugians to fight? “Yet you follow him.”
“I am not stupid. I have seen magic.”
Magic. He’d seen the power of Crioch. “So you’re afraid of him.”
The barbarian grunted. “Only a fool knows no fear. I am no fool. I match steel for steel, strength for strength, but I have no magic.”
“If I defeat you, will you and your men follow me?”
He laughed. “If you defeat me, small woman, you are Thira born again. My men will not attack you.”
She smiled. One more Rugian to kill. “Good enough.” She rolled her shoulders, breathed in and out. Teann glimmered in the air, moving through the breeze. Her shirt stuck to her back. She was bleeding. Damn. It had to be deep or she’d feel more pain.
He rushed forward, and she jumped back. His sword bit through the air close enough that she felt the breeze. Despite his size, he was not slow.
She circled left, away from the flames. The Rugian kept his body facing her but didn’t chase her as she’d hoped. She was right; he was intelligent too. He refused to tire himself moving after her.
Well, she had her own magic. She breathed in Teann, focused it through the stone and breathed out again. Her vision crystalized. When he turned to face her, the giant of a man limped slightly on his left leg.
She rushed forward as though to slash at his right side. His blade arched toward her but she switched direction at the last moment and struck his left leg. She somersaulted away and rose to her feet.
He bellowed and charged. His shoulder hit her midsection, raising her up off her feet. She flew through the air and landed hard on the ground. Instinct raised her sword arm in time to block a vicious downswing. She blocked another and another, each one sending vibrations through her arm and keeping her down on the ground. It would only take one fraction of a mistake and she was done.
As the blade came down, instead of blocking it, she hit it hard to a side. Had she miscalculated even a hair, the fight would have been over. She didn’t. He wasn’t expecting the move and slowed for just enough time to allow her to get back to her feet. He whirled; a small smile showed through his greased mustache.
Ilythra backed up a step. Her arms shook. It was now or never. The Rugian’s legs tensed, and she charged. His eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t expected that either. He met her blade, but she continued the assault. She almost couldn’t believe it when she saw her opening. The Rugian backed up a step. She ducked under his swing, spun and kicked his bad leg, putting all of her strength and momentum into the movement. He staggered, caught his foot on an old root and fell down.
She rushed forward and put the edge of her sword against his neck.
He grimaced up at her. Dirt magnified the creases on his face. “Well, do it. You won.”
Ilythra hesitated. “I don’t wish your death.” She was vaguely surprised that it was the truth.
“You don’t?” His thick brows met in the middle. “What do you want?”
She took a deep breath, seeing again the devastated villages. Anger warred with a plan that began to form. She sighed. “Maybe you deserve to die, but I won’t be your executioner.” She removed her blade. “I want your fealty. Swear to me.”
His eyes narrowed and hatred shone in the depths. “You would make me slave. Give me my honor and kill me now.”
He wouldn’t keep asking if he knew how tempted she was to comply. “You mistake me. I want no slaves. I don’t care how you rule your lands. I don’t care what you do on Rugia. I want you to stop serving the monster you now serve. I want to give you back your freedom.”
“What kind of freedom do you speak? Freedom with threat of death?”
With a long exhale, Ilythra released the anger. Killing these Rugians wouldn’t change anything. Their lives just might. As distasteful as it was, she needed to attempt a type of truce. She sheathed her sword. “That was no threat. I beat you in fair combat. By your own laws, I am your leader. Is a leader a slave master?”
Journey of the Wanderer Page 9
