The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three

by Draven, Grace

  He shivered, from the cold and her light touch on his bare skin. “Your vision at night must be even better than I assumed if you can see a bruise in this blackness.”

  She didn't look up from studying the contusions decorating his body. “It's as daylight to you, just without color.” Her fingers traced a delicate map over his side, making him twitch at the sensation. Her claws, as hard and strong as the points he'd carved into her wooden throwing spikes could have cut him deep, but they glided across his flesh in the most delicate caress. “Those bastards knew where and how to hit. Enough to make you hurt and bleed but not enough to kill you.”

  “Brimming with kindness.” This time his sarcasm spilled into his words. Chamtivos and his lackeys had enjoyed doling out punishment when they couldn't convince him to divulge the secret to breaking Megiddo's enchantment. They could have beat him to death without ever solving that mystery because Serovek didn't know it. Only the Khaskem knew how to break the spell he'd wrought on the monk. Even if Serovek did know, he would have died under their fists silent with the knowledge and Megiddo's enchantment unbroken.

  “Anhuset.” She raised her gaze then, alerted by something in his voice. “Our chances of surviving tomorrow are slim at best, even with our plans and preparations.”

  She lowered his shirt, silent for a moment as if weighing her next words. She pivoted to stand in front of him, her features more defined with her much closer proximity. Her body heat warmed his front, and her eyes had darkened to the gold of coins in a king's counting house. Serovek's breathing turned labored, a labor having nothing to do with compromised lungs or injuries.

  He resisted the temptation to close his eyes when she laid her hand gently against his cheek. “If the gods abandon us, I will be proud to die fighting at the side of Serovek Pangion, Margrave of High Salure and battle mate to Brishen Khaskem.”

  His heart galloping faster than a spooked horse, Serovek bent his head, tossing aside any lingering resistance to this fierce, courageous woman. He didn't have to bend far. She was nearly his height and slipped her hand to his neck to pull his head down to her.

  He'd often imagined what kissing Anhuset might be like. All the scenarios had been variations of a passionate tangle of limbs, a hard press of mouths together, the score of her claws across his shoulders. They would gasp together and struggle, and pant, and fight each other for supremacy while they yanked each other's clothes off in a frenzy of desire.

  This kiss was none of those things. The first brush of her lips on his was no more than a zephyr's whisper, the second a soft, curious tug on his lower lip, the third a luxuriant suckling of his upper and lower lips. The fourth kiss was a slow, thorough, glorious mutual exploration of the way her bottom lip felt a little fuller than her top one. Her breath tickled the sensitive corners of his mouth while her hand kneaded his nape. Her claws on his skin were a tantalizing contrast to the softness of her fingertips.

  Serovek groaned, not from pain but from the dizzying euphoria of finally experiencing the fruition of a dream that had consumed his slumber many a night. He slid his arms around her to draw her closer, uncaring that his body twinged hard at her weight against the painful contusions decorating his torso. She copied his actions, the hand at his nape sliding down to the middle of his back while her other hand cupped one buttock for an appreciative squeeze.

  He pulled back enough to look into her eyes, see that they were actually much like his, with sclera, irises, and pupils, all various shades of yellow that merged into the lamplight brightness so different from a human's. He grinned. “Had I known you liked my arse, I'd have invited you to squeeze it long before now.”

  She surprised him further by bending to nibble his chin. The playful touch lit a fire in his body as powerful as if she stroked his cock. The touch was as brief as it was powerful. Anhuset's own smile was a faint lift of one corner of her mouth. She gave him another squeeze. “It's an exceptionally nice arse, margrave. I'll admit to admiring it more than a few times, but consider it a mercy as well as a compliment. It's one of the few spots on you that Chamtivos didn't pummel black and blue.”

  “Don't let any of that stop you from touching wherever you please,” he said. He captured her lips once more, unable to resist their allure. She responded enthusiastically, her soft moan in harmony with his as she learned the shape of his lips and he learned hers.

  No longer satisfied with the closed-mouth caresses they exchanged, he coaxed her mouth open with a gradual seduction. She stilled in his arms, arching deeper into his embrace, the stillness one of curiosity, of anticipation for what he might do next.

  The glide of his tongue along the slick inner skin of her lower lip made her shiver, but she didn't stop him or pull away. He repeated the caress, this time on her upper lip, and her shiver strengthened to a shudder punctuated by a thin, surprised whine and the tightening grip of her arms on his back.

  He drew back a second time. “The Kai don't kiss this way, do they?”

  Anhuset shook her head. “No,” she said in a breathless voice. “Though I've seen the herceges kiss the hercegesé in such a manner. She must have taught him.” Her gold coin eyes shone in the darkness. “Do it again. Teach me how.”

  Her command sent another wave of desire purling through him. “I'm happy to oblige, mistress.”

  She was an eager student and a quick learner, mimicking his endeavors to ignite the same fire in her that she did in him. He massaged the curve of her waist and her long back as she teased his lips with her tongue.

  Certain now she would welcome more from him, he deepened the caress, slipping his tongue into her mouth, past her teeth to taste her even more, no longer caring if she scored him bloody.

  His concern came to naught. Anhuset relaxed her jaw, widening the space between her natural bite so that he could make love to her mouth without injury. Purrs rumbled in her throat, sounds of pure pleasure that urged him to hold her ever tighter, kiss her even deeper.

  Serovek had kissed many women in his lifetime, kisses that ultimately led to a roll in the sheets, the grass, or any convenient place offering a modicum of privacy. Those kisses had been pleasurable, lustful, and forgettable the next hour, the next day. These ephemeral moments with Anhuset in his arms would remain burned in his memory until he died—which might well be as soon as the inevitable dawn.

  The reminder of their circumstances only served to sweeten the kiss and all those that came after it. When they finally halted to take a breath, they discovered they held each other so tightly, a leaf of the finest parchment wouldn't fit between them.

  “You're a marvelous teacher,” she said between shallow pants.

  “And you're an exceptional student.” He stroked her silver hair with one hand. “I could spend all night tasting you,” he said, thrilled that with her instinctive help, he'd discovered a technique for making love to her mouth without losing his tongue.

  Anhuset caressed his lower back with both hands. “If we had the whole night, I'd want that and more, but we have only this short time. I must leave you to keep watch on the shore. For all we know, Chamtivos lied and will be here before dawn.” She gave him a wry look. “You may not survive me, margrave, but I'll do all in my power to make sure you survive this stupid hunt.”

  His heart raced even faster at her words. That was an invitation, a declaration that he was welcomed into her bed and into her body. But this was Anhuset, and he never made assumptions regarding her, no matter how sure he might be. “So my reward for living will be dying from swiving you at a later date?”

  She tapped his shoulder with one claw. “Don't presume. It will be me swiving you.” She stroked his matted hair, fingers catching in the strands stuck together with dried blood. “A reward for the pair of us. And I'm not in the habit of killing my lovers. You'll live.” She winked. “Barely.”

  One more brief kiss before they set to work, she to gather those supplies and weapons she'd take with her, he to retreat behind the bramble wall and build a small heap o
f kindling for a signal fire later. If he was to be bait, he'd make it easy for Chamtivos to find him if not necessarily easy to kill him.

  Before Anhuset left, Serovek caught her hand, entwined his fingers with hers, and lifted her palm to his mouth for a kiss. She reciprocated by pressing her lips to his knuckles. “Be careful,” he said. “Fight as if you're the only one they hunt. If you worry about me, they'll take you.”

  She nodded. “Stay alive, margrave. I carried you up this hill. You owe me a long, hard ride.” Their shared laughter eased the grimness, and she gave him a brief nod before leaping the bramble wall to sprint down the hill where she was soon swallowed by the heavy darkness.

  He longed to go with her, to fight side by side, but his injuries prevented him. He was strong but at the moment too slow to be anything more to her than a burden. He served her and himself best by acting as the distraction for the hunters, focusing their attentions on him so that she might ambush them, one by one.

  He built the fire from the kindling they'd gathered earlier, igniting it with the eating knife as his striker against a piece of flint, and bits of the tattered cloth as both char cloth and tinder. The fire provided welcome warmth, but more importantly it gave off light, a flickering, dancing luminescence he had no doubt those camped across the lake could clearly see, even through the battalion of firs covering the island. If things went as they planned, Chamtivos would mark the location of the light, assume his prey were foolish in their desire to stay warm, and head directly for the spot as soon as they landed the boats.

  Pain exhausted him, and boredom made him sleepy as he waited alone for dawn to arrive. He was as armed as he could be with knife, sling, and two of the three spears he'd made. Anhuset had taken the third spear and her pair of throwing spikes.

  The sling would serve him best, then the spears, and finally the knife. If he was fortunate, he'd kill any hunter who approached long before they got close enough for hand-to-hand combat.

  Anhuset was right when she said they'd come at dawn. The sun had barely washed the sky a pale yellow when he heard her signal whistle in the distance. The boats were in sight.

  Serovek dropped several stones into a pouch he'd made from the hem of his shirt and took up the sling. He slipped his index finger into the looped end to his knuckle and pinched the knotted end between that finger and his thumb, creating a loop. He'd wait to load the pouch until he spotted his quarry.

  Time crawled in the forest's deceptive quiet. Even the birds remained silent, sensing the presence of predators. Only once was the quiet broken by a distant splash of water followed by screams for help and more splashing, then silence once again. For a moment Serovek's breath seized in his lungs and his nostrils until he heard the cries. A male voice, not Anhuset's. Whatever happened to the man who fell into the water, Serovek was certain the hunters now numbered one less.

  Were he uneducated in the value of patience in battle, he might have abandoned his spot to seek out his enemies as Anhuset had done instead of letting them come to him. His patience, however, was finally rewarded as was his and Anhuset's planning the previous night. Three shadows, purposeful in their creeping ascent toward the bramble wall, solidified into a trio of men. Two carried swords and spears, the third a bow. Chamtivos's betrayer had warned Anhuset there'd be at least four skilled bowmen in their group. Serovek wondered if the traitor himself was among their number. It didn't matter if he was. A man who sneaked a knife to his opponent because he believed in the fairness of a fight was still an adversary, just a nobler one. To Serovek's way of thinking, Anhuset was his only true ally in this deadly game.

  He eased two stones into his free hand, loaded one stone into the sling's pouch. The three hunters didn't hear him, and judging by their actions, they hadn't seen him yet either. The topography worked to his benefit for the moment but not for long. Soon they'd be high enough up the slope to spot him behind the bramble camouflage.

  It had been some time since he'd hunted with a sling, but Serovek practiced regularly anyway. One never knew when they might have to fend off a pack of wolves, furred or human.

  The rush of battle fever surged through his body, pushing aside the pain of his injuries. He stood, swung the sling overhead in a fast arc and released the knotted end. A soft thunk followed, and the archer fell wordlessly into the underbrush before rolling down the slope to rest against a tree. He didn't rise.

  The remaining two hunters barely had time to leap for cover when Serovek hurled the second stone, this time taking down of the spearmen. His companion scuttled through the underbrush back down the slope, making a thrashing racket as he went. Serovek didn't bother taking aim or reaching for one of his spears. The fleeing hunter was too well-hidden and too distant now for a sure hit, and he didn't want to lose either of his spears in the attempt.

  The second man he'd hit fell where he stood and didn't slide or roll down the slope as the archer had. Still armed with the sling and carrying one of his spears, Serovek made his way toward the dead spearman instead. “Better than falling down the hill,” he muttered.

  He didn't have to worry about fighting or finishing off the second man. His had been a kill-shot. The rock had smashed one side of the man's face, caving in cheekbone and eye socket. The other eye stared sightless at the tree canopy.

  Serovek made short work of stripping the corpse of its weaponry to arm himself with a more respectable arsenal: a less primitive spear, short sword, and two knives. He left the body for scavengers and turned his attention to the archer while keeping an ear open for any movement from the distant brush and wishing one of the three had thought to bring a shield.

  Senses riding a blade's edge of anticipation at taking a volley of arrows in the gut and chest from a revived archer, he approached more cautiously. Reason told him that were the archer still alive, he would have shot Serovek several times as he stripped the weapons off his dead comrade, but reason wasn't always right and caution had its virtues.

  The man was as dead as the other, though far less mangled. The sling stone had struck him in the temple. Serovek had aimed for his head and released the sling just as the archer turned to signal to his companion. His death was instant.

  Serovek glanced behind him. His sanctuary looked far away, and any other hunter headed in this direction would know where he was, especially with two bodies sprawled in the brush and one survivor to warn the others not only of his location but that he was far from helpless prey. Still, it was a safer retreat than lingering here.

  Once again, he took all available weapons, including the bow and quiver of arrows. Halfway back to the relative safety of the overhang and bramble wall, he suddenly pivoted, pushing his back against a stately conifer with a trunk wider than his shoulders. A thump sounded behind him, and he recognized the noise—an arrow striking the tree on the opposite side. A second archer, and if he wasn't misjudging the rustling behind him, the bowman wasn't alone.

  “We should have beat you harder in camp, margrave, and you should have killed Anagan before he could find us and tell your whereabouts.” Chamtivos's voice silenced the emerging birdsong. “You can't hide behind that tree forever, and your sling won't do you any good now.”

  The surviving spearman must have crossed paths with his master in his flight and wasted no time in telling him where to find his dead companions and Serovek. “It would take a lot more than the clumsy affections from the runt of a cur bitch's litter to break me, you piece of shit,” he told the warlord in a conversational tone, as if the two were friends discussing their day over a tankard of ale in a tavern.

  Another thunk into the tree. Serovek wondered how many arrows the archer planned to waste turning the big conifer into a pin poppet. He glanced out of the corner of one eye, noting the gradual lengthening of a shadow only half a shade darker than all the others, easing toward him from the right.

  Chamtivos's voice no longer held its gloating note. “Where's the gray whore?” he said in a guttural tones, the words hardly more than an incoheren
t snarl.

  “Gone.” And with any luck alive and spilling the blood of this bastard's minions across the entire island.

  The warlord's voice changed again, taking on a cajoling note. “I'm a reasonable man.”

  Serovek snorted and regretted the action instantly as agony shot through his broken nose and into his skull.

  “Bryzant paid me a small fortune to get rid of you, but I wager King Rodan would pay an even bigger one to have his valuable margrave returned to him,” Chamtivos said

  Serovek might have laughed at so obvious a ploy had he not been reminded of his steward's murderous treachery. He watched the shadow coming closer, one silent step at a time. “I don't wish to indulge in another round of your hospitality while I wait for the king's ransom,” he replied. He turned perpendicular to the tree, bent, and scooped up a handful of dirt and brittle pine needles.

  “I've no more reason to use such persuasion on you,” Chamtivos argued. “The Kai woman told us only the Khaskem can reverse Kai magic.”

  That was true and probably the only truth Chamtivos spouted among his negotiations of ransom and promises to let Serovek live.

  The hunter easing in from the right paused for a moment. Afraid he'd done something to alert him of his quarry's awareness of his presence, Serovek employed the same trick of distraction, continuing his conversation with Chamtivos as if ignorant of the approaching danger.

  “What assurances do I have that your archer won't put three arrows in me the moment I step out from behind this tree?”

  If there was one thing he'd learned during the long grueling hours bound in Chamtivos's tent, having his teeth loosened and his ribs caved in, it was that his captor loved to talk. Mostly about himself and his imagined greatness, as well as his puzzlement over why King Rodan hadn't bequeathed the valley to him instead of the Jeden Order or why he couldn't be king of Belawat himself instead of the “old fly bait” currently sitting on the Beladine throne. During the less torturous moments, when he spat out blood or breathed its iron scent through his broken nose, Serovek came to the conclusion that Chamtivos had bid farewell to intelligence, or sanity, or both long ago, trading them for the delusional dreams of a madman.