He’d tell her that, too, not that it would ease the pain. But he’d tell her; then he’d get out of her life. “Just let me find her. Safe.”
But even as he said it, a cold chill—arctic cold—raced down his spine.
Kerr tensed. Deep in his chest, he growled, a warning. It managed to pierce Syn’s melancholy, and she lifted her head, looked all around. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the wind, but there was nothing of demon in it.
This far into the mountains, she should be safer. It was too cool for the Ickado, too sparsely populated for the Raviners—they preferred to loiter around the edges of the lands the rebels had secured in hopes of picking off the stray refugee or scout. Jorniaks sometimes, but there was no taint of death in the air, and where there were Jorniaks, there was always death.
Kerr picked up his pace, first a trot. Then a run that was damn near deadly. Baerns often seemed to be part goat—entirely too surefooted, even in this terrain, but this was madness. Something had the beast scared, though, and it was enough to have Syn’s instincts humming. He darted to the side, as though trying to double-back.
She caught a glimpse of something in the brush. A flash of golden blond. Somebody’s hair.
“Shit.” The fear in her heart trembled, but then faded, died, replaced by a hot, burning anger. Lips peeling back from her teeth, she flexed a hand. Whispered to the power. “Just let me see you.”
Kerr continued his dash back down the trail, but then the beast froze. In the middle of the narrow path, he stilled, his great body shuddering, trembling, as he sucked in air. He quivered. Syn stroked a hand down his neck. “We can handle this, boy.”
A blond form dropped down from a tree. Followed by a second and a third.
“Witch.” A smile curled the man’s mouth.
Syn smiled back and drew her pulsar with her left hand. “Warlord.”
Then she flung her right hand out toward him. It was empty when she lifted it, the ball of fire forming inches from her hand, halfway between them, arrowing toward him. It hit him square in the chest and he screeched as it engulfed him. She downed a second and third with her pulsar.
Shifting her gaze to the others, she said, “Next?”
“Can you hope to fight them all?”
Another stepped from the trees, an older man, his golden brown hair streaked with silver, his dark green eyes set in a face that had seen more than a few decades. Centuries, most likely.
“I don’t know if I can hope, but I’ll damn well try.” Then she smirked. “Even if it means burning myself out, draining myself dry. It would be a pleasure.”
Somebody rushed her from behind. Kerr tensed—it was the only warning she had before the beast bucked and kicked back with his hind legs. She felt the impact, heard the crash. But she didn’t look away from the Warlord. He was the highest rank—she knew it even without asking. Unless he called them off, they’d attack until she’d either killed them all or killed herself trying.
I always suspected I’d go out fighting, she mused. “Hadn’t planned on it happening for my own stupidity, though,” she muttered out loud.
She felt the clamoring at her shields and this time, she dropped them. Kalen’s voice, Elina’s magical probe, the light brush from Morne, all of them bombarded her and she flinched, forced her focus not to waver. “I’m an idiot, I know it, and I need help. Badly.”
They went silent and she relayed her location, never once taking her gaze from the line of Warlords and Sirvani gathered around her. Hoping to distract them, maybe even scare the hell out of them, she summoned the fire and let it dance around her hand.
“Help is coming—just hold your ground, Syn. We’ll get there.”
She tried not to let the fear swamp her. “If you don’t get here in time, Kalen, it’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
“We’ll get there.”
Then he was gone and she was alone in her head once more. Alone, to face her very worst nightmare. She could handle being killed by a demon. She could handle going down in battle. But being taken a slave, like her mother, like so many other women from her world, it left her sick with terror.
She spun the fire, let it grow, then shrink back in on itself, grow . . . It was hypnotic, she knew, and more than a few of the Sirvani stared, fascinated. But not enough. Not enough.
“Draining yourself dry. Wouldn’t that be a waste of your skills, my lady?” he asked.
“Not a waste.” Kerr was restless, shifting his feet, his big head swiveling as he fought to watch all of the men around them. She’d counted eleven. There was no way she could fight them all, not unless they all grouped up and stood in front so she could fry them all at once. But they weren’t going to be that stupid, she already knew. “I figure if it keeps me out of your hands, it would be a good thing. Plus, I can tell you, it will be one hell of a ride.”
Another started to edge in, from the corner of her eye. Syn lifted her pulsar, fired. There was a faint, choked scream and then nothing. As his life faded, she smiled at the leader. “I ask again . . . who’s next?”
The sound of hooves beating on the earth drew their attention. Hooves—help. Thankfully.
The baern bore down, and when the Sirvani in the path didn’t move, he leaped over them, barely clearing their heads. They moved then—a bit too late. If those hooves had been any closer, their heads would have been caved in.
Pity it hadn’t happened.
Damn, Kalen . . . your timing.
But it wasn’t Kalen or Bron or any other soul she’d expected. Sitting atop the baern’s back was Xan. He barked out an order in Anqarian—perfect, flawless Anqarian.
“Stand down.”
Her heart raced at the sound of his voice, at the sight of him. He didn’t look at her, staring at the older Warlord as he hurled something into the dirt. One of the Sirvani dashed forward and grabbed it, turning it over to the Warlord before Syn could even make it out. It wasn’t until the Warlord lifted it to the sun’s light that she realized what it was.
A stone, set in a filigree of dark metal. A black stone, surrounded by black metal. She hadn’t seen anything quite like it—it didn’t much resemble any of the stones she’d ever seen worn by Sirvani or Warlords over the years.
The sight of it had the Warlord scowling—a dark, heavy scowl as he studied the stone. Finally, he looked up at Xan and said, “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
“Because you’re a wise man,” Xan said flatly. “Now act like one and stand down.”
“You know better than that, Xanthe Taise.” He tossed the stone back to Xan.
Syn only barely heard the words, too busy staring at the stone, watching as Xan drew the long blade from his back—that knife of his that he was so damned fond of. He twined the chain around the hilt, still watching the Warlord. “Lord Reil.”
The Warlord grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. “Need I even ask why you expect me to stand down?”
Xanthe. Taise.
Xanthe?
Taise.
“No, you needn’t ask, and I needn’t explain,” Xan bit off. He finally shot one look at Syn. Regret flashed in his eye, a muscle ticked in his jaw and then he looked back at the Warlord and said something. It was in the same language Morne had used to speak with Laithe, Syn thought.
Her heart skipped. What were they saying?
Her fingers itched, and she eased them toward the reins. She should flee—now.
Xan—no, Xanthe said something in that same, unintelligible tongue, but her mind picked up on one word that sounded familiar. A-tiri. She didn’t recognize the word a-tiri but it sounded an awlful like like tiris—tiris meant slave of some sort. Snarling, she drew her blade.
But he wasn’t even looking at her, rattling off more and more—hell, he’d spoken more to this fucking Warlord in three minutes than he spoke to her in a day.
The Warlord’s eyes narrowed, and he demanded, “Have you formally claimed her? For yourself? For another?”
“I claim ownership over
no living creature. I am Insar.”
That word again—Battlelord.
“Insar. Yes . . . yes, you are Insar.” The Warlord stared at the chain wrapped around the hilt of Xanthe’s blade, his mouth twisting into a cold, satisfied smile. He jutted his chin at Syn and said in Ishtanian, “If you are truly Insar—then I call your services, mercenary. Name your price, if you’ll help deliver that woman to my camp. Unharmed—”
“Over my dead body.” Xan lifted his blade and pointed it at the Warlord. “Eshera esen avi.”
Reil’s brows drew together over his eyes. “Avi.”
It was a word Syn had never heard. As the Warlord’s eyes came her way, she swallowed, uncertain what in the hell was going on.
She tightened her grip on her pulsar. Some of the men at her left were edging in on her again and she lifted the weapon, leveled it at them. “I don’t give a fuck what these two are saying—one of you makes a move toward me, I kill you.”
“Even the two of you, a witch and a Battlelord, cannot hope to fight us all,” one of the other Warlords said.
Both—as though he plans to protect me, fight with me . . . Syn wished she had time to think that through, but a sound caught her ears. The faint whisper. Cloth gliding against leaves. More Warlords. More Sirvani. Their number had doubled.
Her heart raced. Her mind did as well, coming up with one possible plan after another, rejecting each one as ludicrous, or impossible, or with too big a possibility of her surviving—surviving to end up a Warlord’s slave—not a viable option for her, not for any amount of time. She’d die first.
Again, she felt an odd brush against her mind—Xan—no. It wasn’t Xan. Xan didn’t exist. The man before her was Xanthe, a Battlelord from Anqar, whatever that meant, and she didn’t know him.
She shied away from his touch, uncertain how he’d managed it, uncertain of anything and everything except for one fact. She was in serious trouble, and if Xanthe wanted to act like he was on her side for these bastards, her best bet was to go along with it until Kalen arrived.
Shooting him a sidelong look, she saw that he wasn’t looking at her, but he still held his blade in one hand, a pulsar at the other, gripping his baern’s barrel with his thighs. He stared at Reil, his gaze unwavering, his face resolute.
One of the Warlords—the one who’d spoken earlier—drew his own blade and pointed it at Xanthe. “Why don’t we settle this?” he asked, cocking his head. Blond hair fell over his shoulder. Around his neck he wore a stone of medium blue and he held his blade with ease. “Whoever wins lays claim to the witch.”
“Are you so ready to die?” Xanthe asked, his voice dismissive.
“Elorn, no.” Reil moved, putting his body between the men. “Insar, if none have laid claim to her, then by our ways, she is mine. I found her.”
Syn snarled. “I belong to no one.” She lifted her hand and hurled the fire, aiming it so that it hit the ground at the Warlord’s feet.
Two of the men at the Warlord’s back started forward, but he lifted a hand. “Fall back.” He flicked a glance at the burned ground near his feet and said, “Try that again, child, and it will not go well for you.”
“If another of your men moves toward her, or if you try to lay claim to this woman, I start killing and I do not stop until you kill me or every last one of you lies dead.” A smile flirted with the corners of Xanthe’s hard mouth, and he added, “And I will start with you, Lord Reil.”
There was a low rumble of voices. Syn didn’t look away from the Warlord, but from the corner of her eye, she could see varying degrees of surprise, fear, doubt. Some of them believed every word Xanthe said. Some saw only arrogance. Syn wasn’t sure, but she guided her baern around so that she was at his back, facing those who’d been behind them. They were trying to edge close again, and as her gaze landed on them, they backed away.
Off in the distance, she caught the faintest hint of a familiar sound. Hooves pounding hard and fast. And another sound, the pulse and roar of caribins, quite a few.
A Sirvani approached the Warlord from behind. His voice was low, but not so low Syn didn’t understand his words. “Lord Reil, the offworlders approach. Have you any orders?”
Syn could just barely see the man’s face if she turned her head just so. Something crossed his face and he inclined his head. But before he could speak, the roar of caribins surrounded them and Syn saw why only a second later. Kalen and Bron had flown theirs straight up the mountainside—as they cleared the edge, they leaped from the caribins, letting the transports crash to the ground.
Both of them were armed and they settled in flanking positions, one at Syn’s side, one at Xanthe’s. “You’re in my territory, Warlord,” Kalen said, baring his teeth at Lord Reil. “You know what I do to Warlords who invade my territory?”
As more of the rebel army arrived, Xanthe allowed himself to breathe. Adrenaline crashed through him, drawing his muscles tight, sharpening his focus. He ached for blood, but one man alone could never fight this many warriors. From the corner of his eye, he saw Syn’s slender back, straight and unyielding. He hadn’t been alone, though. Syn had placed herself at his back—ready to fight with him.
Did it mean anything?
Yes, you fool. It meant she figured out it was her best chance at evading capture.
“Lord Reil.”
The Warlord turned his head at the sound of his name. Xanthe watched as the blond healer Morne broke through the rebels and strode forward, standing before the Warlord.
Reil’s eyes narrowed. “Morne Ramire. You live.”
“Yes. I do.” He glanced at Kalen. Kalen’s jaw clenched, but then he gave a short nod. Morne inclined his head and looked back at the Warlord. “Now the question is . . . will you? Your men, you, you can walk away. Or we can fight it out.” Then he drew a blade and said, “But if we fight, know this—you will die. As will many of your men. So choose.”
“Ah, so it’s a traitor before me.”
Morne shook his head. “I am no traitor—my allegiance lay with my brother, and he is gone. I chose who I ally with, and I’ve been allied with these men and women for nearly three decades. I offer you an honorable choice—an honorable bargain. We all walk away. If we fight, yes, we will have the loss of life. But you are not in your world. You have naught but the men at your side. We have hundreds in the camp below. You will be wiped out.”
“And the price to walk away?”
“You’re an honorable lord. I had heard this, even though I have been away from my home world for many years. I ask simply for your word. You walk away—and you make no move to capture any of our men, any of our witches, any of our people, period.”
“A bloodless battle.” After the Warlords had cleared out, Kalen turned and stared at Morne, his expression a mixture of disgust and shock. “I don’t know if I should be shocked or pissed.”
Syn understood completely. Warlords had walked away. They had let the Warlords walk away.
“They walked away,” Bron said, echoing her thoughts with a disbelieving shake of his head.
“Lord Reil is not a foolish man.” Laithe emerged from the gathered men to stand at Xanthe’s side.
Xanthe kicked a leg over the baern’s back. “Hello, brother.”
Brother—
This is Laithe Taise—son of Raichar Taise.
Xanthe Taise.
Brothers. The look the two of them had shared just before Dais’s words had sent her world crumpling around her. Brothers.
They clasped each other’s forearms, and Laithe leaned in, murmured something soft, too quiet for even Syn’s sensitive ears to hear. Xanthe backed away and shook his head.
Off to the side, Kalen had a disgruntled look on his face. “Brother. Fuck.” He shot Morne a dark look and said, “Please tell me that is just a bloody way of greeting and that he is not in fact a second brother.”
“They are twins.” Morne looked all too amused as he returned Kalen’s stare. “They were once the very terrors of the High
City, when they were young.”
Kalen swore, long and hard. Sheathing his pulsar, he turned and started to pace around the narrowing clearing.
If Syn hadn’t been so tangled inside, she might have enjoyed seeing her commander look so out of sorts.
As it was, all she could do was stare at Xanthe. Twins—they looked absolutely nothing alike. One light and fair, the other darker than a shadow. But they moved alike, she realized. And they both shared that faint, almost nonexistent smile.
And Lee.
Both of them were Lee’s brothers. Xanthe was Lee’s brother. Whatever in the hell a Battlelord was, he was Lee’s brother, her blood. According to Morne, that meant a whole hell of a lot.
“What’s a Battlelord?” she asked, surprised she managed to sound somewhat calm and collected. Her voice was slightly hoarse, but it hadn’t been that long ago she’d cried herself dry. She felt as though she had been wrung dry, drained and so very empty.
Xanthe’s gaze met hers. He stared at her as though he wished to memorize her, commit every feature to his memory . . . like nothing else existed for him . . . save her.
Seconds ticked away and finally he spoke, his voice low. “A Battlelord is a Warlord who has renounced all magics, all ties of loyalty, save for those of his family. I’m a mercenary.”
“A mercenary. Well, that’s certainly a surprise,” she muttered, looking away.
Bron snorted and clapped Kalen on the shoulder. “Well, a mercenary is a damn sight better to have as a brother-in-law than a Warlord.” He shot Xanthe a narrow look and then shifted his gaze to Laithe. “I don’t know how in the hell we’re supposed to deal with that one, though.”
Kalen grunted. “We deal by getting back to camp.” He looked at Morne and said, “Will they keep their word? They will not attack?”
“Not under Reil’s authority. In time, there may be some defectors, but nothing we cannot handle. He gave his word, though, and once given, Warlords do not go back on a vow.” He glanced at Syn.
Her heart froze, as Morne murmured, “Warlords, Battlelords, they honor their vows unto death. They do not lie.”
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