by Ann Lawrence
“If you’re ready, say so.” Gwen placed the game gun in Maggie’s hands, curling her fingers about the stock. “Don’t accidentally shoot our stud muffin!”
As Gwen spoke, Maggie raised her head. She stood at the top of a mountain in a strange world. The title rose in the sky before her and dripped its familiar blood. The drops glistened and, involuntarily, Maggie looked down to see if they splashed on the floor. Dizziness made her jerk her head upright again.
“This is very weird,” Maggie said. Her voice sounded hollow to her and far away. She experimented a moment, swinging her head about, feeling dizzy again as grass and trees spun and lurched before her. Very quickly, she took control and turned to the hill, facing the spot where the warrior would appear, barely conscious of the boom of distant thunder.
“It’s so real.” Maggie gasped, her heart beating a little faster, for she knew what came next. Her breath shortened as she waited for him.
He did not disappoint her.
The Tolemac warrior climbed the rocky hill, each boot placed deliberately. Only this time, Maggie heard the crunch of stones beneath his soles, heard the sigh of the wind in the trees. A pebble dislodged and rolled, audibly bouncing along behind him.
He came straight toward her.
A swift and heated surge swept her body as she waited breathlessly, the gun clutched tightly in her hand. She wanted to know what he would do when he met her on the hill, for she stood in his path, not leaning on the console as Gwen had, but standing rigidly in the waning light of the warrior’s world. She almost felt the heat of the burning sun, did hear the eerie cry of a bird in the distance. The scrape of his boots echoed about her. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her mouth felt dry.
Thunder rolled. It vibrated in her ears, magnified to ten times its natural volume. Maggie raised her head in fear, looked from the path to the distant mountain peaks. A blinding sheet of lightning streaked across the heavens, setting the Tolemac warrior in sharp relief. The scent of ozone filled her nostrils. She shivered. Then, as the warrior raised his head and stared at her, the sky flashed a brilliant white. A sudden pain shot through Maggie’s head—pulsed from one side of her skull to the other.
She moaned in agony, clasped the gun to her chest, and shut her eyes against a dazzling flare of lightning. Her head rocked heavily on her neck. She stumbled, slipping to her knees just as the white flash broke into a thousand shards of color and pain.
Chapter Two
“By the sword!” Kered swore, staggering blindly. He stumbled over a tree root and nearly fell. The fierce white light slowly dissolved, revealing a woman stretched out at his feet.
He bent over the supine woman, his vision still blurry in the aftermath of the dazzling flash of lightning. He rubbed his eyes, making them worse. Yes, he had stepped on her, not a tree root. Through the swimming dots of color, he noted the rise and fall of the woman’s breast. Alive, but badly injured.
“Kered!”
“Here, Nilrem,” he called to an old man easing his way down the steep path.
“Are you hurt? Who is this?’’ Nilrem came to a halt at his side, planting his walking stick inches from the woman.
“I thought you might know. I tripped over her.”
“Is she dead?” Nilrem’s ancient back did not allow bending and stooping over damsels in distress.
“No, but whatever ails her, she is well gone from here.” Kered ignored the stabbing flashes of color still plaguing his sight and picked up the woman’s hand, seeking her pulse with his fingertips. It beat strongly.
“Do you see her pendant?” Nilrem whacked Kered on the arm with his stick.
“Curious.” Kered lifted the bauble, then drew back, holding it at arm’s length as he inspected it. Jewels held no interest for him, and he placed it gently back on her breast. “Her breath labors. Perhaps we should get her to shelter?’’ A long rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
“Aye,” Nilrem agreed, shuffling about the tree roots. “The winds will rise now; the conjunction begins.”
Kered tore his gaze from the woman, a difficult task, for her exotic beauty and her deathly stillness held more allure than stellar phenomena. The Tolemac moons, four small bluish-green orbs, moved into alignment high in the eastern sky. He rose and scooped the woman into his arms. She weighed nothing. His palms caressed the unusual fabric of her gown, and he noted the supple flesh beneath. With difficulty, he forced himself to his task.
“Come, Nilrem. You may spout profundities to your heart’s content when we have reached shelter.”
Following the slow, shambling progress of the old man, Kered climbed a steep path another hundred yards and came out of the tall trees onto a mountain meadow. Delicately scented flowers gleamed in the waning light, bowing their heads to the stiffening breeze.
He ventured a glance over his shoulder to the heavens. The conjunction was almost complete. The wind whistled through the trees, lifting the boughs, moaning like some spectral beast. At the summit of the mountain Kered turned, and holding the woman sheltered against his chest, he waited.
Nilrem raised his staff, mumbling an incantation. Kered waited with the proper respect due a man of Nilrem’s age and wisdom. The wisdom drew him, the prophesies did not.
Nilrem stood for many minutes watching the heavenly conjunction before turning to Kered. “Your patience pleases me well. Come,” he said. “Let us tend this slave.”
Kered had not noticed her lack of arm rings. It was unlike him to be so unobservant. He blamed it on his fatigue and the remaining glitter of color in his eyes. At Nilrem’s direction, he placed the woman on a fur-mounded bed in the wise man’s crude hut. He went down on one knee and smoothed back her unusual hair, searching for wounds, finding a lump at the back of her head that might explain her deep sleep. Succumbing to an uncontrollable urge, he drew a calloused finger along the delicate, white skin of her bare upper arm. “A slave,” he murmured.
“Step aside. Let me tend her wounds.” Nilrem explored as Kered had, grunted at the lump. He ran a hand over her body, touching her everywhere.
Nilrem had no sense of modesty and touched the woman’s breasts and belly with pleasurable abandon. Kered turned away in embarrassment. “You are a wicked lecher, Nilrem.”
“Not often I get the opportunity!” he cackled back. “Let us strip her and really see what we have found.”
“No. The head wound is all that ails her. Tend it. Keep your bony fingers to the task while I see if her master is about.”
Kered searched the mountainside until the light failed and the wind battered him with a relentless chill. The usual signs of the white hart grazing on the meadow or crossing the wooded slopes were all he found. There were no footprints, no broken twigs, nothing to indicate two people on the mountaintop.
The woman left only one sign of her coming.
That he tucked into the waistband of his breeches, concealing it beneath his tunic for later examination. He never allowed curiosity to overtake caution. The night deepened to inky purple and he gave up the search. The hut, ablaze with warm light, beckoned.
When he entered, Nilrem was crooning over the woman as he tied a bandage about her head.
“What do you make of her?” Kered asked as he dragged a three-legged stool across the dirt floor to the bedside. He lifted the woman’s hand and held it. Her fingers were long and slim and strong. They fitted well in his.
“Her appearance is an omen.”
Kered frowned at Nilrem. “Why?”
Nilrem shrugged. “The conjunction begins, there is a crash of lightning, and she appears wearing a talisman.”
“The pendant?” Kered tried not to touch the woman’s breast as he again lifted the necklace, holding it up for inspection. The dimming of his vision was a painful malady he did his best to ignore—and hide from the curiosity of others. “It is beautiful, but why do you think it a talisman?”
“It bears the symbols of the ancient time. If you were a believer, I would say it means y
ou should make the ancient quest. Let her rest. When she awakens she will tell us her purpose on my mountain and all will be clear.”
Kered raked his hair back from his face. “Will she awaken?” He bent over her, adjusting the furs. Her skin was like new cream, her hair glossy as a raven’s wing, her brows straight and patrician.
“Oh, aye, when she is ready.”
Because Nilrem said it with such confidence, Kered relaxed. “Her master must have paid a fortune for her.”
“All pleasure slaves are costly.” Nilrem sighed.
“You think her a pleasure slave?” Kered turned over her hand. “She bears calluses on her fingertips. Her arms are not soft; they show strength.”
“Aye. She has not the soft roundness of a pleasure slave, but where have you ever seen such coloring? I have seen hair from the palest silver to the muddiest brown, but true black? Never.”
“Perhaps beyond the ice fields?” Kered thought of the subtle fragrance that had teased his senses as he had carried her up the mountain. The perfume alone should have told him she belonged in the pleasure realm. His groin tightened. Her exotic beauty, her unusual coloring, and her strange, soft garment served only to remind him that it had been many months since he had taken any pleasure.
Nilrem seemed to read his mind. “If you found no sign of her master, perhaps she is a runaway. Claim her. I can step outside for the length of time it will take you to use her, or better yet, I could bear witness!”
“I need a lifemate, not another female slave. ‘Tis useless to claim a woman who, by the most ancient of laws, may neither bear me heirs nor bring me power.”
“‘Tis true she could never lifemate with you, but surely there is always room in a household for another female with such pleasurable attributes?”
“Perhaps in my kitchens?” Kered asked calmly. Nilrem loved to goad him to anger. He would not be led. His purpose for visiting the wise man could not be lost in side issues.
Nilrem patted his arm. “Your responsibilities have made you sour. What brings you here?”
“The Tolemac border is again breached in two places. I must earn a seat on the council and try to end this useless war.”
Suddenly, the woman moaned, her breasts heaving with anxious gasps. Kered kept a tight hold on her hand, clasping it to reassure her as she flailed about on the fur pallet. Her moans became cries.
“Soothe her.” Nilrem edged closer.
Kered obeyed, murmuring nonsense, stroking her hands, suddenly recalling phrases his mother had used to calm him when he was a child. Fear possessed her. When her eyes opened, they stared wildly about, flitting over the two men.
A red flush bloomed on her cheeks. Kered leaned forward. He watched in fascination as the red stain spread. He wished now he had stripped her, for the color ran under the edge of her gown. His imagination painted it across her small breasts.
An exotic from some distant land. Worth a fortune.
“Calm yourself, child,” Nilrem crooned. He shoved Kered aside and made clumsy clucking sounds at her.
She struggled up on an elbow. Her eyes skipped over Nilrem to focus on Kered. “Oh, my God!” she whispered.
Maggie stared as the poster came to life, the Tolemac warrior rising abruptly to his feet. His head banged the rafters and he stooped in annoyance.
An old man bent over her. Maggie pressed back into the bed. Her stomach rolled, and she shivered, searching the room for something familiar to anchor her senses. Either she was dreaming, or the game was more frighteningly real than she had thought.
The game.
Maggie sat up, then swayed as dizziness assailed her. She blinked and looked about the hut, holding her throbbing head. Her nose told her the two men could use a bath. Her eyes told her that the warrior would poke his head through the roof if he stood up straight. Right now, he slouched menacingly behind a wrinkled person garbed in rough, brown wool with a straggly gray beard that reached almost to the floor.
“W-who are you? Where am I?” she stammered.
The old man spoke. “I am Nilrem. You are on my mountain, Hart Fell. Who owns you?” He held out a wooden cup.
Peeking into the cup, she sniffed. No smell. Water? Afraid to drink despite a raging thirst, she stared up at the two men. The words penetrated. “Who owns me? No one!”
“Her injury has made her forget,” Nilrem said sagely.
The younger man nodded. “It makes sense. Drink,” he ordered.
Maggie raised the cup. Somehow the warrior’s demeanor brooked no disobedience. His voice boomed in the tiny hut. Sweet, cool water caressed her tongue as she drank. Smoke from a fire in a corner hearth stung her eyes and hung like a pall about the warrior’s head. Her headache battered against her temples.
“Do you know your name?” the warrior asked.
“Please don’t shout.” Maggie held her head and probed the bandage encircling it, causing herself greater pain. Her stomach felt none too stable, either.
“Am I shouting?” He consulted the old man.
“A mite,” Nilrem agreed.
With a nod, the warrior lowered his voice. “Go contemplate the conjunction.”
Nilrem pulled a face and scuffled from the hut.
The warrior dragged a stool near, then sat down, now eye to eye with Maggie. “You belong to someone. Who?”
“I don’t belong to anyone!” Maggie insisted, a prickle of fear creeping up her spine.
“Prove it,” he said softly, stroking a finger along her bare upper arm, watching her as intently as a predator might watch his prey. “Free women wear at least one arm ring. You have none.”
His tone added the silent word “idiot”, but Maggie did her best to ignore it. Wouldn’t you know Mr. Warrior God would turn out to have a nasty disposition. And where was his leather jerkin? His jeweled weapons? He wore a faded woolen tunic, long-sleeved, rough, more peasant garb than warrior finery.
“Arm ring? I…that is…what’s your name?” She stalled for time. This nightmare must end, Gwen must pull the plug on the game, and soon. She was going to be sick.
“I am called Kered. What is your name?”
“Maggie O’Brien.”
“You have two names?” He cocked his head to the side. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
Maggie’s heart hesitated before taking a beat. The planes of his face glowed golden in the flickering firelight. His skin stretched flawlessly across strong bones. She searched for some blemish, some mark, but found none. His long brown hair might be a tangled mass of knots, he might reek of sweat and wood smoke, but his skin rivaled a newborn’s.
Kered snapped his fingers in Maggie’s face.
“Stop that!” she cried, then pressed her hands to her cheeks. The pain in her head expanded and pounded.
“Forgive me. I had forgotten you were hurt.” He put his hands to her shoulders and eased her back onto the pallet. “We will deal with your crime another time. Rest now.”
“Crime?” Maggie struggled under his hold. He pinned her down, leaning over her. His long, tangled hair tickled her bare shoulders and brushed her face.
“Aye. To desert one’s master is a heinous crime. If you are a pleasure slave, the penalty will be harsh.”
Maggie sputtered through indignation, disbelief and fear, but Kered seemed not to notice. He leaned closer, his warm breath, scented with ale, washing over her face. His fingers rose and caressed her hot cheeks. “It would be a shame to mark you, to mar such a rare beauty.”
“M-m-mark?’’ she stuttered, more from the whisper-soft caress of his fingers on her cheeks and the proximity of eyes like the rarest turquoise than from his words.
“Aye. An angry master would open your cheeks with a knife, slit your lips, remove your nipples, rendering you ugly to all.”
Maggie pressed back into the furs, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest.
“You have appeared from out of nowhere at the height of a conjunction. Speak now, name your master, or Nilrem wil
l see a prophecy in this. One may not deny a prophecy. Claim the safety of your master’s name, and I will see you are not mutilated.”
Angry and afraid, Maggie sat up and tried to shove him away. He didn’t budge. Inches separated them.
Reality and fantasy made it a wide chasm.
“I have no master,” she said into the expectant silence.
“So be it.” He rose and shoved a hand under his tunic. He tossed something onto her lap. “Explain this.”
Chapter Three
Maggie stared at the game gun. Her fingers crept across her lap and poked the black lump of plastic. It lay there like a dead thing.
“I don’t know what you expect,” she said, stalling for time. How did one explain a gun to a man whose only visible weapons were a knife and sword? Then again, in many computer games, the heroes had strange weapons. Maybe Kered had a few she didn’t know about, hidden somewhere she couldn’t see.
“Nilrem will read some omen in this. ‘Tis best you speak before he returns.”
“All right. All right. It’s a weapon. Called a gun.” Maggie slipped it into her hand and smoothed her fingers over the stock. A useless piece of junk far from home. Or, if she truly was in this man’s world, a potentially lethal hunk of plastic.
“‘Tis a mighty strange weapon, this…gun.” Before Maggie could protest, Kered had plucked it from her hand. His large fist dwarfed the stock as he wielded it like a bludgeon.
Maggie rose on her knees and grabbed his forearm. She could do chin-ups on him if he could be persuaded to hold his arm out straight. There was little chance she could persuade this man to do anything. She felt suddenly puny and inconsequential. “I’m not sure how dangerous it is. Let me have it.”
“You speak as if I am some child you command.” Kered turned and, with a gentle nudge, sent her flying flat onto her back.
“Of all the nerve.” She struggled off the bed, ignoring the sudden hammer that rang in her head. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”
“My mother is dead.” He turned his back to her, pointed the weapon, and studied the blue and red buttons. “How does it work? You may explain, or I will experiment.”