by Ann Lawrence
The speed with which he galloped down the valley, at one with the stallion, further stole Maggie’s breath. She could but grip the mane and squeeze with her thighs.
When she became used to the horse’s rhythmic gait and the press of Kered’s body against hers, she relaxed and leaned back. Immediately, Kered wrapped an arm about her waist and drew her closer. Why not take advantage of his massive chest? Maggie nestled into the natural space he’d made for her. “What is this boy’s name?” she asked, patting the stallion’s neck.
“Windsong.”
“A beautiful name,” she said.
“Aye. He runs as swift as the sea breezes,” he answered. “Still, he is untrained and subject to unruly behavior.”
“Why untrained? I’d think an important warrior like you would have the best horse available.”
His arm tightened about her waist. “This is the fastest horse available. My usual warhorse fell to a Selaw blade. Windsong will learn his duties soon enough.” Windsong sidled momentarily as if to say, “We’ll see about that.” Kered fought the horse’s recalcitrant behavior.
Maggie took a peek up at Kered at the same time he looked down at her. Kered growled and bared his perfectly white teeth. She giggled. He grinned and kissed the top of her head. With a sigh, she snuggled back and drifted asleep.
Too soon the ride would end. He did not know what possessed him to deny her a mount. Slaves often rode at their master’s side, rarely double with their master. If they had no mount, they walked. Riding double spoke of a familiarity, a favoritism that made him uncomfortable. She rested against him, sure of his protection. Yet, he mused, who had saved whose life the rising before? It boded ill that he had fallen asleep, leaving his little slave unguarded. Then, adding insult to injury, she had saved his life and at the same time witnessed his humiliation.
Kered flexed his fingers against Maggie’s waist. How thin she was. Most pleasure slaves were well-rounded, mayhap even overfed to be sure only softness pressed against manly hardness. This slave had a lean muscularity similar to a field slave. Only a poor man took a field slave in pleasure. Even a man of modest wealth would visit a plump fornitrix before availing himself of a common laborer. Yet Maggie had come to him perfumed and garbed in a gown of soft cloth, like silk. Her changeable skin had known no extended hours laboring in the fields.
The perplexity of her condition and her beauty kept Kered happily occupied for several hours. He sniffed a lock of her hair, now dusty. He examined her ears, also dusty. Maggie needed a bathhouse—perhaps after the quest. A long sigh escaped him, waking the object of his fascination.
“Are we near?” Maggie yawned, stretching in Kered’s arms. He grunted as her breasts grazed his hand. Small and firm, not soft. With a great effort, he resisted the urge to grasp a nipple between his fingertips. The one closest to his hand was taut against the fabric of her gown, and it tempted him badly.
He hauled on the reins and, lifting Maggie, slipped to the ground. “We will rest here.”
Maggie decided to rename the warrior Mr. Surly.
She also decided her best course was to avoid him. They stood by a slow-moving brook. The water looked clear and inviting, but Maggie knew from personal experience at the New Jersey shore that appearances could be deceiving.
“Is the water safe to drink?” she asked.
“Aye. We will fill the carrier.”
“Do you have any soap?” Maggie reached for his pack.
“No. It is not a necessity of travel.” Kered placed a hand over the pack’s flap.
“May I peek inside?” Maggie asked, her hand covering his.
“Why?”
Maggie studied him a moment. His frown was back, digging grooves along his mouth and across his forehead. “Do you think I’ll take my gun, my weapon, and use it on you?”
His hesitation told her all she needed to know. He didn’t trust her.
“No. Don’t answer that. It’s clear without any words.” She stormed away. She had saved his life. How could he think she might use the gun on him? Tears gathered. Stress and fatigue conspired to bring them spilling over her cheeks. Take your own advice—avoid him.
A gnarled tree, like a witch’s oak, hid her from his view. She peeked around and watched him arrange rocks for a hearth. Her skin itched with the coating of dust. She reeked. The frustration of mistrust and the grime of several days’ journey needed release. Maggie whipped her dress over her head and dropped her panties. Kered could not see her. Carefully, she lowered herself into the running water. Its delicious coolness slipped over her limbs. She ducked beneath the clear surface, using her fingers to untangle her dirty tresses. The luxury of water caressing her skin vanquished her bleak mood.
Maggie kicked over to the bank and dug a hand into the sandy soil that edged the deep brook. She used the sand to scrub her skin and even worked it into her hair, rinsing it thoroughly several times. A shadow blocked the bright light of the red Tolemac sun.
“Are you mad?” Kered bellowed.
“Mad? Yes, I am. I’m mad at you.” Maggie hugged the roots of the overhanging bank, blocking his view of her naked body.
“Snakes.” He leaned forward, hands on hips. “Snakes.”
“Snakes?” Maggie whipped around, her hands clasped over her breasts.
“Aye. Snakes abound in these streams. Out.”
As much as Maggie wanted to levitate from the water, she could not just climb from the stream, dripping wet and naked. “Could you turn around?’’
He grunted and obliged, although he did not step away from the water’s edge. Maggie paddled downstream a few feet and scrabbled out near her dress. She shuddered before pulling its grimy fabric over her wet body; she picked up her panties. There was no way she would put them back on without a wash.
Kneeling at the edge of the brook, she ignored Kered’s presence and scrubbed her underwear with sand. Just as she gave them a final rinse, a large hand reached over and plucked them away.
“You wretch!” Maggie squealed as Kered held her panties over her head at eye level.
“Nilrem’s beard!” Kered whispered, as his hands stretched and turned the faded scrap of cotton. “What manner of garment is this?’’
“You cur. Give…me…my…underwear!” Maggie bit out.
He turned to her and scratched his head. “How would such a thing keep you warm?”
“They aren’t supposed to keep you warm.” Maggie leaped up and tried to snag the panties, but he blocked her with his shoulder, holding them aloft.
“What purpose do they serve?” He flipped them inside out and splaying his fingers, peered inside the waistband.
Maggie’s face flushed as dark as the setting red sun. She pressed her hands to her face in mortification.
Kered raised his eyes in bafflement, then froze. “Maggie,” he said, and placed a hand on her shoulder, “forgive me.”
Maggie shrank from his hand, slipping away from the heavy weight of it. Kered extended her panties. She snatched them from his hand and clutched them to her chest.
In strained silence, they moved to the fire’s side. Maggie knelt and spread her underwear on a smooth rock. She fussed with her arrangement to avoid speaking to Kered, who crouched at her side.
Kered lifted a hank of Maggie’s wet hair and placed it gently over her shoulder. “I have shamed you. My only excuse is…surprise. I have never seen such a garment. But ‘tis no real justification for my behavior.”
“I forgive you,” Maggie murmured, then she looked up at him. Tears glistened in her eyes. “It’s not this.” She gestured to her steaming underwear. “It’s not being trusted.”
“Not trusted?” Kered reached out and traced a finger along her cheek.
“Forget it. I’m just tired.” She shook him off.
“We must speak of this. We may not go on a quest with rancor between us.”
“We are not going on a quest. You are going on a quest. I am along for the ride. You don’t speak for hours. You marc
h like a madman. You disappear on me. You won’t trust me with my gun.” She stabbed the fire with a stick. The fears of being in a strange world crashed down on her.
Kered snatched the stick and tossed it aside. He manacled her upper arms with his large hands. Slowly, although she resisted, he drew her to his chest, drawing her into the vee of his thighs. They knelt together, their bodies as close as lovers, Maggie’s face against Kered’s heartbeat.
When Maggie relaxed against him, he spoke. “We are on this quest together. The omens are strong. You are as important as I on this journey. I do trust you, for you could have used your weapon on me whilst I slept in the cave. If I had not trusted you, I could not have rested. ‘Tis just that at all times, I think and choose—alone. I have command of an army. I make every decision; I lead. It is not something I am used to—this having someone question me. My pack? I have no answer. It is my nature to horde my things.
“It is customary for the man to carry the weapons. I know of no women who go armed. Yet perhaps it is possible to change. You are unlike any female slave I have ever met. Perhaps you should be granted different rules.”
Maggie snuffled against Kered’s chest. His words brought her tears rushing back, and it was important to her that she not show him what he would consider a female weakness. She rubbed her face on his shirt; the fabric was so fine it was like rubbing her face on his bare skin. “I am not a slave.”
Kered was smart enough to remain silent, but his right hand betrayed him, sweeping along her upper arm. Maggie pulled back in anger. She pounded on his chest. “You must believe me. I am not a slave! I’m a metalsmith. There are no arm rings beyond the ice fields.”
He slipped his fingers into her hair, drawing her forward, his mouth crushing down on hers. For long moments he heard nothing, saw nothing.
Maggie’s body molded itself to his. The thin fabric of her dress hid nothing of his aroused body from hers. She moaned softly. When he parted his lips, she thrust her tongue into his mouth.
“Nilrem’s knees!” Kered flung himself back on his heels. He gripped Maggie by the shoulders, holding her off and staring at her in bewilderment. “This…I…by…what?” he stuttered.
Maggie reached out and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t you kiss like that, here on Tolemac?” she whispered.
“By the sword, no!” Kered said against her fingertips. Covering her hand with one of his, he pressed his mouth to her palm. He drew her forward until only a sheet of paper could have separated them. “It is spoken that some pleasure slaves are taught special wiles to tempt a man…to betray his duties. Are you tempting me to forget my quest?”
Maggie frowned. “You think I am deliberately tempting you from your mission?’’
“I-I-I do not know. One moment you are like sweet innocence. The next…artful.”
She began to shake in his arms. “No. No. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m not artful; I’m not tempting you to anything. You started it. You kissed me.”
Kered nodded. He pulled her so close she could feel his breath on her mouth. “Aye. I began this.” He lowered his head. “Again, Maggie. Taste me, again.”
Maggie froze. First his distrust, next the humiliation of having her ragged underwear inspected, and now he thought her an artful temptress, luring him from his quest. And still, he wanted a kiss.
She pushed him away and rose, shaking out her skirts and avoiding his smoldering turquoise eyes. “No. I won’t be accused of tempting you from your sacred mission. I have no desire to kiss you, Ker. One kiss was quite enough for me.”
Chapter Nine
Maggie roused herself from the languor created by Windsong’s pace. “Kered! Look! Over there!” The ground erupted in a cloud of dust. A miniature dust devil whirled along before them. Maggie stifled a scream. Kered slowed Windsong’s pace as the dust devil coalesced into a child—a ragged, tiny being flying across the ground.
Escaping, Maggie thought, but not from them.
Charging across the red plain to their right came a mirage. Or, Maggie hoped it was a mirage. The creature’s green, plated body and huge haunches rippled as it gained upon the child.
Windsong balked. He pawed the earth and flagged his tail and refused to move.
“By the sword!” Kered swore and leapt from the saddle. In a moment, his long legs carried him across the flat land in pursuit of the child. It was a foot race Maggie thought he couldn’t win.
Maggie groped in Kered’s pack for her gun. She held it firmly in her right hand and took up the reins. “How dare you betray your master?” she hissed into Windsong’s ear. She kicked the horse in the flanks. He whinnied a protest, but broke into a shambling trot. Windsong’s gait changed again as he approached the beast, finally faltering to a halt. Nothing she did would budge him.
Maggie’s throat dried. Her palms gushed with sweat. The creature, taller on all fours than even Kered, weighed at least a ton more than the man it pursued. It opened its huge jaws and let loose a fountain of viscous liquid, spraying Kered and the ragged child.
Kered slipped. He fell on one knee, recovered, and turned to face the dragon, whose flailing tail ended in a sharp three-pronged spike.
And it was a dragon—as ancient and reptilian and frightening as any painting she’d ever seen. Kered and the child were almost under its snapping jaws.
Maggie tried to control the agitation of her mount, forcing Windsong to stand steady. Perhaps she could get off a shot and put the beast to sleep. Another stream of venom spewed across Kered’s path. He slid and slipped, barely maintaining his footing. The child screamed and fell in the liquid patches spreading around him.
“Ker!” Maggie cried. The dragon made a quick snatch. The child eluded the clawing limb, rolling in the viscous liquid, almost swimming along the ground.
Kered used the slick surface to slide between the beast and its tiny victim. He stood his ground beneath the frenzied claws, sword in one hand, knife drawn in the other. An iridescent fountain of slime arched and fell, coating him. With a shake of his tangled hair, he parried the attacking talons.
Maggie shrieked as Windsong reared. She fell off the back of the saddle, striking the ground. Her breath whooshed from her lungs.
She lost her grip on the gun.
Quickly, she leapt to her feet and looked about. Just as she snatched up the tiny black gun, the dragon turned its liquid eye in her direction.
Maggie stumbled backward.
The slime hit her like the heavy drops of a summer storm. A rotting, acrid odor stung her nostrils. The liquid coated her face and shoulders, clung to her arms and hands. The dragon turned back to closer prey.
She raised the gun, wiping the slime from the stock. In a reflex taught long ago in childhood, she sighted on the creature and fired.
Nothing happened.
Maggie gasped and turned the gun, peering into the tiny hole that made the gun resemble a water pistol more than any other kind of weapon. She scrubbed the surface on her skirt, cleaning it again. Taking aim, she pressed the blue button.
Nothing.
Again.
In silent fear, she watched the dragon rear up on its huge haunches and throw back its head.
“Dear God, help them,” she prayed and threw the useless gun. The dragon paused for an imperceptible moment and clawed the air as if to swat a pesky fly. The gun struck its head.
Kered leapt at the dragon, his sword swiping its throat and his knife blade plunging deep into the exposed breast.
In a thunder of limbs, the dragon collapsed. Maggie turned to Kered as he pulled his blade from the dragon’s chest.
She sidestepped the twitching limbs, then bent over the sobbing child. Kered knelt at her side and plucked up the shaking bundle of rags.
“‘Tis over,” he said, handing Maggie her gun after wiping it on his sleeve. She stuffed it into her boot, then pulled the hood from the child’s tiny head.
Maggie stared down at the dirtiest face she’d ever seen. The chance that water
had ever touched the urchin was about the same as her chance of going to the moon.
The ludicrous nature of her thoughts, considering her own situation, plus the narrow escape from becoming dragon bait, made her laugh.
Kered smiled and pressed the child into her arms. “He needs a female to soothe him.”
“Yikes,” she gasped as an odor of excrement wafted up from the child. “Him?”
“Aye. Him. Thank you for distracting the beast.” Kered patted her shoulder and rose, bellowing across the field to Windsong. “Come back, you cowardly knave!”
A warmth flooded Maggie’s insides. Her gun might not have worked, but the satisfaction of having assisted the warrior was enough. Gingerly, Maggie tried to comfort the child, whose chest heaved in silent sobs. She crooned to him as she did to her brother Jason’s youngest child when teething kept him awake. “Hush, hush, the bad dragon is dead.”
Something in her voice got through and the shuddering sobs eased to sniffles. When Kered and Windsong trotted up to their side, she handed up the child and then, with great difficulty and less than ladylike dignity, she scrambled up in front of Kered. “We have to wash off this goop. This kid needs a bath,” she said.
“Over yonder ridge is The Sacred Pool. We can bathe there. ‘Tis a he, I said, not a goat.” Kered kicked Windsong’s flanks, and they flew across the ground.
Maggie swatted at some little bugs that hovered about the child’s head and stifled an impulse to cringe when yellow, grime-rimmed nails dug into her forearm. She breathed through her mouth and tried to decide whether to explain a “kid” to Kered or just let him think she couldn’t tell the difference between a goat and a child. Her skin began to itch in a maddening manner, but she couldn’t scratch. The child squirmed and wriggled. His slimy garments made holding him a two-handed job.