The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Her white blond hair whispering across his knuckles, Walker used the nerve-pinch to send her under again. The agitation smoothed away, leaving her face unlined and innocent as a sleeping child’s, marred only by the ugly necklace of bruises around her white throat. Her body was . . . well, lush was the word that came to mind, broad-shouldered and deep-bosomed. Long, strong bones. No wonder they’d found her dead weight so awkward to maneuver.

  A murderer for hire.

  Walker sent Pounder away before he unlaced her shirt and folded it back to expose one magnificent breast. The left. He had to be able to access her heart.

  His fingers itched to slap her awake, to take his blade and carve Dai’s full name into the soft swell of flesh. The Ancestors had blessed him; he was light handed, deft. He could make the agony last for hours.

  He closed his eyes, seeing Dai convulsing on the tavern floor until his spine cracked, the hideous clotted sounds he’d made as the prettydeath clawed his gullet to ribbons. Gods, poor Dai—merry and wicked, gifted with the charm of a junior angel and the morals of an alley cat. Yet the man was never casual about his blade work. He could have been a swordmaster in his own right, with his own establishment, but he’d chosen to stay at Walker’s House of Swords, the gods knew why.

  He owed Dai for his loyalty. The assassin owed the man for his pain.

  Walker prayed to Those Before for the discipline not to kill her. Then he reached out and spread the fingers of his left hand over Mehcredi’s breast and cleavage. He touched only what he needed to touch, even when her nipple stiffened, ruching into a velvety pout as tender and pink as a new rose.

  Kneeling by the bed, he concentrated so hard everything faded away save the beating heart beneath his palm and the Magick he drew from deep in the loamy earth, welling up from the ch’qui of the planet. One tendril at a time, he willed green spectral shoots out of the rich moist soil and wound them gently around her heart, a cage of Magick to keep her with him, interwoven with guards to prevent her doing further harm to Dai. What he crafted was beautiful, because to do less with what the Ancestors had given him would have been blasphemy. In the end, he let instinct guide him and when he opened his eyes, the thing was done, the delicate fronds of the pattern as pleasing to his aesthetic sense as the graceful, unbreakable strength of the Magick.

  Walker laced up her shirt, his fingers a little unsteady. Something deep in his guts ached. He hadn’t done a Magick as powerful as that for a long time. Why bother? The Shar were gone, his people no more than ash blown by the hot desert winds. Alone, always and ever.

  The dreams were terrible. Or was this death? A succession of horrors to be endured over and over, endlessly?

  A cloak of formless evil gathered in the night sky and swooped—smothering her mouth and eyes and nostrils in a blanket of filth, plucking at her nerves with strong, cruel fingers. Mehcredi tried to scream her agony, but no sound emerged. Instead, the Necromancer’s thin, sexless voice echoed in her skull. You failed me, assassin, it said. Failure is not acceptable in my service.

  Her soul shrank with horror. Gods, not again, she’d rather die. Every dream visit from the Necromancer had been a leisurely violation, undertaken with casual, lip-smacking glee.

  The hunter appeared suddenly, all of a piece, as dream figures do. Immediately, the Necromancer’s hideous form shrank, coalescing until it was no more than a greasy spot that oozed away, trickling down a gutter. Mehcredi turned to her nemesis with something very like a sigh of relief, her throat bared and vulnerable. Merciless he might be, but his presence was clean, sharp as a blade, with none of the taint of evil about it. There was the strangest comfort in that. Strong fingers squeezed, choking, hurting.

  Writhing, she struggled for air. A painful gasp brought her awake, her eyes snapping open. Above was a low, whitewashed ceiling with a pronounced slope. Wonderingly, she patted her throat with her fingertips. Gods, she was alive! But how—?

  She turned her head.

  A man sat opposite on a wooden chair placed squarely against the door, his empty hands in plain sight, folded across a flat stomach. His eyes closed, he was so still in the warm light of the lamp he could have been a statue cast in bronze. Mehcredi’s gaze darted over high slashing cheekbones, an imperious nose and uncompromising mouth. His body was all lean length, whipcord and muscle, clad conventionally enough in a working man’s shirt and trews, soft boots.

  Beyond him, on the other side of the door, lay freedom.

  Soundlessly, Mehcredi eased herself up on her elbows, her head pounding like a funeral drum. She was lying on a narrow bed, no more than a pallet, in a room not much bigger than a cupboard. Remarkably, there were no ropes, no restraints, nothing to impede her—save the man.

  His long legs were stretched before him, ankles crossed. Mehcredi stared longingly at the scabbard hanging from his belt. She ran her tongue over dry lips. If she could grab the weapon before he woke . . .

  She lifted her gaze to his face and swallowed a scream.

  The man was watching her, his dark gaze unreadable. But then, she’d never been able to fathom what people were thinking, feeling. His eyes were black—as dark as his hair. The lamplight struck bluish gleams from the sable thickness of it, falling soft and straight as rain over his shoulders, two thin braids on either side of his face.

  And she knew him.

  “The bones.” Her voice came out raspy, even huskier than usual. “Where are the bones?”

  The hunter regarded her in silence. Unnerved, Mehcredi scrambled as far away as possible, until her shoulder blades were pressed right up against the wall behind the bed. She tucked her legs beneath her.

  After an interminable wait, during which her heart banged against her ribs like a trapped bird, he said, “You are Mehcredi the assassin.” It wasn’t a question.

  She raised her chin. “I—” Her voice cracked so badly she had to stop and swallow. The hunter crossed his arms over his chest and the gleam in his eye became more pronounced. “I am a member of the Guild, yes.”

  “Count yourself fortunate Dai’s not dead. Thanks to Erik’s quick wits.”

  She hadn’t known the man’s name, only that watching him writhe on the tavern floor, his merry handsome face contorted into a mask of excruciating pain, had made her guts heave. At the memory, bile rose in her throat, sour and burning. “H-he’s not?” She swallowed again. “Water, I need water.”

  The hunter went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Though I don’t doubt he wishes he was.” A pause. “You used prettydeath, assassin.”

  This time, Mehcredi had no problem recognizing the expression that flashed across his grim features. She’d seen it every day of her life. Revulsion. Disgust.

  “What’s that?” she whispered. “I swear, I—”

  “You didn’t know it’s absolute agony? That it can take a whole day to die?”

  Abruptly, the hunter rose, lethal grace in every line of him. Stalking to the foot of the bed, he raised one arm and pressed his palm against the low ceiling. He leaned in, dominating, his eyes flat and black. “Someone wanted him to suffer. Don’t lie to me, assassin.”

  “No.” Mehcredi shook her head, panic slowing her wits. “No, I’m not lying. Anyway, it was a mistake. He wasn’t supposed—” She broke off on a gasp.

  “I know. It was Erik Thorensen you were meant to murder. The singer.”

  “N-not murder. I had a . . . had a commission.”

  His lips compressed. “Don’t dress it up. Murder, pure and simple.”

  “The Guild Master calls them commissions.”

  A dark brow winged up.

  Desperately, Mehcredi stumbled on, wishing he would look away, give her even a split second of relief. “He said he’d help me, seeing it was my first, so he gave me . . . gave me—May I have some water? Please?”

  “No. Gave you what?”

  “The . . . the poison. P-prettydeath.”

  “And you didn’t know what it was? Is that the story?”

  She shook
her head. “He didn’t say. Only that it never failed.”

  The hunter’s hand dropped to the hilt of the long dagger in his belt. He straightened, his lip curling. “Then you must have crawled from beneath a rock. Prettydeath is notorious here, and among all the known worlds.”

  “I’m not from Caracole, or anywhere near it.”

  He grunted. “Where, then?”

  “Lonefell.”

  A shrug.

  “Beyond the Cressy Plains. In the high hills.”

  His hard stare shifted to the tangle of her pale hair. “To the north?”

  She nodded.

  Another grunt. The hunter returned to his seat. “You kidnapped Prue McGuire, didn’t you?”

  Mehcredi’s nerve cracked. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Another of those dreadful silences. At last, he said, “My name is Walker and this is my House of Swords. As for what I want?” His lips pulled back from his teeth. “I will see you pay for your crimes, assassin.”

  “But what did I do to you?” she cried, almost sobbing.

  “To me? Why, nothing.” Again that feral expression, like a tygre crouched for the kill. “But on the floor below is a man who can’t make a sound louder than a kitten, though he needs to scream. Your poison stripped the flesh from his throat.”

  When she opened her mouth, he overrode her. “You kidnapped a woman from The Garden of Nocturnal Delights, an innocent you delivered into the filthy hands of unimaginable evil. Even now—”

  When he broke off frowning, his hair shifted on his shoulders like a shawl of midnight silk. “She might be dead. And Erik’s likely to get himself killed finding her.”

  “I don’t understand.” Unimaginable evil. Mehcredi’s skin crawled. She searched the hunter’s face, but regardless of what he might be feeling, it told her nothing. Faces rarely did.

  “Why do you care? What are they to you?”

  “Why do I—? It’s none of your concern, assassin, but Dai works for me. As for Prue McGuire, she audits my accounts.”

  Prue. Oh yes, she remembered Prue. Unconsciously, Mehcredi rubbed the bruise on her thigh, wincing. Who’d have thought someone so small would be so fierce? Sister in the sky, the woman had very nearly got away. If it hadn’t been for the special cloth saturated with the stupefying drug . . . She owed that to the Guild Master too.

  Walker’s gaze was fixed on her flexing fingers. The corners of his mouth turned up, very slightly. Did that mean he was amused? Was it safe to relax? “She hurt you, didn’t she?” he said. “Good.”

  Mehcredi blinked. “Why is that good?”

  A vertical crease formed between his brows. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, biting off each word.

  “I’m not.” Mehcredi chewed her lip, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks.

  Half-wit, they used to call her at Lonefell. A casual clout across the ear from the housekeeper. Get out o’ the way, ye great daft lump! Followed by the muttered aside to a visitor. She’s not all there, ye know.

  But she was, she was all there. She just didn’t like staring eyes and hard, cruel hands—or things she didn’t understand, like the human race in general.

  Mehcredi forced herself to concentrate. From what she’d seen at the keep, people cared only about those they loved or feared, but it didn’t sound as though Prue and Dai were Walker’s lovers, or that they scared him. At least, she didn’t think so. Which left . . . “These two, they’re your, uh, friends?”

  Every vestige of expression disappeared from his face and she was back where she’d begun. Clueless.

  “Who employed you?” he demanded.

  The tremors became so bad, she had to wrap her arms around her torso to stop the shaking. “I’m sure you know,” she whispered, staring fixedly at his boots.

  “Possibly.” A shift in the air told her he was leaning forward again, intent. “Give me a description.”

  “C-can’t.”

  “Too scared?” Contempt again, the expression familiar.

  Mehcredi shook her head, beads of cold sweat springing up around her hairline. The only power in the world she found more discomfiting than the Necromancer stood right in front of her. “A b-black cloud, he came as a black cloud, a shadow. There was nothing to see.”

  He moved without warning, more swiftly than the eye could follow. Before she could blink, Walker was crouched at her side, the point of a long silvery blade pressed into the pit of her throat. Cold, so very cold.

  “You lie.” His eyes blazed into hers.

  “No, no!” She didn’t dare even to swallow.

  “Tell me, then. Everything you remember, every detail, no matter how small, every impression.”

  “A s-servant made the arrangements, told me to c-come to the Pavilion of Clouds and Rain at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights.”

  The tip of the knife drifted over her skin in a calculated, icy caress. “I know the place. Go on.”

  “He was there, waiting.”

  “And?”

  “I thought he was wearing a cloak at first.” The force of Walker’s stare dragged the words out of her. “But he was the cloak. When I looked, there was n-nothing inside. Only black. No eyes, nothing.”

  “The voice. Did he have an accent?”

  Mehcredi wet her lips with the point of her tongue. “I’m not very good with voices.”

  “Don’t tempt me, assassin. I’d enjoy carving it out of you.” Walker’s teeth gleamed white against the bronze of his face. “His accent?”

  Oh, gods. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to think, to recall. “Like everyone here in the city.” She shot him a glance. “Except you.”

  A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I’m not from Caracole. So, a local accent. What else?”

  Mehcredi frowned, her brain spinning with effort. “We keep saying ‘he,’ but I don’t know . . . It was thin and light. Maybe female.” A thought struck her and she grabbed his forearm. “Oh!”

  The muscles beneath the linen of his shirt went rigid. How could the heat of him burn her palm when the blade he held at her throat was colder than the dark waters of Lonefell tarn?

  “What?”

  “The servant! Why don’t you torture him instead of me?”

  Walker eased back. “I intend to.” Smoothly, he rose and turned to the rickety nightstand tucked under the lowest part of the roof. Sheathing the blade at his waist, he busied himself with a chipped earthenware jug and a rough cup.

  Turning, he thrust the cup at her. “Here.”

  Greedily, Mehcredi gulped the cool water. Nothing had ever felt so good.

  “Slowly.” Strong, warm hands closed over hers and she gasped with shock. A touch that was not a blow. “Don’t choke yourself. I have plans for you, Mehcredi.”

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Plans?” Her stomach lurched unpleasantly. “What plans?”

  Walker gave her another of those impenetrable stares. “All in good time. Tell me again, from the very beginning.”

  “You already know!”

  A shrug. “Again,” he said inexorably.

  Mehcredi gritted her teeth. “But why?”

  “There may be something we missed. I’ll know if you lie, assassin.”

  She sprang to her feet, fists clenched. “But I don’t know how to lie!”

  “Sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it cracked like a whip.

  2

  Mehcredi’s knees turned to water. Stunned and shaky, she collapsed on the bed.

  “You’ve had dealings with a necromancer,” said Walker. “Very foolish. How did he contact you? Through the servant?”

  “He . . . he came to me in my dreams.” She couldn’t prevent the reminiscent shudder. Phrase by halting phrase, Walker drew the experience out of her, every hideous second of it.

  By the end, he looked more like a statue than ever. “He hurt you,” he said. “The bastard enjoyed your pain.”

  Her eyes stung. When she rubbed them, her fingers ca
me away wet. “He touched me with his Magick in places . . . Gods, I can’t explain properly.” She glanced at Walker’s hard face, but there was no help there. “Deep inside . . . me. It hurt so bad.”

  If she hadn’t woken, she was sure the agony would have killed her, but for once in her miserable life, she’d been lucky. Thank the Sister for the filthy little stray and its insistence on following her everywhere. She couldn’t possibly have slept through those piercing barks, the frantic scrabbling at her door.

  “I see. The Necromancer simply frightened you into committing murder.” His lip had curled again. Was that what people called a sneer? “What happened to greed?”

  “He paid me,” she said. “But he kept dropping the fee. I think, I think he wanted to kill me. Or . . . something.”

  “Something most likely,” said Walker in a voice like winter at Lonefell Keep.

  Cautiously, Mehcredi swung her feet to the floor. She cleared her throat. “Right,” she said, trying not to croak. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ll be off now.”

  Walker’s dark eyes widened, then narrowed. “You think?”

  Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall, all casual menace. “You will remain here. There’s someone I have to see, but I’ll be back before dawn. Get some sleep.” A flash of white teeth. “It’s going to be a long day, assassin.”

  He moved so quickly, Mehcredi was left staring as the door clicked quietly behind him. From outside, she heard the decisive rattle of a strong bolt. Godsdammit! Leaping to her feet, she hurried to the small dusty window set beneath the roof line.

  A few seconds later, Walker’s shadowy figure emerged from the building and strode toward the water stair on the canal. Cursing, she tugged at the stiff catch, exerting all her strength. With a tired creak, the window opened a scant inch and cool night air flooded into the room. The frame looked sturdy enough. Mehcredi set her shoulder to it and shoved. The screech of protesting wood echoed like a clarion call in the hush. Ignoring it, she thrust her upper body out into space.