The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  The Necromancer sank down onto his blankets. With shaking hands, he removed his spectacles and set them aside, massaging his aching eyes. Once again, he set himself to think. He was a scholar, he’d held the office of Queen’s Knowledge. Logic, intellect and experience, they were all on his side.

  If only he weren’t so godsbedamned tired . . .

  No, there was a way. There had to be.

  Walker woke, suddenly and completely as he always did. But the regular rhythm of his breath didn’t change. He listened to the quality of the silence a moment before rolling over and opening his eyes. Sun poured in through the open window. The little room was empty.

  He never slept that soundly, let alone in the presence of another. By the Ancestors, he’d wring her silly neck. Swiftly, he donned his boots and crossed to the door, wrenching it open. He stopped dead, his eyes narrowed.

  On the far side of the courtyard, a slim youth stood with his back to Walker, chatting amiably with a wizened old man holding a rake. The boy’s hip-shot stance was casually masculine. He leaned against the stable wall, his shoulders straight and square, his waist trim, one hand dug casually into the pocket of his trews. His head was bare, the nut brown hair with the slightest tendency to curl at the nape of his neck. A scruffy little dog sniffed at the old man’s horny toes where they protruded from his rope sandals.

  Walker blinked and the picture shifted, coming into sharper focus. He hissed. The fabric of her trews pulled tight across that luscious heart-shaped ass. As he watched, Mehcredi turned her head, pushing the tinted spectacles farther up her nose.

  Why the fuck had he been fool enough to think they’d get away with it? Yes, the assassin was a tall woman, lush and well made, with good strong bones, but godsdammit, the fineness of her wrists, the pure, sweet line of her jaw, the mouthwatering curve of her backside—How could any man with balls not look at her and . . . know ?

  He was halfway across the courtyard before he realized what he was doing, impelled by a driving compulsion to grab her and hustle her back to the dock and onto a ship bound for Caracole. After which he’d shake her until her teeth rattled. An adventure? ’Cestors give him strength!

  “Meck,” he said sharply and she jumped. “What in the seven icy hells are you playing at?”

  A single, wide-eyed glance from behind the tinted spectacles and her head dropped. “Wajar. Um, sorry.” Her voice came out husky, a tone deeper than usual. “I was only . . .” She trailed off, scuffing in the dust with the toe of one boot.

  “Don’t be too hard on the lad.” The old man spat into the straw. “He were just lookin’ at the horses.”

  Walker slapped her across the back of the head, pulling the blow at the last second.

  “Ow,” said Mehcredi, rubbing the spot.

  “He has chores,” Walker growled. “Lazy little shit.”

  “Ah well,” said the old man, his grin exposing three yellowed teeth in an expanse of gum. “We was all boys once, yes? He weren’t no trouble.”

  “Hmpf.” Walker gave Mehcredi a shove to get her moving, then nodded a curt farewell to the old man.

  The moment the door closed behind them, Mehcredi whipped off the glasses. “Did you see?” She grinned, her eyes shining. “He didn’t have a clue.”

  “He’s probably half blind.”

  Her face fell. “He is not!” She set her hands on her hips. “And even if he was, the stable slave wasn’t, or the van master.”

  Walker’s guts clenched. “Who?”

  “The stable sl—”

  “The van master. You spoke with him?”

  “Only a few words. I mumbled a lot.”

  “Was he tall and lean, clean-shaven, with a scar on his lip and a gold earring?”

  “No, he had a beard.” Mehcredi looked puzzled. “Why?”

  Walker released a breath. “Then it wasn’t Delal Dinari.” Reaching for the Janizar’s sword, he buckled it on. “I signed on with him as a caravan guard, remember? He’s a hard man to fool.” He ground his teeth, hating what he was going to say, disappointment and fury a seething mass in his belly. Gods, what a fool he’d been! “We should get back to the dock. You’ll be better off taking your chances with Deiter. I can ask Dai to—”

  “Walker.” Stepping right up to him, she gripped his shoulder. “Don’t. I can do it, I promise. I’ll be good.”

  Abruptly, his head was full of Amae, her skinny fingers clutching his arm, black eyes snapping with determination. C’mon, brother, teach me the blade. I’ll try so hard, I promise. You’ll be proud of me.

  And he had been. How many trained Trinitarian pikemen had she killed before they got her? Two? Three? Not bad for a slip of girl.

  Right on cue, Mehcredi said, “I’ll do you proud, I swear.”

  Standing a prudent three yards behind his demon, Nerajyb Nyzarl had turned his head to watch as they carried Amae’s limp body away, and he’d licked his lips.

  With a shudder, he dragged himself back to the present. Mehcredi’s face was luminous with her intensity. “I’ll swear on anything you like,” she was saying.

  “One chance,” he said harshly. “Fool Delal Dinari this morning and we stay. Fail, and—” He shrugged. “I should be able to get us away more or less in one piece.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “What do you think? Of course.”

  A sparkling smile bloomed. Releasing him, she danced over to her pack and scooped it up. “Let’s go, Wajar.” She shoved the spectacles onto her nose and clapped him on the shoulder.

  An hour later, seated cross-legged on a rug in the shade of Dinari’s van, Walker sipped at bitterbrew in a tiny enameled bowl. Trinitaria floated on the godsbedamned stuff, all negotiations required pints of it, but he’d never much cared for the taste. Thankfully, his apprentice was too insignificant to warrant such consideration. Leaning against a wheel moodily chewing a thumbnail, Meck was the perfect picture of surly adolescence, with a touch of cowed apprehension thrown in for good measure. He’d hardly credited his eyes at first, until the nagging sense of familiarity gelled into recognition. Florien, gods, she was Florien to the life.

  By the First Father, he had to admit it was clever. The head cloth obscured the line of her jaw and the delicacy of her neck, while the swell of those glorious tits had been ruthlessly suppressed by the breastband beneath the folds of the loose shirt. Did it hurt, being bound like that?

  “The greatest threat is here . . . and here.”

  With an inward curse, he wrenched his attention back to Dinari. The van master leaned over the map on the low table between them. Tracing the curving route Trinitarians called the Spice Trail, he tapped decisively. “Trimagistos take them, I think the bastards are breeding in the Stony Hills. They must be. We kill enough every trip, but still they come, like evil djinns.”

  His hard gaze lifted. “Which is why I’m supplementing my own guards with men like you.” A one-name, masterless and mercenary.

  Walker allowed himself to look grimly amused. He gave a curt nod.

  “You ride?”

  Walker lifted a cool brow. “Of course.” The Shar had no use for horses, but he’d learned, the same way he’d mastered everything he needed to avenge his people.

  Dinari flicked a glance at Mehcredi’s slouching figure. “What about the boy?”

  “Meck? A little.” She’d said she liked horses. He hoped to the gods it was true.

  Meck gazed sullenly into the middle distance, apparently absorbed by the cursing, sweating waggoners wrestling reluctant vanbeasts into harness.

  “You should teach him. Boy!” The van master beckoned.

  Because he was looking for it, Walker saw her eyes widen fractionally behind the tinted lenses. She turned. “Yeah?” A beat while she stared at Dinari’s boots. “Uh, I mean, yessir.” Perfectly done.

  “You and your master are in the third last van. Take the packs and go get settled.”

  She glanced at Walker for confirmation.

  “You deaf, lad
?” The van master waved a hand. “Get on with it.”

  “Yessir.” Slinging the packs over her shoulder, she shambled off.

  “He’d better earn his keep,” said Dinari, looking thoughtful. “Boys that age eat their own weight every meal.”

  “He will,” said Walker. “Or he’ll feel the flat of my hand.” He placed the cup on the table and rose. “That all?”

  Dinari folded his hands over his flat belly. The scar on his lip shone very white against the swarthiness of his skin. “Watch him,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “It’s a long lonely way to Trimegrace and I don’t want trouble. Understood?”

  ’Cestors’ bones! Walker narrowed his eyes, one hand falling to the hilt of the Janizar’s sword. “He might be a lazy little shit, but Meck’s under my protection. I’ll kill any man who touches him.”

  “See that you don’t have to.” The van master nodded a dismissal.

  The vans were all much the same, basic sturdy wooden trays on six wheels, each with its own canvas roof stretched over semicircular hoops and a seat for the driver at the front. By the time he got to the third from the end, all that was visible of Mehcredi were the soles of her boots and that mouthwatering rump as she fussed about with their packs. The dog was curled up in the shade underneath.

  Walker climbed up beside her, pulling the canvas flap closed behind him. “Move over.” The heat in the enclosed space struck him like a fist. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow, trickled from his armpits down his ribs.

  She shot him a sassy grin. “He didn’t have a clue.”

  “The idea’s so shocking it didn’t occur to him.” When she tried to speak, he frowned her down. “Which is the way we have to keep it.”

  Mehcredi nodded, then wrinkled her nose. “It smells like someone’s boots died in here.”

  Walker snorted, looking at the other four packs already there, the pile of tattered bedrolls dim lumps in the shadows. “Probably did.”

  “Bet there are bed bitemes. Is this where we sleep? It’s revolting.”

  “Not necessarily. Some waggoners sleep around the campfire, some under their vans.”

  “Thank the Sister.”

  He lowered his voice. “This is a man’s world. Get used to it. There’ll be pissing and farting and dirty talk. You’re just a lad. They’ll try to make you squirm, even rough you up a bit.” He hesitated for an instant. Shit, she needed to know. “Or worse, if they’re desperate enough.”

  Her breath hitched. Bright eyes peered at him over the tops of the spectacles. “But you’ll stop them.” There wasn’t a trace of uncertainty in her tone.

  “I can’t if I’m busy elsewhere. Toughen up, Meck, my boy.”

  Her full lips went tight. “I can do that. I’ve done it before, and with my bare hands too.”

  “Mehcredi.” Lightly, he touched her hand. “Don’t hesitate. Sex between men is strictly forbidden by the Trimagistos, though it’s probably more common here than in Caracole, where no one cares. If you have to gut someone, go ahead. I’ll make it right with Dinari.”

  The suddenness of her smile caught him under the ribs like a blow. “You’re sweet, you know that?”

  For the first time in his life, Walker stumbled over his words. “N-no.” He pulled himself together and growled, “Sweet, my ass.”

  Mehcredi chuckled, deep in her throat like a man. “That too.” Removing the spectacles, she placed them on top of her pack.

  Before he could respond, she turned toward him, took his face between her hands and pressed her lips to his.

  Walker froze, clamping his fingers around her wrists. “Stop,” he mumbled, but she’d learned. Gods, how she’d learned.

  She didn’t take control, instead she gave it to him. “Please,” she whispered, her lips parting like a shy blossom opening to greet the dawn, just as soft, just as silky. Her tongue brushed his, then retreated. Her head fell back like a rain-soaked flower on a stem. “Show . . .” A tiny lick. “. . . me . . .” Hot and untried and delicious. “. . . please.”

  16

  All Walker’s concentration, his rational powers, spilled dark and heavy and stupid into his loins, his cock hardening so swiftly it made him light-headed.

  There was a reason—a million and one reasons—that made this insanely risky. He had to pull away, abandon her, reject her like everyone else in her miserable life, right now, this second. She was tough, he knew she was, she’d be fine, but oh gods, the scent of her called to him with the same clarion call as the ch’qui, everything primal and instinctive—right.

  She smelled divine—of slick, feminine desire, the promise of ease for the pounding weight of his cock, of comfort and arms to hold him. As they sank to the floor of the wagon, she arched against him, soft where he was hard, yielding where he needed to thrust, but oh so strong where he needed strength.

  A perfect match. Carnal and innocent all at once.

  Innocent. Shit, brand new.

  His brain spinning, Walker reached down to brace himself on the floor so he could peel himself away, but Mehcredi whimpered, squirming beneath him. His fingers brushed the curve of her breast, the Mark searing into his palm like a brand, her nipple thrusting out as hard as a pebble.

  Magick shot through him on ruthless runners of green fire, growing with astonishing speed, twining up and down his spine, the sensation of rising sap so vivid it aroused him to the point of pain. All he could do was growl into her mouth and hang on to the last remnants of his sanity. Dimly, he was aware of her soft sweet tongue, the hand buried deep in his hair. She was gasping even as she kissed him, tilting her head for a better fit. One leg was hooked over the back of his calf, pressing him into the cradle of her pelvis.

  With a superhuman effort, Walker lifted his hand away from the warm, enticing weight of her breast. “Mehcredi,” he mumbled into her mouth, “no more.” But the only response was an impatient wriggle and a mewl.

  ’Cestors save him, she was so direct, so disastrously honest. He managed to pull back a fraction, lips curving in a rueful smile against hers, his chest tight with a ridiculous tenderness.

  “Enough,” he said firmly, sitting up. He did some rapid mental calculations. If the assassin was in her mid-twenties as he’d surmised, there was well over a decade between them. He winced.

  Mehcredi stared up at him in the gloom, her pupils so dilated, only a silver rim showed all around. She let out a shaky breath. “That was amazing. Is kissing always like that?”

  “No,” said Walker, resisting the temptation to elaborate.

  “What are you thinking? Are you angry?”

  “I should be.” Instead, he felt . . . bleak. The infatuation was ripening nicely, just as he’d foreseen and not only did he feel helpless to stop it, he was making his own contribution to the impending disaster. “Don’t do that again. Ever. You hear me?”

  “Did ye fix Twister’s harness?” said a loud rough voice, seemingly in his ear.

  Mehcredi closed her mouth with a snap, snatched up the spectacles and straightened her head cloth.

  “What do ye think?” said a different, younger voice, male. A callused hand grabbed the canvas flap, one thumbnail completely black. “ ’Course I did. Not lettin’ the old bugger get away from me again.”

  By the time a lanky waggoner clambered over the backboard, Meck was seated cross-legged in the darkest corner rummaging in his pack, while his master watched him with a decidedly grim expression.

  The waggoner turned out to be Abad, his huskier companion, Taryk. Abad was a genial soul, chatting amiably enough as he retrieved a mess of straps and buckles from a shabby box full of odds and ends. Walker suspected the surlier, sweatier Taryk was the source of the odor in the van.

  That settled it. They’d sleep outdoors.

  “Van master’s up front,” said Abad. “Guard chief’ll be with him.”

  Walker nodded his thanks. The waggoner waved a casual farewell and disappeared with Taryk and the mended tack.

  “You wanted to kn
ow what I’m thinking?” he said, his voice low and hard. “You scare the hell out of me, Mehcredi, for so many reasons I can’t count them. We were lucky. A few minutes the other way—” He glared at her.

  Her mouth quirked. “They’ll decide I’m your kept boy. You said as much yourself.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind being your property.” She had the nerve to send him a roguish twinkle.

  Walker ran his hands through his hair. “Will you get it through your fool head? This is dangerous, as in tortured and executed dangerous. Do you understand me?”

  He waited until she nodded, gulping. Then he opened his pack. “Here.” He tossed the bundle of leather in her direction.

  Fielding it neatly, Mehcredi untangled it with careful fingers. “What is it?”

  “A forearm harness for your dagger. I got it yesterday.”

  Despite the gloom and the stain on her face, he could see her flush of pleasure. But when she moved toward him, he held her off with an upraised hand. Her color deepening, she froze. Her head dropped and she turned away.

  By the time dusk was drawing down, Mehcredi had given up anxious excitement in favor of terminal boredom. Dropping the last peeled tuber into the sloshing bucket between her feet, she flexed her wrinkled, aching fingers. By the Sister, she might as well have stayed in Serafina’s kitchen back at the House of Swords.

  Walker, on the other hand, had received his assignment from the guard chief, together with a rangy bay horse with one white sock. He’d had no compunction about volunteering Meck as a kitchen hand either, damn him. With a final admonitory glare that even she could decipher—Behave yourself or else—he’d trotted off to spend the day circling the long train of wagons. Each time she glimpsed him, sitting straight and supple on his mount, her insides squirmed in the strangest way and her heart thudded, strong hard beats separated by several long seconds. They hurt—and they didn’t. His robes looked dustier on every circuit, while he ignored the caravan completely, his gaze quartering the landscape between the distant dun-colored hills and the stunted bushes by the roadside.