The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  “No.” Pain and rage sucked all the breath out of his lungs, leaving nothing but a venomous whisper behind. “A name, give me a fucking name!”

  Even in the flames, Cenda’s discomfort was clear to see. Another sidelong glance, presumably at Deiter. “Walker, I’m . . . ssorry. He says . . .” She glared at the old man, her lips twisting. “Tell him how . . . desstroy . . . the evil. Then . . . you get . . . name.”

  “No! ” Lashing out with his foot, Walker kicked the fire, scattering coals and embers in all directions. After that, everything went black for a few seconds, but the greatest darkness was the yawning empty pit that had been his soul.

  He came back to himself on his hands and knees, breathing like a blown horse, every muscle in his body clenched and rigid. His jaw hurt.

  “Walker?” A hand touched his hair, fleetingly. “Who are the Shar? Your family?”

  He sat back on his heels. “My people,” he said dully. “The Shar’d’iloned’t’Hywil.”

  “Oh.” A second’s pause. “Sorry, I’ve never heard of them.”

  Giant hands were squeezing his chest, compressing it unbearably. “Their name has not been spoken in fifteen years.” He pulled in a difficult shallow breath. “Neither has mine.”

  “Walker is not your name?”

  He forced himself to glance at her puzzled face. “I am Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian.”

  She regarded him more doubtfully still. “That’s, um, quite a mouthful.”

  “Shar names are long.” Name the child, shape the life, went the Ancestors’ proverb. “There are”—he caught himself—“were layers of meaning.”

  Everything inside was leached and dry, his body a shell, like the hollowed-out trunk of some great dead cedderwood. A strong wind, the slightest touch, and he’d topple, shatter to dust. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t.

  “You’re shaking.” Kneeling before him, Mehcredi pulled the edges of his robe together over his chest, fussing over him as if he were a little boy.

  With a wordless growl, he knocked her hands away.

  Undeterred, she shuffled even closer, reaching out to rub her palms up and down his biceps, her brow knitted with concern. “What happened to them?” Her voice was hushed and quavery. “It was something awful, wasn’t it?”

  He gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “Ghuis Gremani Giral happened, with his army. There’d been rain, the wadis were full of wildflowers.” He’d forgotten that, the vivid carpet of fragile blooms. So much ch’qui, and his blood running hot, with spring and the festival and the girls with their pert breasts and sidelong glances.

  When he paused, a thread of sound whispered out of the darkness. “Go on.”

  “We came together to sing the Songs of Spring, all the family bands. A time to give thanks, for first pairings and life bondings. He knew we’d be there, the bastard, Giral knew.”

  Her breath puffed warm and rapid against his throat. “But why? You weren’t hurting him.”

  “Ah, but we had. The Grand Pasha deeded Giral an estate, but he neglected to mention the southern part was Shar land, the gift of the Ancestors. Ours.” He bared his teeth. “The Shar are warriors. What do you think we did, assassin?”

  “Merciful Sister, you fought, didn’t you?”

  “We stampeded Giral’s vanbeasts, stole his horses, burned his fences, and we laughed as we did it. We thought he was slow and foolish, a foreigner. I was a shaman then and the ch’qui was strong within me. When his miners raped the earth, I collapsed their tunnels. I was the stupid one, so proud.”

  Mehcredi’s fingers tightened on his arms. She made a small encouraging noise.

  “We made the Great Pasha look small. Hell, we didn’t even kill anyone, though we made it clear we could have. So he . . . he—” His tongue stuck to the roof his mouth. “He came with a company of pikemen. And diablomen.”

  “Fifteen,” breathed Mehcredi. “You said fifteen.”

  “Twenty-three. We killed eight. Do you know what demons look like, Mehcredi? Do you have any idea?”

  “Tell me.”

  When she winced, he realized he had both her hands crushed in his. He dropped them and rose, turning his back on her. “No.” He wouldn’t sully her mind with the images. The furrows on his hip ached, a gut-wrenching reminder. “They’re not meant to be here,” he said at last. “They pervert the ch’qui. Not just evil—wrong.”

  “The what?” She touched his back, her palm rubbing hesitantly up and down his spine.

  “Shit, never mind.”

  But when he jerked away, she only stepped closer, insisting, a wave of warmth against him in the chill desert night. “Walker, I don’t understand.”

  Here it came. He could almost hear the clicks as the pieces fell into place in that quick clever mind.

  “Weren’t you there? If this Giral man had everyone killed, why aren’t you dead too?”

  He closed his eyes in agony, his head swimming, remembering the hideous sodden weight of the corpses piled on top of him in the wadi, the reek of old blood, the fecal stink and the bitemes buzzing. “I don’t know.” Sour bile burned in the back of his throat. “Bad luck? Leave it, Mehcredi.” His eyes had been crusted shut with something unspeakable. He’d been forced to claw them open. And when he had—

  Vaguely, he wondered if he was going to heave his guts up, all over her boots.

  A rustle, and she was right in front of him, both fists buried in his robes. She rose on her toes, which was enough to put them eye to eye. “Don’t say that!” She tried to shake him. “There was a reason.” Another ineffectual shake. “Look at who you are, what you’ve done.”

  “You think?” He went to pry her off, but gods, her fingers were like ice. He wrapped his own around them. “I’ve avenged my people, but apart from that—” He shrugged.

  “No, no!” In her urgency, she pressed closer, her strong supple body molded to his, close as a lover. “Walker, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. And I can’t be the only one.”

  He curled his lip. “I’m efficient,” he said. “I’ll give you that. Especially with the body count.” Unable to help himself, he tightened his grip on hers. “I’ll do my best not to add you to it, I swear.”

  Even in the dappled moonslight, he saw her brow wrinkle. “There’s only one left, isn’t there?” she said slowly. “This Nyz man. And you’ll kill him soon, the same way you killed the others.”

  “Your confidence in me is touching.”

  “So what will you do when it’s finished?”

  “Finished?”

  “Your vengeance. Over. Complete. You’ll have your life back then.”

  The ground shifting beneath his feet, the stars winking out, one by one. Over, it would all be over, the defining purpose of his life.’Cestors’ bones, what fucking life ? The blood roared in his ears, like a sandstorm striding across the desert, blowing everything flat, scouring all the landmarks, obliterating the familiar trails and tracks.

  “I hadn’t—” he croaked. “Hadn’t . . . thought. Fuck.” Every moment, waking or sleeping, his vengeance woven in his blood and bone. His reason for living, the justification for his survival when all those he’d loved had—

  Gone, all of it, gone. His vision grayed out.

  Dimly, he was aware he swayed. Automatically, he reached for the reassuring force of the ch’qui, but even as he did so, the assassin slipped both arms around his waist and shoved her shoulder under his arm, propping him up with her remarkable strength.

  “It’s all right,” she muttered into his neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here.” The sort of nonsense a mother might murmur over a child with a skinned knee. So stupid, so inappropriate, so completely Mehcredi.

  How long had it been since someone held him, offered to kiss his hurts and make them better? His mind couldn’t encompass it, but his body knew what to do. He opened his mouth to say, “Get off,” but the words died stillborn. Instead, he gave himself to the embrace, burying his
face in her hair, his nose full of the scent of warm clean scalp and blengo juice.

  Just one second, a single instant out of his entire fucking empty life. “Shut up,” he muttered thickly.

  With a shaky laugh, Mehcredi raised her head and rubbed her cheek against his. Walker took her face in both hands and sank into her mouth like a man dying of thirst. She tasted sweet, yet earthy, deeply refreshing, like the Spring of Shiloh, sacred to his people.

  Gods, so good.

  The roaring in his ears rushed back, filling his head. He had the strangest sensation of falling, as if the world had taken a smart step sideways, the ch’qui morphing into something entirely different, unfamiliar yet darkly thrilling.

  Skin, he had to have skin, pale and warm and perfect. Almost before the thought was complete, his hands were under her shirt, a satin weight nuzzling into his palm. She arched under him, whimpering. Luxuriating, Walker skimmed his fingers up over the knots of her spine, then back down to her waist and under the trews, learning the shape of that superb ass, the first curves, the intriguing dip of the dimples either side of her tailbone.

  Mehcredi’s tongue met his stroke for stroke, clumsy still, but eager and, oh gods, so generous.

  Walker tore his lips away from hers, licking down under her jaw, nibbling the long muscle down to her shoulder as her head fell back in surrender. His balls pulled up so high and swollen they hurt, the tender skin tight with lust and ch’qui combined, while his cock was a pulling, throbbing weight demanding to thrust and rut and spill.

  Without ceremony, he pushed the shirt aside. The Mark on her breast glowed greenish black in the moonslight, pulsing for him. Rising out of the center of the design, dark against the smooth white flesh, her nipple stood stiff and distended, all crinkled delicious velvet. Growling, he licked around a spiral line, then a delectable sweeping curve, vaguely aware of a deep gasping somewhere in the vicinity.

  He rolled fully over her, hips already moving in a primal rhythm, one hand hooked beneath her knee, splaying her wide. He reached down to rip open his trews, but before he could do so, her shaking fingers fumbled over his length, gripped and squeezed, the pressure perfect—dreadfully, catastrophically perfect.

  His cheek pressed against the silky flesh he’d Marked, Walker ground his teeth together so hard the enamel cracked. The ch’qui sizzled and burned up and down his spine, in his balls, his cock, his ass, Magick reaching deep inside to finger every place that made him a man and a shaman. The power of the impending orgasm made his eyes water, sucked all the breath from his lungs.

  No, no, no. He fought it, with every fiber of his being, every shred of discipline he possessed. He was a shaman and a warrior, a fully adult male, not a randy youth. It felt like holding off an earthquake, his balls boiling with urgency, the skin of his cock ready to split.

  It cost him years of his life to bite back the roar of pain and frustration. What emerged was a sound so strangled it didn’t even qualify as a groan. He shuddered, hissing bloodcurdling oaths in every language he knew, especially Shar.

  Strong fingers yanked his head up by the hair. “Shit,” she said. “Walker, c’mon, c’mon!” Mehcredi patted his cheek, none too gently. “Sorry. I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t know, I swear.” She fumbled around behind his ear. What was she doing? Feeling for a pulse? Then she was off again with more of the senseless babble. “I never meant . . .”

  “Stop . . . that.” Grabbing her hand, he raised his head. They were sprawled full length on the mat of feathergrass, the assassin crushed beneath him, tears sparkling on her lashes, her lips swollen. He’d made her cry? ’Cestors, he had no recollection of bearing her down to the ground, none whatsoever.

  “Are you all right?” he said brusquely, heart still hammering. Gingerly, he levered himself into a sitting position, and her hands dropped away. Thank the gods for the darkness. Even the back of his neck felt hot.

  “Of course.” She sucked in a hurried breath. “But I hurt you and I never meant to, truly.” Her eyes squeezed shut tight. “Sweet Sister, what an unmitigated idiot.”

  Walker stared, blinking, sucking in huge gulps of air.

  Mehcredi’s mouth continued moving, a stream of self-recriminations and apologies sailing past his ear. Whatever she thought she’d done, it really bothered her. With the greatest of care, he pressed the heel of his hand against his cock. The first nea-kata, the first posture, center, ground . . . Shit!

  She lay there, those gorgeous tits quivering slightly with every anxious breath. The dark stain stopped just above her cleavage like some weird tide line. In contrast, her breasts gleamed pure and snowy, like nightpearl flowers in the moonslight.

  “Hurt me?” he said through gritted teeth, averting his gaze to scowl at the dog, who grinned back as if he knew.

  “Well, you made an awful noise. I had no idea a man’s—” She broke off, biting her lip, and he was certain her face was scarlet, though it was too dark to see. “That you were so, um, sensitive.”

  For a moment, he was tempted. Leave her in ignorance and no more advances, her guilt would preserve him from temptation. His famous icy reserve wasn’t doing much of a job, let alone his self-control. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, she’d said with absolute conviction. He wanted to throw his head back and howl the irony of it to the moons.

  For whatever reason, he couldn’t lie to her about this, not even by omission. He just . . . couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. “You didn’t hurt me,” he said heavily. Fortunately, embarrassment and shame were having a salutary effect where he needed it most.

  “But then why—?”

  Walker turned away to snag his pack. “You touched me and I was . . . aroused. That’s all.”

  “Really? ”

  How, in the names of the honored Ancestors, had she escaped Lonefell if not completely innocent, then relatively unscathed?

  “Yes.” He busied himself digging for his spare shirt so he didn’t have to look at her. “Perfectly normal.” Except that it hadn’t been. It had been the most profound, the most amazing—Godsdammit, if he got inside her, he might actually die, but a small, insidious voice whispered the experience would be worth an eternity as ash blowing across the endless sand.

  With a considerable effort, he cut the thought off cold. “Mehcredi,” he said, “are you a virgin? The truth now.”

  18

  A silence, then Mehcredi sat up and drew the shirt closed over those sweet tits. Walker told himself he was grateful. “You couldn’t tell?” she said.

  Amae had been a virgin when they took her, he could swear to it. But he refused to think of his sister that way, of the inevitable rape, the brutal violation. She’d been such a sprite, slender and slim and strong. ’Cestors grant her mercy, death had come swiftly. He’d never see her again, never stand witness as she put some poor bastard through the Test of the Battle Maiden. The old wizard was fucking with him. He had to be.

  And that thought took care of any lingering remnants of lust.

  “I guessed,” Walker said. “How in the gods’ names did you manage it?”

  Her knuckles whitened on the shirt. “I fought like hell.” She snorted. “It helps to be a big lump. And I had a lot of hiding places.”

  Ah yes, she’d mentioned a man. A man with friends.

  “Taso, wasn’t it?”

  She tilted her head. “You remember?”

  Walker rather thought he’d like to meet Taso. And his friends. He gave her a wolfish smile. “He wouldn’t stand a chance against you now, armed or not.”

  “Gods, yes!” Her answering grin flashed wide and white. “I’d hand him his head.” A roll of the shoulders. “Feels good.”

  “So, how much experience have you had, Mehcredi?”

  “With . . . sex?”

  “Yes.”

  Her head was bent over her laces, but she answered readily enough. “I watched the stallions cover the mares and I know what a naked man looks like. I’ve seen people fucking.”

 
“You have?”

  She chuckled. “Are you shocked? I spent a lot of time hiding in the stables. Nedward, the blacksmith, used to take the scullery maids there. He did it standing up. Used to grunt a lot.” Her face darkened.

  “One of Taso’s friends?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “Another lucky guess.” When he reached out to take both her hands in his, it took all his control not to crush her fingers. “Listen to me, sex is a lot more than rutting in a barn. Or it should be.”

  “I know, that’s why I—”

  “Listen, damn you! I’m only going to say this once. First times are special.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Mehcredi,” he said through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t throw it away. The right man’s out there for you, young and strong and clean. Hell, my House of Swords is full of warriors like that.”

  She regarded him with fascination. Her lips twitched. “Do you know what you sound like? Like—”

  Walker snatched his hands away. “Like your dear old auntie. Yes, I know.” The heat in his cheeks galled him. Thank the gods for the dark. “But that doesn’t make it any less true. Mehcredi”—he leaned forward—“let it go.”

  But all she did was stare. His fingers itched to shake her until her teeth rattled. Fuck, whatever it took. “Chasing me is stupid,” he said coolly, deliberately. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  Even in the gloom, her flinch was perceptible. So was the recoil. Well, good, that was what he wanted.

  Her silvery gaze studied his face, one feature at a time, the force of her concentration as palpable as a touch. “I thought you . . . wanted me.”

  “I’m male and you’ve shown you’re willing.” He shrugged. “I do, just not enough.” The only lie he’d ever told her.

  “Enough? What does that mean? What are you thinking?” she said, suddenly, fiercely. Strong fingers dug into his forearm. “Tell me.”

  He shook her off. “Not enough to make you a convenience, to forgo my honor. It’s for your own good, Mehcredi.”