The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Softly, he began crooning, a two-note chant so completely subvocal that she sensed, rather than heard it. The Marked flesh flared and tingled, the way it did when he made love to her, but after a few seconds, the sensation faded and bled away. She tensed, groping after it, tears stinging her eyes.

  “Sshh.” Warm firm lips ghosted over her hair, drifted over her forehead, her eyelids. “It’s for the best.” Slowly, he withdrew his hand. A whisper so soft she wasn’t sure she’d heard it. “Ah, carazada.”

  “There.” He put her away from him. “Wear your breastband, Meck, my lad.”

  Mehcredi shot him a furious look. “And the spectacles and the head cloth and the stupid hat.” Her lip curled. “You’re not my bloody mother.”

  He ignored this. “Tell Cenda to light a fire every night. I’ll do the same.”

  Silence fell as they stared at each other. “Mehcredi.” Walker cleared his throat. “Go.”

  Her hands fisted by her sides. Godsdammit, how could he stand there all dark and impassive while she was bleeding inside?

  “What are you thinking?” she rasped. “One last time, tell me.”

  But he shook his head. “I don’t—I can’t—Ah, fuck!” Yanking her into his arms, he kissed her so hard her lips felt bruised. Abruptly, the pressure gentled and he was holding her face between his palms.

  “Your penance is done, assassin,” he said softly. “Now make something worthy of it. Get on that fucking pony, ride like hell and live.” Dropping his hands, he took a step back. “For me.”

  Spinning on his heel, he walked away, his back ramrod straight, the tail of his hair swaying with every supple stride. But her tears blurred his outline long before he disappeared around the outcrop.

  Fuck it all to the seven icy hells. Mehcredi kicked an inoffensive rock so hard she hurt her toes. Then she scooped up the dog and clambered onto the pony. As they trotted away down the valley, Scrounge stretched up to lick the tears from her cheeks.

  The old man levered his eyes open when Walker touched his shoulder. “That you, lad?”

  “Yes, Eldest.” Walker rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest, where the tightness was worst.

  “Sent her back to the city, did you?” He coughed, spittle running out of the corner of his mouth. “Clever.”

  The last time Walker had experienced such gut-wrenching terror he’d been fighting to the death as diablomen and their demons destroyed everything he’d ever known or loved. But now—Gods! As he’d stood among the human detritus the djinns had left behind, realization hit him like a mailed fist in the gut. There was no defense against them. Nothing these people had done had saved even a single life. They were desert folk, tough and brave and desperate. They’d tried everything, he could work that out from the weapons scattered about—staffs, swords, even a crossbow.

  His cursed imagination had supplied a vision of Mehcredi’s body, her long straight limbs impossibly contorted, her luminous eyes dull as marbles, blood running red over ivory skin—He swallowed hard, his guts heaving. Shit, he could still see it, even now, so vivid, so real, the image had the dark force of premonition.

  Not again. Fuck, not again! ’Cestors be thanked, a plan had come to him. Get her away, get her far away. And as a bonus, she could tell Deiter all about the fucking djinns. It worked on any number of levels.

  Walker shrugged. “Safer there than here. And she can pass for a boy.”

  “Mmm.” The old man’s head fell to one side.

  Walker felt for a pulse and found a weak thready beat. “Eldest,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

  After a long time, the old man croaked, “You . . . better go.”

  Cupping the old man’s cheek, Walker said, “My hands are steady. Do you wish me to do it, quick and clean? It would be my honor.”

  When he got a murmur of assent, Walker drew the long dagger from his belt.

  “Wait. Forgot.” Gnarled fingers found their way to his wrist. “Fire. Fire kills them. I saw . . . You understand?”

  His heart leaped. “Yes, Eldest, I understand.”

  “Good.” The hand fell away. “I am ready.”

  “I will sing the Song of Death for you,” Walker promised. “Go in peace to your Ancestors, Eldest.”

  The Necromancer swiped the last piece of bread around his plate. Light tasty sauces, fresh fruit and vegetables. By Shaitan, bringing Cook had been one of his more inspired ideas. Pushing back his chair, he flexed a bicep, relishing the smooth clench and release of powerful muscle. Nyzarl’s body—his body—delighted him more with every passing day. Even better, the store of Dark Magick within him seethed and roiled, ready to his hand at any moment. If truth be told, he felt as giddy as a girl. Or as if he were a little drunk. So many deaths, so much energy and pain . . . Ah, it was truly splendid!

  Smiling, he rested his chin on his clasped hands. The room was simply furnished, but comfortable enough. It would be churlish to be fussy. After all, the house had belonged to the mayor. It was no one’s fault that the town was small and not particularly prosperous.

  What should he do? Sipping his wine, he rolled it around his mouth. There were so many possible strategies, all he need do was pick the one that suited him best. Hold Caracole to ransom? Gods, he’d love to see Queen Sikara’s face, the bitch. But why stop there? This entire world could be his, Palimpsest in the palm of his hand. He’d close his fist and squeeze the juice out of it.

  He cocked his head to one side, considering. Perhaps he should do that.

  Kill one man, and you were an assassin, but killing millions—that made you a conqueror. Hmm, he quite liked the sound of that. He could get a fancy uniform with lots of braid on it. The Necromancer’s mouth twisted with derision.

  No, no, he had a better idea. What if he destroyed everyone, a whole world, a universe? He laughed aloud. He’d be a god. Allknowing, immortal, the Great Pattern at his mercy to stomp and splinter and wreck and—No wonder he was dizzy.

  So why was he surrounded by incompetence? Why was it necessary for him to do everything himself? The smile became a scowl. He had an experienced guard captain and a Scientist with a brilliant—if broken—mind.

  It was imperative Dotty keep the djinn alive, but all she could do was bleat and wring her hands and say it needed the ice. So much for constructive suggestions. As for the guard captain—the Necromancer ground his teeth—the idiot was useless. Take today, for example: The djinn had descended on the town with an eldritch howl of pure hunger, only to find it empty. Every living creature had fled.

  Not for the first time, the towns and villages in the djinn’s path had been warned. The guard captain had nearly pissed himself with terror, but he’d confessed he was helpless. Whoever it was came and went like a ghost.

  Sighing, the Necromancer worried at a thumbnail. Xotclic drifted in and out on its noxious green cloud, like a casual spectator at a traveling show, one with a healthy appetite. The demon would have to be dealt with, but that was a problem for another time.

  They’d have to move faster, there was nothing else for it. Another twenty miles west and they could swing away from this accursed heat, toward the north.

  His lower lip jutting, the Necromancer composed himself to build a vivid image of snowcapped peaks and glacial flows. Drawing on his Dark Arts, he reached out for the fiery, tormented consciousness of the djinn. Look at it, he crooned. Peace and silence and the cold, cold dark. You will be healed. You will be one again. Soon, soon.

  29

  A hard hand shook her shoulder. “Quarter cred.”

  “Wha—?” Mehcredi blinked at the burly figure of the skiffwoman.

  “Wake up, lad.” The woman gestured at a wide two-story building lit up as if for a carnivale. Music echoed across the water, something sprightly with a lot of strings. “The Garden.” She grinned and rubbed Scrounge’s ears. “Won’t charge ye fer the cheeky one.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Still muddled with sleep, Mehcredi dug the small coin out of her belt pouch. On shaky
aching legs, she climbed the water stairs, but when she reached the top, her steps slowed as if she’d walked ankle deep into a mire.

  Sweet Sister of mercy, she’d done it! Who knew?

  You underestimate yourself, Mehcredi.

  Godsdammit, Walker had been right. Again.

  For the hundredth, thousandth time, her stomach churned at the thought of him. Did he live? Only the fire witch could tell her. Drawing a deep breath, Mehcredi squared her shoulders. The bruise there still ached, a sullen fire in her flesh. First things first. Find the oh-so-beautiful Rose and Deiter the wizard, make Cenda look into the fire. There’d be time for sleep when she knew he was safe.

  Scrounge frisking about at her heels, she walked down the lanternlit path and through the doors flung wide in welcome. The party noises came from a spacious room on her right, painted in cream and gold and lined with mirrors. A stocky serving man in livery blocked her progress.

  He shoved the edge of the tray he carried into her belly. “Invitation only,” he said. “An’ I’m bettin’ you don’t have one.”

  “I need to see Rose.”

  “You and every other man in Caracole.” The man grunted. “Though . . .” He looked her up and down and his brow furrowed. “Ye don’t look the type. Off with ye, lad.”

  “I have to see Rose.”

  The serving man lost patience. “Well, ye can’t.” He clamped a meaty hand on her shoulder. “Hop it.”

  After the rough stable hands she’d encountered at every stop, the surly, barefoot sailors who spat next to her feet after a single glance at her head cloth and robes, and the pair of thugs who’d cornered her behind a dockside tavern in Belizare, this man was laughable. Almost absently, Mehcredi grabbed the tray, rammed it upward into his throat and slammed her fist into his sternum. She was already well into the party room before the crash echoed around the hall. With the utmost concentration, Scrounge quartered the floor behind her, snuffling up escaping canapés.

  Heads turned, chatter ceased. A few faltering scrapes and the musicians lowered their bows. For once in her life, she didn’t give a good godsdamn if the whole world was looking. She scanned the faces—shocked, amused or alarmed, according to temperament—until—Yes! Rosarina of The Garden stood by the tall windows on the other side of the room, elegant brows arched in mild surprise.

  Yes!

  Mehcredi surged forward, so focused on Rose that she didn’t notice the small woman planted in her path until she almost mowed her down.

  “You! ” Although she had to tilt her head way back to catch Mehcredi’s eye, Prue McGuire didn’t appear to be intimidated in the least. Her aquamarine gaze blazed with fury. “What the hell do you want, assassin?”

  Firmly, but gently, Mehcredi set her aside. “Rose.”

  “Not so fast,” said a deep melodious voice. A huge hand curled around her sword arm.

  Mehcredi raised her eyes from the top button of a fine linen shirt. Shit. “I’m sorry about . . . about . . .” she said to Erik the Golden. Hell. She gave up. “Godsdammit, I have to talk to Rose. Walker sent me.” The urgency of four interminable days had her vibrating with tension, shuddering deep in her bones. She was going to snap and when she did it wouldn’t be pretty. She clenched her teeth on the violence simmering beneath the surface. “Please.”

  “Walker?” Rose stood at Erik’s elbow, clad in a cream-colored thing that skimmed over her voluptuous body and turned her eyes almost navy blue. Her dark shining hair was threaded through with pearls. When she nodded at the small orchestra, the music started up again. Slowly, conversations resumed, people turned away. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “He was when I left him.” Beyond patience, Mehcredi bared her teeth at Erik. “Let go of me. Now.”

  Slowly enough to make a point, Erik released her.

  “She’s an assassin,” snapped Prue. “I don’t trust her.”

  Mehcredi scowled. “And I don’t give a fuck.” She scanned the crowd. “I need Cenda. And the old wizard.” She shifted her attention to Rose. “Walker said you’d get them for me.”

  “Where in the gods’ names have you come from?” Rose said slowly. Her eyes flickered from Mehcredi’s hair to her shabby boots. “You look like hell.”

  Mehcredi snorted. As if it mattered. Aloud, she said, “From the deep desert, south of Trimegrace.”

  “This way,” said Rose decisively, skirts swirling as she turned toward the door.

  “Rose—” Prue flung up her hands. “Oh, all right. What about the Spring Green Parlor?”

  “That’ll do.” Though she had inches on them both, the two women flanked Mehcredi as if she were a prisoner. “Erik,” said Rose, “would you be a dear and find the Purist? Sling him over your shoulder if you have to.”

  Erik grumbled something under his breath, but he strode away, head and shoulders taller than every other man in the room.

  “Sit.” In the Spring Green Parlor, Prue gave Mehcredi an impatient shove toward a squashy sofa. “You too.” When she leveled a stern finger at Scrounge, he plopped his furry rump down on the rug and grinned.

  Ah gods, the cushions felt good on her aching ass, her poor legs. To reach Belizare, she’d ridden for three days and two nights straight, pausing only to sell one horse and buy another. More than once, she’d dozed off in the saddle, even knowing how risky it was. When she ate, it was because she needed fuel. Mehcredi’s head swam.

  “When did you last sleep?” said Rose, a pucker between her brows. She gave the bellpull near the door a decisive jerk.

  “On the ship.” There hadn’t been anything else to do during her passage across the Three-Pronged Strait, but despite the bone-deep exhaustion, she’d wake with a start every couple of hours, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest.

  A girl with a face like a merry flower appeared in the doorway. “Mistress?”

  “Ah, Tansy.” Coming to her feet, Prue patted Rose on the shoulder. “Don’t get up,” she said, and walked out into the hall to confer with the girl.

  They were a team, thought Mehcredi, friends. Such ease, how she envied it, knowing it was beyond her. As if he understood, Scrounge pushed his shaggy head under her elbow.

  Footsteps sounded in the passage, a querulous voice was raised in protest. Suddenly, the parlor was full of people—big Erik hauling the old wizard over the threshold, a tall slim woman with astonishing swathes of red hair at her temples, a lean dangerous-looking man she hadn’t seen before, and—

  “Florien!” It was downright astonishing how pleased she was to see the boy’s wary grin, the nonchalant hunch of a bony shoulder. With a happy whine, Scrounge bounced over to greet him.

  The boy glanced up as he knelt to scratch the dog’s ears. “Hey, assassin.”

  Deiter fixed him with a baleful eye. “Off with you, slum rat.”

  “No,” said Mehcredi.

  “He stays,” rumbled Erik.

  The woman with the fire-bright hair—who had to be Cenda—said, “He’ll only listen at the keyhole anyway.”

  “You’ve got a way with you, lad, and no mistake,” the lean man said to Florien, and his elegant lips quirked. As he closed the door, his attention shifted to Mehcredi. “I’m Gray,” he said and slipped an arm around the fire witch’s slender waist. “This is Cenda.”

  At last! Mehcredi leaned toward the other woman. “Light a fire,” she demanded. “Do that . . . talking Magick thing. Now.”

  Prue made a disgusted noise, but Deiter curled a lip, exposing wine-stained teeth. “You’re not among friends here, assassin. Ask nicely.”

  Mehcredi surged to her feet. “I don’t want your godsbedamned friendship, wizard. All I want to know is if Walker . . .” She stumbled. “If . . . he lives.”

  “Got you there, Purist,” said Cenda mildly. “I could have scried for him days ago, but you had to go on a bender—”

  “Bah!” Deiter sank into a chair, his hands trembling. “Get on with it, girl, and remember what I taught you.”

&nb
sp; Mehcredi wasn’t sure what she expected, but Cenda reached into her hair and withdrew a gold ornament shaped like a lizard. Except . . . when the fire witch cupped it in her hand, it sat up on its haunches and grew, its eyes gleaming a fiery sapphire. Smiling, Cenda kissed it on the nose and shooed it into the fireplace. Out of the corner of her eye, Mehcredi caught Gray’s flinch.

  Flames sprang up with a whoosh, the creature dancing an ecstatic sarabande at the heart of the blaze. “It’s a salamander,” murmured a soft voice and Mehcredi jumped. Completely at ease, Rose sat to her left in a spindly chair, those strange beautiful eyes missing nothing.

  Mehcredi fell to her knees beside Cenda on the hearth rug. “Is he there?” she rasped. “Can you feel him?”

  The fire witch’s amber eyes widened, then narrowed. When she reached out to brush a tear from Mehcredi’s cheek, it sizzled on her fingertip. “I’ll do my best,” she said gravely. “But scrying like this is still very new to me.”

  Mehcredi clamped a hand over the fire witch’s knee. “Please.”

  Cenda dropped her gaze and the gold bracelet around her wrist uncoiled, reared up and hissed a challenge. Sweet Sister! Mehcredi snatched her hand back.

  With a small satisfied smile, Cenda leaned toward the fire and thrust both hands into the heart of the fire. Mehcredi’s jaw sagged.

  Godsdammit, how could she do that?

  Cenda trickled streamers of flame through her fingers like ribbons, stroking and weaving. She closed her eyes. “Walker? Walker, can you hear me?”

  Nothing but the crackle and hiss of the flames and the expectant breath of the people in the room. The orchestra in the party room launched into a plaintive melody.

  Cenda’s head dropped. “I can’t . . . It’s like a wall. There’s nothing there.”

  Mehcredi clutched her arm, heedless of salamanders. “Do it again! He said he’d make a fire every night. He promised!”