The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  In a single smooth movement, Gray came to crouch at the witch’s other side, his shadow flickering oddly on the wall. “Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured.

  That was all, but Cenda pushed a lock of blazing red hair out of her eyes and reached into the flames once more.

  “Wait.” Deiter struggled to his feet. “Help me, boy.” His fingers sank into Florien’s bony shoulder. The boy growled a curse, but he supported the old wizard across the room.

  Deiter transferred his grip to the back of Cenda’s neck.

  She winced. “Purist, is this wise?”

  “Shut up, girl, and do it. Take power from me as you need it. Erik, you keep the flames high. Prue, stay over there, hear?”

  Prue returned the old man’s scowl with a sneer. Erik the Golden nodded, flexing his fingers and humming under his breath.

  “Assassin, move those pretty tits if you don’t want ’em singed.” Deiter leered.

  She must be gaping like a half-wit. Honestly, these people were the most extraordinary—

  With a coughing whoosh, the fire exploded into a mass of flame that writhed up the chimney like a blazing tree. Rose’s fingers gripped the back of Mehcredi’s shirt and yanked, just in time.

  “Walker?” whispered Cenda. “Five-it, Walker?”

  Deiter began to shudder and Florien slipped under his arm to prop him up. “More,” the wizard said through gritted teeth.

  Silence. Oh gods, oh gods, he was injured, dead. Gone, gone forev—

  “Sscenda.” So faint, it could have been the sound of the salamander dancing.

  “There!” Mehcredi lunged forward, so close she thought her eyebrows crisped. “Walker, Walker, are you all right?”

  “He can’t hear you,” Rose said quietly. “Only Cenda.”

  Erik kept crooning, Cenda’s busy fingers plaited fire ribbons. “Go on, Walker,” she said. “I’m listening.”

  As the tongues of fire writhed, Mehcredi thought she caught a glimpse of high cheekbones, a blade of a nose.

  “Sscenda.” An agonizing pause. “Iss Mehcredi there?”

  “I’m here,” Mehcredi cried, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Walker, I’m here. Cenda, for the gods’ sakes, tell him.”

  Cenda said, “Safe and sound. She’s right next to me. Walker, are you all right? Where are you?”

  Another lengthy silence, then, “Yess. Jusst north . . . border . . . Cressy Plains.”

  “Ask him where he thinks the djinns are headed now,” demanded Deiter, sweat rolling down his cheeks to dampen his beard.

  But before Cenda could speak, Walker’s profile firmed in the heart of the blaze. Sweet Sister, he’d plaited finger bones into his hair again. “Lissten. No time. Guardss talk . . . ice fieldss.”

  “What are they, the djinns? How do we stop them?”

  “Woman’ss name.” Pause. “Now.”

  Deiter snarled, “You’re a stubborn bastard, shaman. She’s called Dancer, that’s all I know.”

  Cenda repeated the words. This time, the silence lasted an eon, but when the crackling whisper came again, it was so distorted Walker’s reaction was impossible to gauge. “Fire kills . . . Afraid . . . fire. For resst . . . ask Mehcredi . . . wass there.”

  “If they’re heading for the ice fields via the Cressy Plains, they’ll have to go through Guardpass,” Rose said suddenly. “Cenda, tell Walker we’ll meet him there.” When every head turned toward her, she spread her hands in a graceful gesture. “Anyone have a better idea?” She arched a cool brow. “Purist?”

  “Why not?” Deiter flapped a hand at her. “I’m only the most powerful wizard in the known universe. A courtesan knows best.”

  “We’ll meet you at Guardpass,” said Cenda to the blaze. She was very pale, Mehcredi noticed, leaning hard into Gray’s shoulder. “Walker?”

  “Yess.” Or was that the crackle of the dying fire? Walker was gone.

  Cenda sagged back into Gray’s arms and Rose helped Florien guide the old man into a chair. Then she tugged the bellpull again.

  One by one, every person in the room turned to look at Mehcredi. Thank the Sister she was sitting on the floor. Her whole body was awash with knee-trembling, muscle-loosening relief. He was alive, and apparently unhurt. And the first words out of his mouth had been about her!

  She blinked at her audience, trying to smile. “Thank you,” she said to the fire witch.

  There was a tap at the door and Erik opened it to take a laden tray from the pretty girl Mehcredi had seen before. Without a word, he handed Deiter a squat bottle of spirits and a cup.

  Prue crossed her arms. “So, assassin, tell us all about the djinns. From the beginning.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Mehcredi rubbed her forehead. “I’m no good at telling stories,” she said, feeling like a fool.

  Prue gave a huff of disgust, but Rose said, “Then we’ll ask questions and you answer them.”

  If it hadn’t been for the food on the tray and the piping-hot tisane, Mehcredi would have gone to sleep midsentence. As it was, she could barely focus as everyone in the room, with the exception of the boy and the dog, attempted to turn her skull inside out so they could examine the inner workings of her brain.

  Every action and reaction, every conversation and memory. She had to recall them all, word perfect, search her tired mind for every nuance, every useful scrap of information. At least she wasn’t stupid enough to tell them what Walker had come to mean to her, what they’d done together in the Three Rivers Inn, let alone at the Spring of Shiloh. Instinctively, she knew the hidden valley was private, a precious jewel the swordmaster had chosen to reveal only to her. She hugged it to her heart, a fragment of joy she could use to shore up her spirit as she described the carnage the djinns left in their wake.

  She wasn’t sure how long the interrogation lasted—hours it seemed. She was literally swaying with fatigue when Rose said, “Once you got out of Trinitaria, you were home free, assassin. You said Walker released you from your penance. Why did you come to us?”

  Frowning, Mehcredi stared at the perfect, calm face. Wasn’t it self-evident? “Because he asked me to.”

  Prue snorted. “Really?”

  Rose studied her face. “You’ve saved thousands of lives, possibly more once we get the queen to listen.”

  Mehcredi shrugged. “As long as I’ve saved his.”

  “Mm.” The courtesan exchanged a long glance with Prue. “It’s late. Purist, you’re exhausted. Cenda too.”

  Deiter waved his bottle in a lordly fashion. “I’m much improved, my dear.”

  Rose ignored him. “I suggest we sleep now and plan first thing in the morning.” Her voice softened. “Take the sofa, Mehcredi.”

  Mehcredi was still shaking her head as soft upholstery received her aching body. Vaguely, she was aware of further conversation, the rustle of clothing, receding footsteps. Someone shoved a cushion under her head and sleep crashed over her in a drugging wave.

  A few hours later, she woke in the dark, gasping. She shot bolt upright and something soft slipped to the floor. Oh, a blanket. A cold nose was thrust into her hand.

  “Scrounge. Oh, thank the Sister.” Shaking, she bent to hug him. She wrinkled her nose. “We need a bath, both of us.” She could see her attic room in the House of Swords, the steaming tubs in the bathhouse. A wave of longing swept over her.

  She tiptoed to the door, listening. The building was wrapped in that breathing silence peculiar to a sleeping house. Mehcredi felt in her belt pouch. Enough for a skiff, but if there were none to be found at this hour she’d damn well walk.

  “C’mon,” she said to the dog. “Let’s go home.”

  30

  “Did ye hafta kill anyone?”

  Mehcredi shot a sideways glance at Florien slouched like a sack of taters on a sturdy pony. As the worst rider, the boy had gravitated to the rear of their little cavalcade. Deiter wasn’t much better. The old man certainly complained enough. What the hell use he might be, she couldn’t discern. Mehc
redi gazed thoughtfully at the rest of the party, which included a company of guards supplied by the queen. The soldiers flanked the group, looking tough and competent. In the Sister’s name, what sort of connection did these people have with Queen Sikara?

  “Not quite,” she said repressively. Gods, she’d been lucky. Yes, but she’d also been well taught.

  “Not quite?” The boy’s eyes shone. “What does that mean?”

  “Two men tried to rob me.” Or worse.

  Florien bounced in the saddle. “Yah?”

  “I had my blades, they had short staffs. It was dark. I . . .” Automatically, Mehcredi rubbed her shoulder. The bruise had flowered nicely, purple and green. “They were noisy. Thought I’d be easy, I guess.”

  “But ye weren’t, were ye?”

  A wry smile twisted her lips. “No. I took the staff away from the short one and broke his wrist with it. I . . . knifed the other.” She shivered. The blade had slid through fabric and flesh as if they were butter. She hadn’t thought it could be so easy to end a life. But then metal grated on bone and the man had howled and fallen back.

  “Ooh, where?” Florien’s dark eyes sparkled with relish. “In the guts? Did he yell?”

  “Shoulder,” said Mehcredi.

  “Dai’s been teachin’ me, same as Walker taught you.” Florien’s skinny chest puffed out. “He says I got promise.”

  At the House of Swords, she’d had so little time with Dai. At first, the silence had been awkward, but then the swordsman gave one of his hoarse chuckles and pulled her into a brief hard hug. It seemed that despite everything she’d done, she had a friend of sorts. Mehcredi sighed. He still sounded . . . terrible, all raspy and ruined, though he swore the pain had left him completely.

  “They should have left you with him,” she said, frowning.

  “I do what I fookin’ want.” Florien shrugged, then spoiled it by snickering. “Swore I’d follow. Prue an’ the old man got mad, but Cenda an’ Gray believed me. Hah! So they should,” he added darkly.

  Yet they’d insisted she come, though she couldn’t quite work out why. Not that their wishes were of the slightest consequence. If Walker was waiting at this Guardpass place, she had nowhere else to be. She’d grown to love the House of Swords, but even the exquisite garden was nothing in comparison with the man at its center, the quiet sun around which everything revolved.

  Mehcredi listened with half an ear to the conversations around her, fretting. Yesterday, she’d walked out into the swordmaster’s garden, basking in the autumn sun, and gazed at it with new eyes, marveling. How was it she hadn’t understood before? His personality, his heart and soul, were imprinted on every flower, every branch and leaf. The impact of that realization, the recognition of how far she’d come and what she’d accomplished against all the odds—it caught up with her on the lawn beside the contemplation pool. She ached for him—as if the gods had scooped out some essential part of her and callously tossed it aside. Looking back now, she thought she must have lost a few seconds there, because when she regained her senses, she was on her knees with her arms wrapped around the smooth trunk of a widow’s hair tree, sobbing. She’d wept for ten minutes straight, her cheek pressed to the silvery bark.

  It had helped. By the time a tight-lipped Erik arrived to collect her late in the afternoon, she felt as limp and pale as an overcooked noodle, but calm enough.

  “You’ll spend the night at The Garden,” he said. “We leave at first light.”

  The brusque delivery couldn’t make his deep voice less than beautiful, nothing could, not even reading a laundry list. She smiled at the memory, because he’d done just that. Prue had sent a neatly written list of everything she was to bring. Mehcredi had shrugged, admitted she couldn’t read, and handed it back. Three shirts, a warm jacket, gloves if she had them, good boots . . . Erik read on and on, giving her goose bumps. Holy Sister, he was a handsome man, all big and blond, with eyes like a noonday sky.

  From beneath her lashes, Mehcredi watched him riding knee to knee with Prue, chuckling when an errant breeze blew a curl into her eye and she batted it away with a laughing glare, the color rising in her vivid, heart-shaped face. Overall, they were a well-favored group. Rose was simply spectacular, while Prue and Cenda each had their own charms, she supposed. As for Gray . . . He was decorative enough, if you preferred dark-haired men—which the gods knew she did—but there was something about him that made all the hair stand up on the back of her neck, something that flickered in the corner of her eye. She worried at her bottom lip, trying to work it out.

  Shivering, she turned up the collar of her padded jacket. Her blood had grown thin and warm away from Lonefell. The company was four days out of Caracole now and a chilly wind blustered out of the north to slip sly icy fingers between buttons and fastenings. The coat was Walker’s—she’d had no compunction about entering his room and taking it from the cupboard. In fact, it had given her a bittersweet feeling to look at his neatly made bed, to touch the plain wooden brush on his dresser. The garment swam on her a bit and she’d had to roll the sleeves up, but every time she closed her eyes, she felt him near, the smell of his skin and hair.

  When Scrounge pressed closer, she opened the jacket and folded him inside, taking comfort from his animal warmth. Every night for three nights, Cenda had crouched over the fire, calling Walker’s name, again and again. Nothing. What had begun as a faint unease had rapidly gained momentum, filling Mehcredi’s belly with a cold spiky ball of dread. A hideous litany sang in her ears, with every beat of her heart. He’s dead, oh gods, he’s dead. That hard bronze body smashed and broken, the lively black eyes filmed and dull.

  And she was stupid. A great daft lump. Mehcredi straightened her spine, forcing herself to take stock of the gentle roll of the plains, the wide fields of stubbled grain, the occasional farmhouse of weathered wood, its roof high-pitched to cater for the winter snow. Who better at survival than Walker, last of the Shar? Not only a warrior without peer, but a shaman with mind-boggling powers. She forced herself to take deep, even breaths.

  Up ahead, the guard captain, a broad-faced woman called Yachi, barked a command and the company jingled to a halt. She gestured at the blue bulk of a mountain range in the distance. “Stormsoul Range. We’ll be in Guardpass tomorrow night.”

  Deiter rummaged around under his heavy robe and produced a rolled-up map. Muttering under his breath, he ran a horny forefinger over the parchment. “You’re right,” he announced.

  The captain rolled her eyes but said no more, merely kicking her rangy bay into motion. The guards fell into formation and they were off again.

  Farther to the west, beyond that double notch in the mountains, lay Lonefell. Would she ever see the keep again? A wry smile twisted Mehcredi’s lips. Who cared? Gods, she’d seen more of the world, had more adventures, than a brute like Taso could conceive of. Well, if adventure meant near wetting yourself with terror but having to squat behind a bush to do it. On the other hand . . . Her mind filled with the vision of Walker stretched out beneath her as she rode him. Her sex clenched involuntarily. He’d been so high and hard, wedged all the way to her womb, filling her so brutally, so exquisitely. And Holy Sister, his face!

  Just like that, she was back where she’d begun, caught on the wheel of her fear. Dead, not dead. Dead, not dead.

  Guardpass couldn’t come soon enough.

  The tavern turned out to be the largest building in Guardpass, and it felt like every citizen for miles around was crowded into the fusty space. The walls smelled of resinous wood, the floor of ingrained beer. Every so often, a cart clattered up, or a horse, and the double doors swung open to admit a blast of chilly air and another hard-eyed, weather-beaten farmer.

  Mehcredi stood with the others at the back of the room, trying to avoid contact with the greasy wall, Scrounge pressed against her calf. Florien perched halfway up the stairs to the upper rooms, hanging over the banister. Purist Deiter and the Guardpass headwoman stood in uneasy proximity on top
of a table. Tugging at the three plaits of his beard, the old wizard glared at the crowd, which seethed like a rough stew about to boil over. In the confined space, the uproar battered at Mehcredi’s senses, making her head ache.

  Springing from a chair to the top of the bar, Yachi produced a surprisingly effective parade-ground bellow. “Settle down!”

  Mehcredi blinked, impressed.

  “You’ve heard the Purist. You want to speak, go right ahead, but don’t waste my time.” The guard captain pointed to a man with a barrel chest and a straggly beard. “You! Spit it out!”

  The man flushed and shuffled a bit, but his companions egged him on. “First storms o’ winter,” he said. “Jest rumors.” He shrugged. “Folks get skeered when weather’s bad.”

  Yachi set her hands on her broad hips. “What am I? Chopped liver?” She leaned forward. “The queen sent us. Get it?” The words, you fucking idiot, echoed unspoken.

  Voices overlapped, complaints, jeers, catcalls. A sense of ill usage hung over the assembly.

  “Waste o’ bloody time!”

  A rangy woman shook her head. “Fer the Sister’s sake, I have beasts in calf, hay to get. I’m off.” She pushed her way to the door.

  “I ain’t never seen no Magick.” A snort of derision. “Not gunna now.”

  Outside, hoofs rang on the packed earth of the single street. The rider was pushing hard, the animal faltering.

  “Sister save us, he’s going to explode,” Mehcredi murmured, watching Deiter’s face slowly turn purple.

  A small strong hand gripped her forearm. “Brace yourself,” Prue said, for once too preoccupied to bother with the glare she reserved especially for Mehcredi.

  Cold air slithered down her spine as the doors opened to admit a latecomer. Deiter’s furious gaze lifted, then grew fixed. “Ah,” he said.

  Heads turned, one by one. The silence spread and pooled like beer leaking from a sprung barrel.

  “Walker!” Black spots obscured Mehcredi’s vision.