The swordmaster stood framed in the doorway, gaunt as a winter-starved direwolf, a limp body slung over one shoulder. But although the limbs dangled, they jerked so violently Walker had to clamp a hand over the young man’s calves to stop the spasmodic kicking.
“No!” Prue blocked Mehcredi’s instinctive lunge forward. “Wait.”
Walker’s head turned as he quartered the room. When his eyes met Mehcredi’s, the world settled, fell into place with a click so loud, she couldn’t fathom why Prue, standing right next to her, showed no signs of hearing it. His shoulders dropped as if he’d blown out a long breath, then he blinked and looked away, fixing his gaze on Deiter. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut, the shadows beneath his eyes like bruises.
The crowd parted as the swordmaster stalked to the bar. Willing hands helped him lay the young man on top of it. In the shocked silence, his moans could be clearly heard, the hollow thud of his heels drumming against polished wood.
“A healer.” Walker’s voice was scraped so raw, she almost didn’t recognize it. The front of his shabby jacket was stiff with blood. “Do you have a healer?”
In the circle of lamplight, something shifted beneath the wounded man’s clothing. Walker drew his dagger and sliced the leg of his trews to reveal a round protuberance distorting the flesh of the man’s thigh, surging purposefully toward his torso.
The stout innkeeper craned over the bar, his eyes wide. The headwoman made a sound of utter revulsion. “Sister of mercy, what the hell is that?”
“It’s how the djinns kill. He’s young, strong. He had the best chance. I had to—’Cestors’ bones, the healer?”
“Here.” A plump woman pushed to the front, her face as pale as milk. She made the sign of the Sibling Moons. “Can we get him to my house? It’s only a step.”
At Yachi’s gesture, a couple of guards stepped forward. Gently, they lifted the man and carried him out into the night.
“How much time do we have?” Deiter asked Walker.
The shaman shrugged. “They’re about a day behind me, spread out over a ten-mile front.” He glanced after the wounded man. “He was plain unlucky. There were three of them. Maybe they blew into his farm on an evil wind, or they were advance scouts. By the time I got there, only he and his wife were still alive, and she . . . had no chance.”
The silence was absolute. As he rubbed his face, the finger bones swung to and fro, pale against the blue black of his hair. “They grow stronger as the temperature drops. Nyzarl’s men talk around the campfires. The djinns are heading for the ice.”
“The only other gap in the mountains is miles to the west of here.” The headwoman’s voice shook. “They’ll come through Guardpass. It’s the most direct.”
“Which gives us an advantage,” said a cool voice.
Cenda’s hand in his, Gray made his way to Walker’s side. With his slanted brows and his shadow flickering ominously behind him, his grin was positively demonic. “Because we have weapons the djinns cannot imagine.”
His steely gaze zeroed in on a gnarled individual who looked like a trapper. “You say you don’t believe in Magick? Watch, my friend, and learn.”
With the impeccable timing of a born showman, he stepped aside to reveal Cenda, her face suffused with embarrassment. But at his nod, she raised her chin and held out her hand, rills of fire bursting from her fingertips. People shuffled backward, the space before her clearing with remarkable rapidity. With a hungry whoosh, the flame expanded, wreathing her arm all the way to the shoulder.
“Five-it!” As the fire winked out, the sleeve of Cenda’s shirt fell away in a charred ruin. “I keep forgetting.”
In the frozen silence, Gray laughed and kissed her cheek. “Never mind the wardrobe.” He gathered the crowd with his gaze. “The djinns are terrified of fire,” he said. “But that’s not all.” With an open-handed flourish, he bowed in the big man’s direction. “Erik, my friend?”
Mehcredi shut her sagging jaw. Sister save her, this was better than a play in the theater—not that she’d seen any. What would he do, Erik the Golden? Perhaps he’d sing, the way he had in the Sailor’s Lay, the awful night she’d poisoned Dai. He’d been wonderful, mesmerizing.
Crooning under his breath, Erik scooped his open palms through the air. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, noiselessly, his feet left the floor until he was hovering among the rafters, perfectly composed. “Hmm,” he said. “The spiders up here are as big as rats. Innkeeper, you have to see.”
The man shook his head. “Yer mad—Aargh! Fuck!” Flailing with terror, he rose majestically toward the ceiling.
“See? Big as ponies.”
The innkeeper’s gasping curses sounded loud in the silence. After a moment, Erik floated him across to the bar and lowered him gently.
Then he made another, more expansive, gesture. A little breeze ran around the room, ruffling collars and tugging at hats. Gradually, it increased, until the bottles and glasses behind the bar rattled and it became difficult to keep their feet.
“We know heat kills the djinns,” said Erik, gazing down at his startled, windblown audience. “And we command two of the primal elements—fire and air.”
When he bared his teeth, he didn’t look genial at all. “Think about that, my friends.” Abruptly, the wind dropped and he landed lightly on his feet, his blue eyes very bright.
Something knotted in Mehcredi’s chest. Gods, to think she’d nearly killed him!
“Three,” said Deiter. Deliberately, he turned his head to stare at Walker. “Three of the elements.” A shaggy brow arched. “Well, shaman?”
Walker leaned stiffly against the bar, expressionless. “I’m no trick pony,” he said flatly. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
The room reverberated with conversation and conjecture, shouted questions and exclamations.
Mehcredi’s fists clenched. The devious old bastard! Hadn’t Walker done enough? She shouldered her way to Walker’s side. “You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?” she demanded, touching the swordmaster’s hand. Cold, so cold. From the corner of her eye, she caught Prue’s fascinated expression and Gray’s amusement.
“The blood’s not mine,” said Walker, so softly only those in the immediate vicinity could hear.
“Look at you!” Lifting his arm, Mehcredi slid beneath it, propping him up despite his grunt of protest. “You can barely move. When did you last eat? Sleep?”
He blinked down at her. “I . . . don’t know.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, nettled. “Why shouldn’t I ask? They’re perfectly reasonable questions.”
“I don’t know that eith—” He broke off when Gray smothered a chuckle. “Never mind.”
Rose touched Mehcredi’s elbow. “I hired the whole of the top floor.” Her lush mouth curved. “It’s not as if the host gets a lot of custom. You’re last on the right.” She gave Mehcredi a little push. “Go. I’ll have food and hot water sent up.”
“No.” Walker’s jaw set.
“Good man.” Deiter allowed the headwoman to help him down off the table. He rubbed his hands together. “Got any decent wine?” he inquired. “Planning’s thirsty work.”
Something snapped in Mehcredi’s head. She could have sworn she heard it go. In a single smooth movement, she dropped into the chair next to Deiter’s and shoved her face into his. “Five minutes to find out what you need to know. Then I’m taking him upstairs.”
“Aw, how sweet.” Deiter gave her his leering grin. “Behind those toothsome tits beats the heart of a mama wolf.”
A big hand wrapped around her upper arm. “Don’t,” advised Erik. “It’s not worth it, I guarantee.”
A growl still rumbling in her throat, Mehcredi shoved her blade back into the scabbard. Muscle by muscle, she relaxed. “Five minutes, old man,” she said.
Walker had gone past exhaustion and come out the other side, but the images of blood and bone-cracking agony were still painted on the inside
of his eyelids. In a parade of horror upon horror, the destruction of the Shar had become confused with the attack of the djinns, so that the two were inextricably linked in his mind until he thought he might choke—or spring up, howling with rage and pain, to tear and rend everything within reach.
He’d had to make choices only the gods should face—who to carry to the healers, who to abandon to a protracted agonized death. The children—Oh, gods.
Vaguely, he was aware he had Mehcredi’s hand in a death grip under the table, and that Deiter was firing questions at him—gods, the old man had a nerve! What exactly was the extent of his shaman’s power? Did it extend beyond plants? Because now they needed more than a gardener, much more.
The wizard leaned forward, his faded eyes intent, blazing with intelligence and purpose. “Can you make the earth shift in its bed, shaman? Can you force boulders to dance to the tune of your Magick?”
“Maybe.” Walker sat very straight. If he held himself still he could more or less ignore the gash on his arm, the flash burn across his back. “What are you after, Deiter, an earthquake?”
Deiter raised his wine cup in mock salute. “That’d do it.” He turned to the headwoman. “You must have a detailed map of the immediate area. Get it, will you?”
The woman’s face darkened with offense, but she pushed back her chair. “Back in a minute.”
“Good.” The old man raised his voice, speaking to the room at large. “The rest of you can bugger off now. We’re going to need every fighting staff you can find, right down to broomsticks and hoe handles. Find ’em and be back here at first light.”
“Not so fast, wizard.” Yachi sat with a decisive thump. “What are you planning?”
31
Deiter stroked his tripartite beard. “A blow against evil, our first as a group.” Walker followed his gaze as it flickered around the odd assortment of people at the table—Cenda and Gray, Erik and Prue, the assassin, Rose, the queen’s guards, even Florien. “We may only have three Sides of the Pentacle, but this is what the gods, the Lord and the Lady, intend. Which means we can’t fuck it up.”
A crease appeared between the captain’s thick brows. “Pentacle? What the hell are you talking about?”
The wizard drank deeply. He emerged, smacking his lips. “A trap. A stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.”
“That’s it.” Mehcredi’s chair scraped as she rose. “You’ve had your five minutes.”
Thoughts fumbled a slow way through Walker’s brain, like roots growing blind in the rich dark under the ground. Waves of sleep tugged at him, though sleep was a pale word for the black depths his body craved.
He thought he heard Deiter mutter, “Pussy-whipped,” but it meant no more than the buzzing of a biteme.
Instead, he said harshly, “My kinswoman, Deiter. Where is she?”
A long pause while the old man fiddled with his beard. Walker leaned closer, longing to close his fingers around that wattled throat and squeeze.
Something must have shown in his face, because Deiter drained the last of his wine in a single gulp. “Holdercroft, last I heard.”
A village on the Cressy Plains. By the First Father, the djinns had come within thirty miles of it.
“What’s she doing there?”
The old man shrugged. “Hell if I know. All I have is a name and a place.” He reached for the wine jug. “And more important things to worry about.”
“Later,” Walker growled. Every muscle in his body protesting, he pushed away from the table.
Rose glanced at Mehcredi’s hand linked with his, her lips curving in a faint, knowing smile. Prue looked disapproving. Fuck if he cared.
The stain on Mehcredi’s skin had faded to a jaundiced yellow, her bicolored hair poked up in tufts as if she’d been tugging it, and she was worn to the bone. But when he’d stepped in out of the cold, his hideous burden over one shoulder, she was all he’d looked for, all that filled his vision. He’d never seen anything as beautiful in his life. The relief had been exquisite. By the bones of Those Before, he was even glad to see that foolish dog.
As she tugged him into a small chamber, a wry smile quirked his lips. In a world gone mad, Mehcredi the assassin made him sane. She reminded him of what normal was, grounded him like the nea-kata. How ironic was that?
She was trying to get his jacket off, mumbling under her breath, swearing.
“Mehcredi.” He gripped both of her hands in his. “Don’t fuss. I can take care of myself.”
She raised a brow, her eyes molten with what looked like fury. “The way you have so far?” Jerking herself out of his grasp, she returned to the fastenings of the coat. “Where does it hurt?”
His face felt hot. “I said, I’ll be fine.” Reaching behind him, he braced himself unobtrusively against the door. The bed wasn’t far. If he were careful . . .
Mehcredi went up on tiptoes, which put them nose to nose. “I thought you were dead! Get it? Dead! I need—” She stopped, breathing heavily. “Let me . . . Ah, godsdammit, never mind.”
Spinning on her heel, she took a couple of quick steps to the small potbellied stove and began shoving kindling into it at a furious rate. Walker stared at the hunch of her shoulders. Shit.
“A mama wolf,” he said slowly, sinking onto the lumpy bed. “I don’t need . . . mothering, but thank you. Sorry.” He rubbed his temples. “Sorry. I was just . . . surprised.”
Flummoxed would be more like it. She’d sprung to his defense, for the gods’ sakes. She’d faced down Purist Deiter of Concordia, one of the most powerful wizards in the known worlds and a capricious old bastard to boot. Lucky he’d chosen to be amused. Father’s balls, did she understand the chance she’d taken? No one took risks like that for him. Why should they? Walker fought his own battles.
“Forget it.” Mehcredi clanged the door shut on the leaping flames.
Someone tapped on the door, a harassed-looking serving girl balancing a tray of food in one hand and carrying a steaming bucket with the other.
“Here.” Mehcredi handed him the tray and heaved the bucket onto the stove with easy strength.
Gods, yes! Walker had inhaled a huge wedge of meat and bread and cheese before she spoke again. “Want help with your boots?” she asked, as politely as if he were a stranger.
Even lifting the tankard of ale pulled at the burn across his back, the pain like a whiplash made of fire. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said with equal courtesy.
Walker gazed down at her bent head as she kneeled at his feet, at the white stripe of her parting, and his chest went tight. He’d sent her away for her own safety and ’Cestors knew it had been the right decision. If she’d seen what he’d seen, done what he’d had to do as he tracked the djinns . . . His guts turned over. No, no, not his assassin.
Nonetheless, it had been a choice among evils, an insane risk. He’d had to trust to her brains and courage and pray that the training he’d provided would be sufficient. She didn’t need to know he’d created a Song for her and chanted it to the Ancestors every night along the trail. Wearily, he wondered if it had made any difference.
When he reached out to touch her hair, his hands shook. Must be delayed shock. “You made it,” he said. When her head lifted, he smoothed a wayward lock behind her ear. “Well done.”
“Did you worry?” She swallowed. Her eyes had the luminous look that presaged tears.
Unsmiling, he cradled her warm cheek. “Every minute of every day.”
“Walker.” Mehcredi surged into his arms. The tankard tumbled from his fingers to the floor and her lips were on his, vital and desperate. Their teeth clinked, until she tilted her head, settled into the fit.
Nothing had ever felt so right, so perfect, as the sweetness of her eager mouth, the press of her strong supple body against his own. Reeling with the pleasure, the sheer relief of it, Walker gripped the back of her head and plundered. Alive and real. Here, in his arms. After the first few frantic seconds, something within him relaxed.
Gods, yes, it said. And mine.
Deeper. Slower. More.
His shoulders hit the mattress and he hissed with pain.
“What’s wrong?” Mehcredi pulled back, frowning.
“Went through a window when the place caught on fire.” Wincing, Walker came up on one elbow. “Too slow.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t move, godsdammit.” She disappeared out the door at a trot.
By the time she returned, he’d managed to peel off both coat and shirt, cursing under his breath as scabs ripped free. The slice across his biceps oozed blood and he preferred not to think about the burn.
Mehcredi dumped two glass vials and some soft rags on the bed. “That cut needs stitches.” She rinsed a cloth in warm water and wrung it out.
“I’d say the healer’s busy,” said Walker grimly. “Give me that.” He held out a hand for the rag.
Mehcredi ignored him, swabbing something dreadful from his knuckles, working her way up his arm. “Where have you been? Talk to me, Walker.” The warm water felt wonderful, the care in her gentle hands even better.
So he did, slowly at first, searching for words, sparing her the worst. Her touch firm and deft, she rid him of filth and blood and sweat and dried him carefully with a threadbare towel. Moving behind him on the bed, she slathered scaldcream on the burn and healall on the gash.
“What’s a pentacle got to do with anything?” She ripped a dry rag into long strips.
While she bound his wounds, he explained as best he could—fire, air, earth and water.
“Even I know a pentacle’s got five sides,” she said. “Can’t Deiter count?”
“Yes.” Walker gave a rusty chuckle. “Drives him mad, not knowing what it means.” Gingerly, he stretched out on his good side. The room was warm now, almost cozy. He truly hadn’t thought to know such peace again. Sleep beckoned, a long sweet fall into a dark abyss.
He forced his eyes open. “Lie down with me, Mehcredi.”
After a small hesitation, she kicked her boots off and came down next to him with a long sigh. “No,” he mumbled, plucking at her shirt. “Get it off. Everything.”
The Lone Warrior Page 33