True looked at Master Radoc. “Defeat, Master? You wish me to kill them?” He hoped not. He mostly liked Master Wick and had no ill feelings toward the warrior Urgast. Brude would be far easier to blood.
Radoc paled. Mistress Essa answered, “No—defeat means to get your opponent’s weapons from him and pin him on his back. There will be no killing on any side—do all of you understand?”
“Brude bared his teeth. “But blood-letting?”
“To be sure,” Radoc replied.
Brude grinned. “Then allow me to go first.”
“As you wish.”
The other two stepped to the side of the ring which had once more formed. Adept at measuring others’ emotions, True looked into Brude’s eyes and saw what lay there.
Lady, help me.
He had time for no more. Like him, Brude wore a knife, no doubt stolen in battle from the westerners, and carried a spear. Now he drew the knife, bared his teeth, and assumed a crouched stance.
Following suit, True narrowed his eyes on Brude’s face—this part of the fight he understood. In his mode of combat one always leaped upward and went for the throat.
Might he use the iron weapon in the same manner? Not giving himself time to doubt, he leaped and swept the knife upward at Brude’s throat. The onlookers exclaimed, and Brude raised his knife to block, barely in time. Brude back-stepped wildly, and True leaped again, the strained muscles throughout his body protesting.
A new expression invaded Brude’s eyes. “Come on, then,” he grated. “Let us see this thing done.”
Chapter Nine
Barta’s heart, like a little boat on a tumultuous river, rose and fell wildly. She wouldn’t let herself question her fierce surge of hope when True began his battle so very aggressively. But when, seeming frustrated with his weapons, he tossed them aside, she joined her voice with those of the others who cried out.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all? He fought with an intensity she’d beheld only a few times in the best warriors, all fire and instinct.
Seeing True cast away his weapons, Brude bared his teeth in a terrible grimace, perhaps thinking he had an advantage. But True leaped at him with rampant ferocity, reaching for his throat with both hands. Brude staggered, recovered, and raised his knife in a vicious movement that True dodged barely in time. They circled one another, eyes locked, and Barta’s heart rose into her throat.
Courageous and bold True might be, but how could this end well for him? She’d seen Brude fight with a long knife, and terror gripped her. She never should have let True enter this combat. Nothing was worth him risking his life.
Yet he looked calm, hair falling forward across eyes so bright they gleamed. At that moment he looked so familiar she caught her breath all over again. Of whom did he remind her? No chance to tell, for he leaped again, ducking beneath Brude’s blade in a movement so quick Brude had no chance to block it. His hands, formed into claws, locked on Brude’s arms. For an instant the two men stared one another in the face before True took Brude down backwards onto the ground. With apparent ease he smashed Brude’s hands against the dirt, one after the other, until Brude released his knife and then his spear. Anger suffused Brude’s face, but he could do nothing except lie where True held him, glaring and gasping. When True released him and both men rose, hate stared from Brude’s eyes.
The crowd hooted and whispered. Heads were put together, and Radoc, with a grimace, waved at the second opponent.
Urgast, far more cautious in the face of Brude’s ready defeat, took the challenger on next and went down with similar speed. Now the crowd murmured incredulously. Only one opponent remained—Wick, their unofficial war chief. Urgast melted back into the onlookers and let his friend take his place.
The incomer showed no signs of picking up his weapons. From what Barta had seen, his hands made weapons enough, grasping, raking and clawing like those of a wild animal, all his strength focused into his attacks.
Wick eyed him warily and laid his own weapons aside.
This time True did not attack first. Because Wick was Barta’s brother? A swift glance at her argued so. He waited for Wick to leap at him, the two circling with their eyes locked, feet tramping the dirt. The crowd held its collective breath, and Barta bit her lip viciously. A few warriors called encouragement, and Wick leaped at last, diving for his opponent’s legs. They both went down hard, to wild cheering.
Barta’s heart spasmed again, and she feared the worst. Her brother was quick, as she very well knew, and good at wrestling. He’d decided to take True on his own terms. And such a fight could become very ugly indeed. The two men thrashed and rolled together, grappling and grunting. A sudden flurry caused the onlookers to cry out; somehow True had got inside Wick’s guard and seized him by the throat in fingers like iron.
Radoc hollered encouragement to his son, who twisted, kicked out, and nearly won his way free from True’s grasp. Now everyone watching cried out, most calling Wick’s name.
But not all.
Still, Barta did not ask herself where her own loyalties should lie. How could she champion the stranger rather than her beloved brother? And then—just like that—it ended. True, his hands fast at Wick’s throat, lifted Wick with uncanny strength and slammed him to the ground in a movement that should have broken his back. Wick’s eyes rolled back in his head and he subsided into motionlessness.
Or death.
Barta ran forward along with several others, her mother included, and crouched down.
“He breathes,” Essa said.
True, who still stood over Wick, backed off a step. Barta met his gaze and saw confusion in his eyes.
“Winded,” Essa pronounced, “and he’s struck his head. I hope there are no broken ribs.”
True, barely out of breath, bent down and spoke in Barta’s ear. She could smell his sweat—far from unpleasant—and his breath tickled her skin. “Did I do wrong, Mistress? Was I not supposed to win?”
Profoundly shaken, Barta arose and grasped his hand; a frisson of awareness skipped up her arm and stopped her cold. So powerfully did the feeling strike, she wondered if their palms might fuse together. “He will be all right,” she said more to herself than to True.
His eyes pinioned hers. “If I have done well, why are you upset?”
She met his gaze again, swallowed and said, “You have done all I might ask, and if I am upset it is not with you. Come.”
She led him directly to Radoc, even as Wick stirred and began to rise. Before her father they paused, and the crowd shifted, staring.
“Father, this warrior, now called True, has met every challenge and proved victorious. Will you grant him status in the tribe?”
Radoc, who appeared slightly ill, scowled at Barta and her companion in turn. “ ‘True’? This is a name you have given him? It sounds like that of a hound rather than a man.”
“But true he has proved himself. Someday, Father, he may recall his own name, but until then he shall go by this one.” She glanced at the man beside her, who appeared barely winded by all his ordeals. “That is what you wish?” she asked him.
He nodded, and the ashen hair fell across his face; Barta’s heart responded with a sharp pang. She turned to Radoc again. “Father, he won fairly for all to see, and you gave your word, which you always keep.”
Radoc glared at her. Plainly he had never expected the incomer to win; this had been meant as a way to dispose of him with honor. Bitterly he said, “There is some trickery or magic in it. How can I trust what I do not understand?” He switched his gaze to True. “You realize should you ever betray us the penalty will be a slow and painful death.”
True, his palm still fused with Barta’s, nodded again. “I would sooner die, Master Radoc, than betray you.”
“Very well, then.” More loudly Radoc called, “This man, now called ‘True,’ has proved himself through trials of endurance, determination, and valor. He is declared worthy of the Epidii.”
His hearers went si
lent, and he paused significantly before he added, “I would so have you welcome him as one of our own.” Radoc drew Barta to him by the front of her tunic and dropped his voice. “But, Daughter, you needn’t suppose he’ll be sleeping beneath my roof.”
****
“We must find a place for you to stay.” Barta’s voice sang in True’s ears, all he wanted to hear. Listening to her—merely being with her—made all his hurts fall away.
She still held him by the hand, and he thought how odd yet how wonderful it made him feel. Need dictated that he should have her close; touching her seemed even better than it had in the past, though he did not understand why.
Physically spent from the trials just past yet euphoric, he drew a deep breath of the sweet air mingled with Barta’s scent. They’d left the still-milling crowd just after Radoc made his declaration and once Wick had finished climbing to his feet from the dirt, seemingly not much the worse for his defeat, if unhappy about it. Wick moved gingerly as if he hurt, and livid marks showed at his throat.
“He will not be pleased with you,” Barta told True before she drew him away. “Nor will he wish to set eyes on you for a time. Come along.”
Now True stopped walking and drew Barta to face him. Once more he asked, “Did I not do right, Mistress? Did you not wish for me to win?”
He watched her eyes, as ever, before she spoke. Her eyes always gave him the truth. “Of course. But there will still be questions.”
“I do not understand.”
“You should not have been able to best those three men, especially after the other ordeals. The fact that you did so smacks of enchantment.”
“But it was the only way I might remain here.”
She eyed him closely. “Tell me, why do you wish so desperately to remain with our tribe?”
He answered simply, “You are here.”
The words did not make her look pleased. Instead she trembled and her shoulders twitched. “All of this,” she said slowly, “is difficult to comprehend—from your appearance out of the night to your desire to stay. You will need to give people time. You’ll need to give me time.”
He nodded, troubled. “I want only for you to be happy.”
“Perhaps so, but it is such declarations as that which will raise folks’ suspicions. You do not even know me. Why should you care if I’m happy?”
Not know her? He did—right down to her every habit, her every emotion. But he couldn’t betray that truth or the Lady might snatch him away, even from this place so hard-won.
So he dropped his gaze and nodded. “I will do my best to afford others time.”
“Good. Come with me then.”
“Where do you take me?”
“I do not want you bunked with the young warriors; they would make your life a misery. And you heard my father. You cannot live with us.”
“Then I will sleep outside your hut.”
She stared at him. “With no shelter? Even in the rain?”
What mattered the rain and cold if he could be near her?
But she drew him on into the edge of the forest; all at once he understood where she led him. “You take me to Master Pith.”
She paused again. “How could you possibly know that?” She studied him, an almost fearful look in her eyes. “Who are you?”
Ah, and he must be more careful to guard his reactions. He shook his head again. “Do not ask me, Mistress.”
The old man had not gone out to view the spectacle—there would be no point in going, for he could have seen nothing, being blind. But when they approached his hut, half submerged in the forest silt, True could see he sat out in front of his door in the sunshine and appeared to have been listening.
For them?
No reason to think so. Pith had been blinded in a battle long ago and now possessed more than a hint of magic.
“Ah,” he called out when they drew near, “and who comes to speak with me?”
“It is I, Barta—with another.” Barta drew True to a halt in front of the place where the old man sat.
Pith said, “I heard the sounds of a great contest. Have you brought me the winner or the loser, Barta Chief’s daughter?”
“The winner, Pith.” She hunkered down in the forest loam, and True followed suit. True narrowed his eyes and gazed into Pith’s countenance.
The terrible injury that blinded the man had left its mark on his face—a long swath of a scar that crossed both eyes, one of which had been lost and one of which remained, bald and white. The empty socket, deeply puckered, made a stark contrast.
Pith turned this ruined face toward True as if scenting—or sensing—him.
“A young man, is it? What is your name?”
“My mistress has named me ‘True.’ ”
“Your mistress? And who might she be?”
“Barta.”
“A strange enough thing, since you do not sound like an infant. Had you no name before?”
True hesitated. Here once again lay dangerous ground.
“He has forgotten his name,” Barta answered for him, “and come to us, as it were, new.”
True jerked his head around and looked at her. So, she did understand.
He said, “Master, I have been through a profound change of which I cannot speak, and have come to be of service to this tribe. I have just proved myself worthy by accomplishing three feats.”
“Why?”
“Master?”
“Why have you come to be of service to this tribe?”
True quivered. He did not know how to lie, barely grasped the art of prevarication, and could not speak the truth.
“My Lady sent me.”
“Your lady?”
“The goddess of all.”
Pith grunted. “Next I suppose you will tell me you’ve lain with her, as well.”
True shook his head before thinking better of it. “Nay, Master.” He’d mated with no one save a few bitches in heat, on abandoned afternoons, and he didn’t suppose they counted.
Barta butted in yet again. “He has passed the tests of endurance, determination, and valor, and so Father must let him stay. But he needs somewhere to sleep, a safe place where the young men will not constantly be at him.”
“You have much faith in your folk, girl. If he has passed these tests, why should the young warriors harass him?”
“Because he is an incomer. You know what they are. And I said Father must let him stay, not that all here will welcome him.”
“So why foist him upon me?”
“You are well respected. No one will disturb your peace.”
Pith grunted again. “Come here, lad.”
True scrambled forward, letting go of Barta’s hand for the first time since the combat. The ensuing wave of cold made him shudder.
Pith reached out and touched his head, an action True understood. The old warrior’s palm felt hard and horny, but his touch contained no anger. He seemed to consider what he felt, his face turning back and forth like that of a pup feeling the touch of the sun.
At last he grunted. “Well, he can stay if he promises to help me get up in the morning. It has become a great burden to me.”
“That, Master Pith, I shall be happy to do.”
Chapter Ten
Morning came softly, muted by raindrops. When she woke, Barta could hear them falling on the dirt just outside her door. She lay perfectly still while the now familiar pain swamped her, the great sea of loss that encompassed the lack of both Loyal and her friends. She thought of the men’s lovers, their families. If she hurt so fiercely, what must they feel? This raw emptiness she could not imagine being filled by anything but…
True.
Her first thought of him came nearly as softly as the rain but with an aftertaste of longing.
She opened her eyes and found herself tightly curled on her sleeping bench, an image of True in her mind. Rough and shaggy hair, bright hazel eyes… She began to ache still more fiercely, the desire to be with him nearly overwhelmi
ng.
What if he had not done as she bade and stayed with Pith? What if, distressed by his lack of memories and the uncertainty of a future with them, he’d left the tribe as suddenly as he’d come?
Her heart leaped sickeningly at the thought, but her mind argued it could be so. She could not begin to guess what terrible events had befallen him before his arrival, but she knew what had happened since.
She saw again an image of him straining to pull the lashed stone, every muscle standing out, and her fear increased. Would he stay among folk who could and had asked that of him? But then, would he surrender a place so hard-won?
At that moment, lying in the gloomy dawn, she could not say. Doubt got her up in the still hut, everyone else asleep. She would visit the midden before walking up to Pith’s and satisfying herself, yet not let True know she was there if she could help it. She needed just to answer this ache inside.
She crept past her parents’ sleeping bench where her father lay with one arm flung across her mother in a gesture of protection. Watching them over her shoulder, she hurtled out the door and stumbled over something on the threshold. She tripped and sprawled out into the rain.
The earth where she landed had at least been softened by the damp. But what—?
Scrambling up, she saw a dark form across her parents’ doorstep. It moved when she did and resolved into a long, graceful figure—one of the hounds, surely, she thought. But he arose, and she saw the very man she sought.
“True?” she spat out. “By the lord and lady, what are you doing there?”
“Forgive me, Mistress. I didn’t mean to make you fall.”
Barta barely heard his words, for he reached out and caught her arm. Warmth curled through her from the place his fingers met her bare skin, an almost painful comfort.
She stepped closer and gazed into his face. “I left you up at Pith’s. Safe at Pith’s. Why did you leave there?”
He seemed to consider before speaking. His shoulders rose and fell, and he shook his head. “It was too far from you.”
What could she say to that? Hadn’t she awakened filled with longing for him? Could she deny he might feel something similar and that it had brought him here to lie as near as possible to her?
Loyal and True Page 6