Preece's patience had reached its end.
"You will all die if you attempt this!" he exploded now. Enough with his cousin's winning smile and easy charm. Charm did not keep a man whole when faced with armed and merciless adversaries.
"Why do you refuse to heed me? Before I was taken prisoner and . . ." Preece's voice broke and he flushed. This was part of the difficulty. With the passage of time, he'd found it harder to speak plainly of his arrest and imprisonment, not easier. The painful memories prickled. Mayhap his pride had outgrown reasonable size, now that he'd finally found himself a man admired and respected. He could not speak easily of the broken warrior he'd been.
He cleared his throat and tried again. "Before my injuries, I practiced nearly each and every day. I fought for years. No man, even the most ferocious Waniand, develops the necessary skills and instincts in only a moon cycle or two. Even with the best weapons, and we have none."
Someone grumbled in assent. Preece spoke louder. "In Glacia, you will be up against royal archers with deadly aim. Swordsmen who've spent years honing skill with their blades. Brutes who swing poleaxes and maces, who delight in splitting skulls wide open. You cannot hope to prevail."
Taroch waved a hand to dismiss his troops. The motley assemblage of warriors dispersed in search of midday food and drink. Taroch approached Preece and tossed a casual arm around his shoulders. "You do not see, do you? We have the only weapons we'll need: the element of surprise, and you, cousin. I've fostered arms practice because it bolsters morale, gives them a way to channel their restless energy. I know it serves no point. There will be no ground fighting, no direct combat. We shall take the castle and spill very little blood."
Preece plopped down on a nearby rock. His cousin remained standing and smiling. Satan's hoofprints, but Preece detested that damned smug smile. "You still do not grasp what I've told you. The royal castle squats amid a bowl of solid rock, ringed on all sides by steep glaciers. You cannot tunnel under the castle walls. Even had we a force of a thousand, and a dozen catapults or trebuchets, a siege to those walls would take long, brutal weeks. We have no war engines and too few men."
"Ah, but I have what I need. The perfect war engine within the deadliest man. You. You will capture the monarch on a moonless night."
Preece spat at his cousin's feet. "'A distinct lack of wits allows you that grin. I'd wondered since first we met, but your scheme proves it. I cannot dare show my face anywhere inside the border of Glacia, as you've been told. Five times or more, yet you ignore that fact."
Taroch snorted in what Preece suspected was a failed attempt at stifling laughter. His young cousin had not yet learned better than to openly laugh at Preece.
"You are infamous for not showing your face," Taroch said, "Or so I was told by the wizard. Would a man hidden beneath a black cowl not be just another shadow in the dark of night? Could a stealthy man garbed all in black not slip unawares to a vulnerable spot and scale the walls?"
"It might be possible, but - "
"You need only find that vulnerable spot. The others will create a diversion to draw the guards away." Taroch warmed to his tale. "Once inside, since you know your way about the castle, you can get to the king's private chambers. A dagger to the monarch's chest might force a peaceful surrender. Particularly as the king shall misbelieve you're one of a thousand, not fifty, Waniands. Waniands who've come to demand what is rightfully theirs."
Preece firmly shook his head. "The sun has broiled your sanity. The odds against such a ploy succeeding are so - "
"Are we wagering, then?" Taroch's eyes danced with mischief. Preece did not care for the way that mischief slipped up his back and wrapped around his spine. Damn Taroch for his willful determination. It was the very quality that made him best suited to lead the Waniands, made him best suited to wearing a crown, yet Preece was older and more experienced. He knew their situation. He knew better than to listen to Taroch, yet in his breast he felt a tiny kernel of hopefulness take root.
Would it not be amazing, should they defeat the odds? Would it not be the achievement of his life to see Waniands rise to prominence in the land where they were scorned and hated, where they'd been all but extinguished?
Taroch suddenly lost his smile. He straightened and spoke in sober tones. The most sober he'd used since their initial meeting in the Ataraxian temple.
"I'll wager it can succeed. I risk my own life and that of every Waniand on this island."
"But for a few nomads in the known realms, we are all who remain of the true ancient race," Preece reminded ominously. Despite the longing in his soul, they both had to face the harsh truth of reality.
"Should we fail, our race may be annihilated. Your few females cannot produce enough young to guarantee a future generation of sound warriors, Tarochin. Too much is at stake. Do we die in Glacia trying to take the castle, so dies the Waniand race."
"As it dies here, even now!" Taroch ranted in frustration. "As you say, we've no weapons forged of iron or steel. Our forefathers, in desperation, fled the larger realms in small boats to these tropics, but you know we do not thrive here. Our people are meant for snow and frigid climes, not this sand. We are warriors by blood, not fishermen! And you, cousin, brave mercenary knight, how many children have you begotten?"
Preece blinked at the odd question. "I've not yet taken a lifemate, so I cannot have fathered get."
"Vulpina and Zade say you have. Zade thinks you're lifemated."
Zade was a full-blooded Waniand, and the most voluptuous maiden Preece had ever beheld. He'd noticed her immediately, but dismissed any thought of taking her. A warrior did not dally with ripe Waniand females. Besides, when once their hands brushed casually during a meal, he'd felt no spark of heat.
She gleamed pale and cool; was assuredly beautiful; looked at him with open interest. But she wasn't a maid he'd consider for a potential lifemate. Preece sought heat and fire.
"How would they judge I've taken a mate?" he snapped in irritation. "Because I've not tried mounting any Waniand maiden yet? I'm not in season."
"Zade went to your pallet late one night. You tossed and thrashed, showed stiffness enough for mounting. You shrank from her touch, but not before she glimpsed faint scarring."
Preece lifted his brows. Taroch had the grace to flush. "She related the episode to Vulpina. Do you deny having a lifemate, because she's not of our race? We know you've lived amongst strangers. We do not condemn you for taking an outsider."
"I tell you I have no lifemate! Tell Zade to ply her wiles on someone else. I bear the scars of my ordeal during the tribunal. Tell Zade to stay away from my pallet. Surely there must be some warrior here itching to claim her."
"Aye, several, in truth. The clashes can grow ugly when two go into rut at virtually the same time. Every unattached man has sought Zade during his season at one time or another. She must choose someone soon. I had hoped if 'twas untrue that you might be interested. But - "
"I'm not, Tarochin. Leave it. " Preece rose, uncomfortable with both the topic and the piercing way his cousin studied him. Taroch knew better than to accuse Preece of lying, but seemed to mistrust he'd been told the full truth.
Preece knew why Taroch was so intrigued. Zade's accursed tongue and report of a nighttime erection. Behavior that did not conform to Waniand ways.
He could not look at his cousin as he made his awkward confession. "The Ataraxians healed many serious wounds to my flesh. I was nearly castrated by the old king. I do not fully understand how or why, but during the restoration, I have been changed."
"Castrated?" Taroch repeated in a choked whisper.
Preece lifted and dropped his shoulders, hoping Taroch would see only a careless shrug, not the difficulty he had in speaking plainly. "You mayhap understand why I felt no sorrow at the polydact's murder. I know not who sits upon Glacia's throne now, and despite the prophecies the Old Ones left that I am to serve as your guide, I've no wish to return to Glacia."
"You are even more wasted he
re than the rest of our warriors, my cousin. To have skill and knowledge such as you possess...Where would you go?"
Preece turned back to his cousin. In truth, he did hate the aquamarine lapping waves. He disliked finding sand everywhere - between his toes and buttocks, in his hair, even his food. He was fed up with squinting in glaring sunlight, being buffeted daily by endless balmy breezes.
He was by nature a man who liked to sulk. This clime did not foster sulking.
Yet he had no idea where else he should go, or what to make of his life. For as long as he could remember, his one and only goal had been to come to this realm. That dream now achieved, he had no purpose.
Taroch knew this, and stood calmly watching Preece. Not with his previous intensity or any baldly speculative look, just a quiet openness.
Another pair of eyes had regarded Preece that way. Someone else had looked at him with forbearance and understanding. But those eyes hadn't been blue, like Taroch's...damn it, whose eyes had beheld him with veneration?
He'd made few friends, given every human around him little enough cause to admire him. The list of those who could have borne him such esteem could not be long, so why could he not summon a face or name?
The sinews of his body grew taut and more powerful than ever with each passing day. Strength returned to his arms, legs, chest. At the same time, his mind seemingly sprouted new leaks; his memory gained raveling holes that daily grew wider and bleaker.
"If you wish to attempt a Glacian siege, I suppose I must accompany you." Preece sighed at last. "The royal keep lies hidden behind a ringed wall of mountain peaks. We must sail to Greensward, where I'm likewise decidedly unpopular, then cross westward into Dredonia. If bounty hunters don't fill my chest with arrows and blades first, I might survive to guide you through the pass to Inner Glacia and the royal residence."
"I look forward to the adventure. The women have spent years weaving and sewing. We have sails."
"But no ship with masts on which to mount them."
Taroch's grin widened. "Bourke worked a bit of magic before taking me to the temple that evening for the feast. On the far side of the islet is a cove, with a ship waiting. He laid his hands upon a fallen log and transformed it. 'Tis a fine ship."
Preece did not even bother showing surprise. Why? Bourke would have left naught to happenstance. "To a fine voyage, as well."
Taroch nodded and strode away. Preece remained near the shore, staring at the empty azure horizon.
Taroch's optimism would drive him mad. Preece told himself the only solution was to mentally translate whatever the Waniand leader said into more reasonable terms. Starting with that last comment. "Look forward" could only be Taroch's way of saying he dreaded the adventure before them.
They would all very likely die for their ambition. The odds of a Waniand victory were infinitesimal. Yet as he mentally reviewed the details of the siege plan Taroch had outlined, Preece's own lips quirked upward.
Donning his cowl again, slipping back inside the castle walls at Glacia, where he'd ever been distrusted and unwelcome. This time arriving as conqueror.
There was an undeniably sweet flavor of vindication to such an image, a sweetness Preece could almost taste. 'Twas both unlikely, and damned fair that he should go back and vanquish.
He'd spent far too many years alone and hungry.
Taroch grunted and lowered himself onto a bench in the dingy tavern. "I'd doubted the Ataraxians when they suggested people of distant realms would trade for the fruit of tropical trees. Perhaps 'tis only that Vulpina has a gift for negotiation."
Preece shrugged and took the cup of ale his cousin proffered. Fortune had been with them thus far. The voyage across the Great Seas had been smooth, the trek through Greensward uneventful. Dressed as traveling peddlers and minstrels, no one had questioned them or impeded their westward progress.
However, now they'd entered Dredonia, and he was wary. He kept his eyes moving and ears cocked, and bade the Tarochs and other Preece clansmen to stay watchful.
Taroch reached below the table and began scratching. "Devil take me, but my crotch is afire. A war campaign to lead, and I'm going into season!" The complaint was a mere whisper, hissed at Preece in the Waniand tongue.
None of the other tavern patrons appeared to take note of his remark or predicament. "You'll keep the men away from trouble here? You were right about the coarse travelers in this realm."
Preece was swathed and muffled beneath a great cloak and furs, dressed like any ordinary Aldean nomad. Aldeans were a tall race, much like Waniands, and their menfolk often traveled into this region. Aldeans sold handcrafted wares to the dark Raviners working in the Dredonian mines. Preece almost regretted his successful Aldean guise at the moment. He would have liked Taroch to read the amusement in his eyes.
There was something to be said for his altered virility. He thought about the conversation with Tarochin on the subject that afternoon some weeks before, back on the beach. There had been no more personal questions or talk of Preece mounting Zade. She'd avoided Preece as much as possible in the ensuing days. Which was a blessing, for he was usually hard as stone upon awakening, and had no wish to explain to anyone the reason: peculiar, accursed dreams.
He'd suffered them with increasing frequency. Visions almost nightly of a mysterious female creature clad in gossamer gowns that revealed even as they swathed her willowy body. Her flesh was not the pale cream of a Waniand maiden, but colored like that of a ripening orchard peach. Her eyes and hair shone with an unholy purplish glow, a fire Preece could not gaze upon without longing to touch. Yet when he drew near and reached for her shift...
Nay, allowing his thoughts to continue along that path would get him scratching like Taroch.
"Go," he bid his cousin in a low voice, replying also in their native language. "Take Vulpina, long and well, again and again until the fire is out of your blood. I'll not hold back the caravan because your wagon's rocking on its springs."
No sooner had the words left Preece's mouth than Vulpina appeared in the doorway to the taproom. Several masculine gazes promptly swung to where she stood, and Taroch surged to his feet with a growl.
Vulpina's eyes boldly caressed her mate - first his loins, then they brazenly flitted up to his stern face in age-old female invitation. When a thick-armed, bald fellow scraped back his bench and sought his feet, Taroch turned to glare a challenge. "She is my woman. Look at her with lust and your bollocks will soon be as hairless as your pate. " The hat Taroch had earlier pulled low on his brow fell, forgotten, to the floor.
"Saint Dismas, a Waniand about to rut!" The bald man swayed, gaping at Taroch. Taroch caught Vulpina in his arms and stalked out of the tavern. Preece knew the pair would lock themselves inside their wagon.
The bald behemoth turned his astonished gaze to Preece.
Preece sipped his ale calmly and shook his head in slow denial. "Waniand? They left this realm long ages past. He hails from Ataraxia. Sold me these peculiar fruits. Taste like figgerts, only sweeter. Take a bite."
As the big fellow bent forward to sample the dried date Preece extended in one hand, he struck with the other. The bald shiny pate struck a bench and crashed senseless to the filthy plank floor.
Preece nudged the unconscious man aside with his boot. "Barkeep, this one's had too much ale. I'd banish him afore he befouls your floor. Bad for trade, vomit is."
Preece glanced over at the tables occupied by more of his warrior brethren. Every Waniand had altered his appearance. Some used plant dyes to darken their locks or skin. Others hid pale features and hair neath the garb of Aldeans or Dredonian nomads. All moved out at Preece's signal.
He spent the night propped against a cow Zade had insisted they bring on the journey to provide fresh milk. In the next stall, two drunken Waniands dressed as common goatherds snored loudly. Preece could not sleep, tortured by the mental image each time he closed his eyes of Taroch furiously thrusting into Vulpina's plump backside.
Preece rec
alled his own randy past, wild nights in mindless rut, when his scrotum and cock burned until he'd used some woman's dew to smother the flames. He'd been known to rut with several females in the span of a single night and be scouring his surroundings come daybreak in search of more. His brethren, island bound all their young lives, had eagerly listened to tales of Preece's wanderlust. Literally wandering lust.
Yet he could not conceive of mindlessly copulating like that now, which troubled him deeply.
Why were images such as that clear in his mind, when he was unable to remember more recent events? He couldn't even gauge when last he'd taken a woman. It had to have been months ago. By his reckoning, he'd been banished from Glacia more than a year. In the months he'd spent with Lockram in Ataraxia, Preece knew he'd never taken a native girl. He was certain he hadn't so much as kissed a willing wench in...
Abruptly he was kissing a woman, the demon woman who haunted him. He groaned and wrapped his arms around a bundle of stained blankets. Helplessly, he felt his hips buck against the lump beneath him. His body sought release that would not come from moldy blankets, while in his mind delicate hands found and caressed his shaft, warm lips opened beneath his, and his flesh was enveloped by a pulsating purple glow.
He was appalled to realize his own fingers fumbled beneath his stinking traveler's cloak. They sought his straining manhood, fisted around it until he bit his tongue to keep from crying out and shaming himself.
He roused before dawn and went off to wash all traces of embarrassment from his body. Soon he'd be forced to visit a Dredonian bordello to rid himself of his growing obsession. It seemed to wrap tighter and tighter around his mind the closer they got to Glacia. And he could not afford such a distraction once they reached it.
Mayhap if he spent every drop of his seed and part of his coin with an eager harlot now, he'd be freed of the bizarre visions.
He snorted aloud, no more believing that than he saw himself standing beside the throne in Glacia. But once a man's sanity was forfeit, what difference did it make what he believed?
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