by Zoë Archer
And then there was Gabriel. She’d seen him partly covered the night they had taken shelter in the cave. The night before, he’d been almost completely clothed, but she’d felt him, their bodies pressed as close as possible, and him, inside of her. Thalia had a fairly good idea what he looked like undressed. It was a very pleasant idea, and one she couldn’t stop herself from returning to again and again in quieter moments.
Sometimes imagination did not do justice to reality. Gabriel in the extremely revealing wrestling costume was one of those times.
He was the mythic Warrior, the protector of magic, defender of causes, even those not his own. His body was a weapon, and a beautiful one.
Every year he had spent as a soldier showed. Each of his muscles were developed to their apotheosis, the ideal of form and use—the defined shape of his chest, made even more seductive by the light dusting of golden hair, the ridges of his stomach, undimmed by extraneous fat or flesh, some delicious muscles that curved from his hips under the waist of the trunks. Thalia had touched them through fabric, and they had felt marvelous, but she hadn’t known that they could rob her of the ability to remember her own name.
And what the wrestling trunks covered…Heaven and Earth…the man wasn’t even aroused, and Thalia couldn’t keep herself from staring. She’d touched him, he’d filled her, but she hadn’t seen, and was almost glad she hadn’t. She would have been terrified. At least she had the comfort of knowing she could accommodate him. Dimly acknowledging that she shouldn’t leer at Gabriel’s crotch, she forced her eyes lower, taking in his legs, tight and powerful. No wonder he rode horses so well, with thighs like those. They had been beneath her, between her legs. She had been the one riding him last night. A hot shudder of blazing desire coursed through her.
“You say he was a soldier?” Oyuun asked beside her. Thalia managed to pry her gaze away to look at the chieftain’s wife and nod. “I can see that now. He carries stories on his body.”
Thalia turned her attention back to Gabriel and saw, in the golden light of afternoon, that scars marred the perfection of his form. There, on his left shoulder, a round, puckered mark showed he’d been shot. And stretching from just under his ribs, on the right, a long, raised ridge made by—a jagged knife? The flesh there had closed without finesse, and Thalia winced to think of the lengthy, unpleasant recovery from such a wound. But these were only the two most obvious. There were more scars, more tales of battles and meetings with death, on his legs, his back. Horrible. Her fingernails bit into her palms as she realized, at last, what Gabriel had been doing every day for the past fifteen years. It was miraculous that he was alive.
Not miraculous, but a testament to his capability, his will to survive.
Gabriel caught Thalia staring at him. Her face turned completely and obviously red, but she did not look away. For the barest moment, he seemed a little discomfited, despite their intimacy of last night. He would probably never consider wearing such an outfit in front of a European woman. But that awkwardness lasted less than a blink, and he slowly smiled at her. A carnal, deliberate smile. He knew she liked what she saw, and seemed more than ready to let her look her fill. And later, more than look.
He started walking toward her. In motion, barely clad, he would make any woman renounce all vows. Thalia couldn’t suppress a measure of pride as women, from the blushing maiden to the wizened grandmother, watched him pass, but he saw no one but her.
“Perhaps there is a camel that needs milking.” Oyuun laughed, and mercifully slipped away.
“You think the British army might take this up as their new uniform?” Gabriel asked, coming to stand in front of her.
“Only if they want to inspire lust in their enemies,” she answered.
He grinned. “Is that what I do?”
“I won’t answer that. I don’t want you to get a swollen head.”
“Keep looking at me that way, and my head won’t be the only thing swollen.”
Thalia laughed, and said, lowly, “Hang on to that costume. It might be useful later.” Her smile, she knew, was pure feminine provocation.
Something like a growl rolled from the back of his throat as he stepped nearer.
“Huntley guai,” Batu said, jogging up. “I am to serve as your zasuul, your second. You will face that man”—he gestured toward a competitor—“and if you win, you will wrestle whomever wins that match.” He pointed toward where Tsend glowered at a rather intimidated-looking wrestler. “Let us hope that the Mongol defeats the Heirs’ ruffian.”
Gabriel looked toward Tsend. “I’ve got something that he doesn’t.” He turned back to Thalia, his eyes golden vows. “Someone to fight for.”
Chapter 12
Surprising Outcomes
It was, Gabriel thought as he flapped like a bird around the field, the stupidest he’d ever acted without the influence of alcohol. He was painfully sober. Gabriel didn’t really consider himself a drinking man, and hated the times in his life he’d been truly fuddled. Still, a measure of good whiskey right then would have done him a world of help. Here he was, definitely not drunk, in clothing even smaller than what he’d worn as a snotty child, prancing before a crowd of two hundred Mongols. For the love of hell, if anyone wanted to know if he was cold, they didn’t have far to look. The humiliation didn’t end there, however. Thalia had explained that all wrestling matches started with the competitors performing a dance that imitated the glorious phoenix. He performed the dance, but Gabriel felt that he didn’t resemble a phoenix so much as an ass.
Focus on the prize, Huntley, he told himself, as he waved his arms and circled like a wheeling bird. His bloody pride could take more than a few kicks to the stones. His stones might even be kicked, given how unprotected his goods were.
Finally, Bold came forward and announced that the contest would begin. The wrestlers stopped their dance and offered gestures of respect to Bold, who would serve as judge, the other competitors, and the crowd. Gabriel already knew that, of the four men entering the wrestling competition, only one would emerge victorious. That man had to be him. He couldn’t fail, not the Blades, and not Thalia.
She watched from the sidelines, Batu at her side. She didn’t seem to find his bleeding costume ridiculous. In fact, she’d liked it. Quite a bit. It took every drop of self-control he had to keep from showing her just how much he enjoyed seeing that naked lust in her face. If he wasn’t careful, he’d pop right out of the damned trunks and give every one of the tribesmen an eyeful of genuine English sausage.
Thoughts of lust scattered quickly when it was time to face off against his opponent. Gabriel had watched the man throughout the nadaam festival and knew that, even though he was shorter than himself, he contained a lot of power in a small package. The Mongol also had the advantage of a lifetime spent wrestling, whereas Gabriel had spent his years shooting rifles. Gabriel had done his share of hand-to-hand combat, though, including the time he’d had to defeat a giant of a mercenary near Kanpur with nothing but a broken bayonet. Almost lost his damn hand to that bastard.
Gabriel and his opponent faced each other and placed their hands on each other’s shoulders. At Bold’s command, the competition began. They strained against each other, testing resistance, learning each other’s strength. Gabriel gritted his teeth. The chap was a sturdy one, all right. He tried to grab the back of Gabriel’s jacket, twisting so he could flip him, but Gabriel muscled himself free and narrowly avoided touching the ground with his knee as he regained his balance. If any part of his body except the soles of his feet contacted the ground, he would lose.
For a few minutes, they shoved and danced back and forth. Their movements might have been small, but they cost quite a lot. Sweat stung Gabriel’s eyes as he repelled another attack. He and his opponent locked in another hold, pushing against each other. The crowd, clearly expecting the foreigner to lose immediately, roared its approval. Thalia shouted something, but seemed to recall in her excitement that Gabriel spoke no Mongol, and switched to Englis
h.
“Thrash him, Gabriel! Send him crying to mama!”
His arms were already tired from the horse race, but, hearing Thalia cheer for him, they came back to life as his mind planned his strategy. He lessened his hold just enough so that his opponent’s center of gravity shifted. Gabriel could see it in his legs. In that tiny moment of instability, Gabriel quickly moved his arms, grabbed the man by the waist, and tossed him over his shoulder. The man went down on his back with a grunt.
This time, when Gabriel performed the phoenix dance, he didn’t mind so much. Victory was victory, even if he did have to flap around like an ailing chicken. As the onlookers cheered, Thalia and Batu jogged up. She handed him a bowl of tea to refresh himself. It wasn’t whiskey, but he’d take what he was given, especially from a beaming and proud Thalia.
“Your challenger was his tribe’s best wrestler,” Thalia grinned.
“He was a tough little bugger,” Gabriel answered. When the man himself walked by, Gabriel grabbed hold of his hand and shook it respectfully. “Nice job, gov’nor,” Gabriel said. “Maybe next year.”
The Mongol looked a bit confused, not used to shaking hands, but he took it in stride, smiling and bowing. He said a few things to Gabriel, which Thalia translated. “Those muscles of yours aren’t for show,” he said. “And you use your brain, too. You would make an excellent Mongol.”
“Much thanks,” Gabriel answered, oddly touched by his opponent’s praise. Thalia, too, seemed affected, her own smile getting a bit wobbly around the edges.
They all moved aside as Tsend and his opponent took the field. No doubt about it, the Heirs had done well finding themselves a bruiser. Even the good-sized man who was wrestling Tsend found the double-crossing bloke intimidating. The crowd itself sensed something sinister about Tsend, quieting a little and shuffling back just a bit as if trying to gain distance.
“Look,” Thalia whispered, nudging Gabriel. She frowned, and pointed out a host of birds taking flight from their perches in the grass and crimson flowers. They dotted the sky with their dark retreating forms. A strange and ominous shiver ran down his neck as he watched them disappear.
“What does that mean?” Gabriel asked.
“Birds are sensitive to magic,” she explained quietly, though almost no one nearby spoke English. “They must sense the Heirs’ presence around Tsend.”
Gabriel almost dismissed this idea as daft, but remembered that the world he once knew, the world without magic, was gone. He understood differently now. It was magic he was fighting for.
Taking the field again, Bold eyed Tsend with barely concealed mistrust. But a legitimate place had been won in the tournament, so the wrestling competition had to proceed. The two wrestlers placed their hands on each other’s shoulders and waited. Then Bold called out for the contest to begin.
Gabriel settled back to watch a wrestling match as involved and lengthy as the one he had just fought. Yet in less time than it would take to sneeze, the match was over. Gabriel barely saw it happen. Tsend sneered as his opponent was suddenly sprawled on the ground, wide-eyed with shock. Even the crowd and Bold were stunned into silence. Thalia went white.
“Good Christ,” Gabriel muttered in the quiet. “That was faster than a private with his first whore.”
At his words, Tsend turned to Gabriel and bawled out a laugh. “You are next, English fool.”
Gabriel nearly snarled back his own retort, but figured that only cowards and bullies felt the need to belittle their opponents. The more a man bragged and taunted, the more afraid he must be. So, without saying anything, he started toward the field.
“Gabriel, wait,” Thalia cried behind him. She grabbed at his arm.
He tried to quell a flare of temper as he turned back. “You’ve got to believe I can win,” he said lowly. “I need you to have faith in me.”
“I do have faith in you,” she answered readily, which gave him sizable comfort. “But I don’t know if you can win against someone who’s cheating.” She looked meaningfully at Tsend, who was making a big show of being bored, staring at the distant mountains.
“Cheating?” Gabriel repeated. “I don’t see how. We all watched him throw the other wrestler. He didn’t cast any spells. He’s not wearing an amulet or some such object.”
“You don’t have to cast a spell or have an object to use magic. Look.” She gestured slightly and Gabriel followed her direction. “He isn’t wearing any boots.”
“That gives him a disadvantage. Less traction.”
“Except the magic he’s using requires him to have bare feet. I just saw it, painted on his soles. The Mark of Antaeus.”
That didn’t sound promising.
“Is your woman too frightened for you to wrestle?” Tsend shouted.
Gabriel scowled at the Mongol, but ignored him. The crowd, however, started to get a bit fidgety. “Tell me what it is and how to defeat it,” he said to Thalia.
“Antaeus was the giant in Greek mythology who derived his strength from touching the earth,” she explained quickly. “He was impossible to defeat, because every time he was thrown down, he rose up even stronger than before. Only Heracles was able to vanquish him by holding him aloft until his strength drained away. If the Mark of Antaeus is painted upon flesh which contacts the ground, the wearer gains the giant’s strength. That’s how Tsend defeated the other wrestler.”
“You must take your positions now,” Bold announced.
Gabriel moved away from Thalia, and he heard the panic in her voice as she called after him, “It’s impossible to beat him.”
“I’ve learned that nothing is impossible,” Gabriel said over his shoulder, “since I met you.”
Late afternoon sun blazed low in the sky. No wind stirred the grasses and flowers at the edge of the field. Even the sounds of the animals, the soft chuffing and bleats of horses and sheep, faded away as Captain Huntley and Tsend faced each other. The world seemed to be holding its breath, knowing what was at stake as operatives from the Blades of the Rose and the Heirs of Albion prepared to fight for magic on the open steppes of Mongolia.
The Heir Lamb had commanded a hawk to serve as spy in the ail of red flowers. The bird, following Lamb’s orders, discovered this tribe’s prize—a massive ruby. Surely the gem was what the Heirs sought, so Tsend was dispatched to win it.
After Huntley and Tsend briefly performed the phoenix dance, they crouched opposite each other. Tsend smirked, confident in his superiority. Even if the Englishman had known about the Mark of Antaeus on the soles of his feet, it wouldn’t have mattered. The mark gave him power. Undefeatable power. Unless the Englishman used some magic of his own, there would be no way to conquer Tsend. But the blond man simply stared back, showing no fear. That made him a fool. There was always something to fear.
He and the Englishman placed their hands on each other’s shoulders, and Tsend was unpleasantly surprised by the strength he felt in the other man. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Even if his foe was the strongest man in all of Mongolia, he would be unable to best Tsend. He happily anticipated thrashing the man in front of the dark-haired Englishwoman, who watched with anxious eyes from nearby. Unfortunately, she was promised to Henry Lamb, so Tsend could only enjoy watching defeat in her face. Later, perhaps, when Lamb was tired of her, Tsend would have his chance to take his pleasure. Then, a new fear and horror would fill her face, making Tsend’s pleasure all the sweeter.
“Begin!”
Enjoying his advantage, Tsend let the Englishman push hard against him. He could still feel his opponent’s strength, but it was as if Tsend was at the bottom of a well, and the other man simply dropping pebbles rather than boulders. Huntley gritted his teeth and strained, shoving against him with enough force to knock any number of large men over. Any man except Tsend. He didn’t bother hiding his laughter. So pitiful, the futile efforts of the Englishman. But the experience quickly grew boring for Tsend. The sooner this wrestling foolishness was over, the sooner Tsend could claim the ruby
, give it to Lamb, and receive his rewards. Although, with the strength of the Mark on his feet, there was no need to surrender the ruby to Lamb or his snarling friend. Why not keep it for himself? Then the power of Genghis Khan would belong to Tsend alone. Tsend had always felt, ever since he was a child without parents in the muddy lanes of Urga, that he was owed something, that the world conspired against him, cheating him. The ruby would change everything, finally give him what he deserved. Yes, that was an even better plan. Tsend smiled.
The Englishman must have sensed Tsend’s decision to end the match. Huntley let go of Tsend’s shoulders. With a quick shuffle, the Englishman moved back, out of reach. Tsend chuckled. So, Huntley had finally learned fear. It didn’t make any difference, not now.
Tsend took a step toward the Englishman, but as he did so, Huntley moved with a hidden speed, so quickly Tsend barely saw him move. Lumbering closer, Tsend took a swipe at Huntley, but the blond man ducked. Then the Englishman was right in front of him, wedging his boot underneath Tsend’s lifted foot. Huntley grunted under the weight, but he didn’t move away. Idiot. Tsend picked up his other foot, determined to put his full weight onto the Englishman’s boot and hopefully break some bones.
Just as he did so, Huntley shoved his other boot underneath Tsend’s foot. With a start, Tsend realized what the Englishman was doing. He knew about the Mark on Tsend’s feet, and was trying to separate him from the power of the earth. Already, with the contact broken, the magical strength started to ebb. Tsend tried to move back. He couldn’t. Huntley had grabbed him around the waist and, with an almighty groan, picked Tsend up and held him suspended a few inches above the ground.