Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

  Jarrett eyed the Master of the Arena thoughtfully. If either swordsman refused to fight, or showed cowardice, it was the Arena Master’s duty to slit the man’s throat.

  The Master of the Arena raised his arm, held it up for a long moment, then let it fall to his side. It was the signal to begin.

  With a roar, the Giant charged Jarrett, the sword in his hand poised to strike at Jarrett’s heart. Jarrett pivoted sharply on his heel, a soft oath escaping his lips as he felt the sword’s breath whisper past his chest.

  The Giant, for all his bulk, was quick and agile. He turned, graceful as a cat, his guard up, as he faced Jarrett.

  For the next twenty minutes, Leyla sat on the edge of her seat, hardly breathing, her heart hammering as she watched the contest. She was grateful that it wasn’t a fight to the death. The Giant had drawn first blood, the edge of his sword catching Jarrett high in the thigh. But now, well into the fight, both men were covered with dust and sweat and blood.

  The crowd cheered wildly each time their champion struck a blow, screamed with indignation when Jarrett’s sword found its target.

  She sobbed, “No, no, no,” when the Giant feinted to the left, stooped, grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it into Jarrett’s face. Momentarily blinded, Jarrett stumbled backward and the Giant lunged forward, his blade driving toward Jarrett’s heart.

  Suddenly, it seemed as if everything had slowed. She watched in horrified fascination as Jarrett shook his head…took a step forward…turned to the left so that the blade, only inches from his chest, sank into his shoulder instead.

  She screamed as he jerked back, then brought his own sword up, slashing wildly at the Giant’s sword arm, the blade biting deep into muscle and bone.

  A high-pitched scream of pain erupted from the Giant’s throat as his sword fell from a hand gone numb.

  Eyes wild, chest heaving, Jarrett lunged forward, pressing the edge of his blade against the Giant’s throat.

  “Do you yield?”

  The Giant glared down at him. Then, with a curt nod, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head in defeat.

  Shivering uncontrollably, his body sheened with sweat and blood, Jarrett stood in the middle of the arena while the crowd cheered their new champion.

  Two brawny men clad in black entered the arena. Collecting the Giant’s sword, they escorted him out of the arena.

  Moments later, the Master of the Arena rode toward Jarrett. Dismounting, he took Jarrett’s sword, then placed the red victory cloak around Jarrett’s shoulders. And the crowd, their loyalty as constant as mercury, cheered again.

  Jarrett took a deep breath. Then, gathering what little strength he had left, he walked across the arena and into the tunnel, his ears ringing with the crowd’s enthusiastic applause.

  In the next fortnight, Jarrett fought eight times. Three, against slaves, were fights to the death. Five ended with the first crippling blow. He won each contest and the name of Dumah, the Masked Swordsman of Keturah, began to spread across the southern provinces.

  Though Keturah was a crude, uneducated lout, a man totally without honor, he proved to be a generous master. Pleased with his new discovery, he treated Jarrett like the valued slave he was, making sure he was well-fed and well-clothed.

  But the clothes were of no consequence, and the food tasted like ashes in Jarrett’s mouth. He had spent eight months in the bowels of the Pavilion and now he was a prisoner again, forced to fight like a wild animal in order to survive, to insure Leyla’s well-being. In that, at least, Keturah had spoken the truth. Leyla was not mistreated or abused by Keturah’s men. She cooked their meals when they were between towns and Keturah allowed her to sleep at Jarrett’s side.

  It was torture of the most exquisite kind, being near her but unable to touch her. Lying beside her, with the three moons of Hovis overhead, he ached to bury himself in her warmth, to lose himself in her sweetness and forget, if only for a moment, that his life was no longer his own. Ah, that short, sweet taste of freedom when he’d had no one to answer to but himself, when he’d been the master of his own fate.

  Worst of all, his nightmares had come back to haunt him, resurrected, no doubt, by the mask he was forced to wear when he fought in the arena.

  He grinned ruefully as he recalled the night after his first fight. Leyla had told him that his screams had roused the whole camp. She’d smiled as she described, in great detail, how Keturah’s men had rolled out of their blankets, swords in hand, certain they were being attacked by a horde of Serimites. Caught up in the horror of his nightmare, he’d been unaware of the turmoil around him until Leyla’s voice pierced the blanket of darkness, softly pleading for him to return to her.

  Leyla had begged Keturah to let Jarrett fight without the mask, but the flesh peddler had refused, ridiculing Jarrett’s fears.

  “They are only dreams, after all,” Keturah had said. “They will pass.”

  But they didn’t. Eight times he fought in the arena. Eight times the nightmare drew him down into a black abyss where he relived the terrors of the Pavilion, the horrible memory of the hood clinging to his face like a second skin, enclosing him in a smothering cocoon of darkness.

  And now he stood in the arena again, his sword stained bright red with the blood of his opponent, his body splashed with blood, listening to the cheers of the crowd. He saw Leyla standing inside the tunnel, her expression one of mingled relief and concern. Glancing past Leyla, Jarrett saw Keturah accept a small pouch filled with the lucre he had won. And beside Keturah, his expression impassive, stood Tor.

  Moments later, the Master of the Arena rode forward to collect his sword and drape the red cloak of victory around his shoulders. And then he was walking toward the tunnel and Leyla’s waiting arms.

  She drew him close, embracing him fiercely, before Lahairoi came to bind his hands and lead him away. As soon as they were out of the tunnel, Keturah removed the mask, allowing Leyla to bathe the sweat from Jarrett’s face and neck.

  At their camp, well away from the town, Jarrett’s leg was shackled to a tree and Tor was called to heal his wounds.

  Jarrett endured Tor’s touch because he had no choice, but it galled him to accept the Maje’s help. They had a peculiar relationship, Jarrett mused. The animosity between them was strong, yet they were bound together, Tor’s very existence dependent on Jarrett’s survival. They had nothing in common save that they both loved Leyla.

  When Tor’s ministrations were complete, he went off by himself, needing time alone to recover his strength.

  Jarrett glanced up as Keturah came toward him.

  Keturah’s gaze ran over Jarrett, assessing him in much the same way a man might examine a valuable animal after a day’s hard work.

  “You fought well, my friend,” he remarked. He patted the heavy pouch hanging from his belt. “Well, indeed.”

  Jarrett stared up at the flesh peddler. “I want a favor.”

  “A favor? Peradventure I was of a mind to grant it to you, what would you ask?”

  “I want a night alone with my woman.”

  “It is not possible.”

  “It is. There’s a small clearing not far from here. You can shackle my leg to a tree so that I can’t escape. You can post guards, at a distance, if you think it necessary. But I want a night alone with Leyla. Now. Tonight.”

  Keturah dragged a hand over his beard. Jarrett was a warrior, and a warrior, like any man worth the name, needed a woman.

  “I would have your word that you will not try to escape.”

  A cold smile twisted Jarrett’s lips. “I give you my word,” he said, his voice thick with contempt, “as you gave me yours.”

  “A man who takes the word of an outlaw deserves what he gets,” Keturah replied affably. “But you, my Lord Jarrett, are a warrior, and a man of honor.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Your fame is not unknown to us.”

  “A night,” Jarrett said again. “One night with my woman.”

  �
��Done,” Keturah agreed.

  And so it was that Leyla found herself lying on a blanket beneath the shelter of a yellow fern tree with Jarrett at her side. His left ankle was securely chained to the trunk of the tree, but his hands were free. Keturah had thoughtfully provided them with fresh bread and cheese and a flask of watered wine, warning Jarrett of dire consequences should he try to escape.

  But Jarrett had no thought for food. His hands and his lips were hungry for other things. He drew Leyla into his arms, holding her tight against him, reacquainting himself with the warmth of her skin, rediscovering the silken hills and valleys of her body, the fragrance of her hair. She fit into his embrace, filling the emptiness of his heart as she murmured his name, whispering words of love and encouragement.

  Keeping a tight rein on his passion, he pressed her back on the blanket, his mouth slanting over hers, drinking from her lips, craving the taste of her as a starving man craved nourishment. He shuddered with pleasure as her hands moved over him in return. Her touch was warm and gentle, chasing the hatred from his soul, the rage from his heart.

  With a sigh, he surrendered to the magic of her hands. Her touch was like fire, igniting his blood, arousing his desire until his self-control was shattered. Rising over her, he lifted her hips to receive him, her name a groan as he buried himself in satin flesh and fire…

  Leyla lay awake long after Jarrett had fallen asleep, his head cradled against her breast, her arms holding him close, as if she could ward off the nightmares that were sure to come to him.

  She studied his face in the moonlight, loving the sensual line of his mouth, the proud cheekbones, the sharp outline of his nose, the strong square jaw. His hair, as black as the bowels of the Greyebridge dungeon, made a dark splash against the blanket. Her gaze moved over him lovingly, caressing the broad shoulders and chest, the long legs that lay over hers.

  She tried to fight the fears that crowded her mind. He was a strong man, a valiant fighter, a warrior without equal, and yet she knew he could not win in the arena forever. Sooner or later he would lose. He had killed or maimed nine men. What would she do when it was Jarrett’s body lying in a bloody heap in the sand? What if he sustained an injury that even Tor could not heal? What if he were killed?

  Her dismal thoughts fled as Jarrett’s body twitched convulsively. A low groan rose in his throat, and then an anguished scream cut across the stillness of the night.

  Leyla jackknifed into a sitting position, her hand shaking his shoulder. “Jarrett! Jarrett, wake up.”

  “No!” His hands clawed at his face. “Take it off!”

  “Jarrett, wake up!” She made a grab for his hands, only to fall back, stunned, as a wildly flailing fist caught her flush on the jaw.

  For a moment, she saw stars and bright comets, and then she realized that Jarrett was on his feet, his body in a crouch. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at an enemy only he could see.

  “Jarrett.” She spoke his name softly. “Jarrett, I am here.”

  “She?”

  “Yes. I am here. Come to me, my Lord Jarrett.”

  Tears burned her eyes as she watched him. A terrible fear clutched at her heart, a horrible fear that one day he wouldn’t be able to fight his way out of the awful nightmare that plagued him, that he would sink so deeply into the bad dreams that haunted him that he would never return.

  “Jarrett?”

  He shook his head as awareness crept into his eyes. “Leyla?”

  “I am here.” She went to him then, wrapping her arms around him, feeling the violent shudders that wracked his body. “Come, sit beside me.”

  She poured him a cup of wine and when he had drunk that, she poured him another. Gradually his trembling ceased, the wildness left his eyes and his breathing returned to normal.

  Wordlessly, Leyla put her arms around Jarrett and held him close. She felt like crying when he looked at her, his eyes filled with torment and humiliation.

  “I’m worse than a mewling infant,” he muttered.

  “Jarrett…”

  “It’s true!” He tugged against the chain that bound his ankle, his eyes blazing with self-loathing. “What kind of man is terrified by dreams?”

  He jerked against his tether again, harder this time, oblivious to the fact that the heavy chain cut into his skin. “And you. What kind of life is this for you? You should have stayed with Tor.”

  “Thee does not mean that.”

  “No.” He held out his arms and she went to him gratefully, pressing her face to his chest, absorbing his warmth, his strength. She did not need to probe his mind to know he was feeling utterly helpless and completely discouraged.

  With a sigh, he stretched out on the blanket, his head in her lap, her hand clutched in his.

  She sat there for a long time, listening to his breathing slow as he fell asleep, wondering how to tell him that a new life was growing beneath her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Please,” Leyla said.

  She knelt at Keturah’s feet, her hands clasped to her breasts. “Please, I beg of thee, let him fight without the mask.”

  Keturah shook his head. “It stays.”

  “Is there no pity in thee? Can thee not see what it does to him? He will fight as well without it.”

  Keturah grunted softly. “The mask stays.”

  Leyla glanced over her shoulder to where Jarrett sat, his back against a tree, his arms bound behind his back. Tor sat a short distance away, a glass of ale in his hand. Of the three of them, only Jarrett was kept shackled.

  “Please,” she said again.

  “No. The mask is necessary.” He relented a little at the pleading look in her deep blue eyes. “Too many people might recognize him without it.”

  Leyla blinked at the flesh peddler in astonishment. “Thee knows who he is?”

  “Of course.”

  “But…?”

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “You want to know why I have not taken him to Rorke for the reward? Only think about it. An outlaw like myself can hardly approach the King for a reward. And, in time, Lord Jarrett will win more lucre than the reward Rorke is offering for his head.”

  Thoroughly disheartened, Leyla went to sit beside Jarrett. Four days had passed since their night together. In that time, he had withdrawn into himself, hardly speaking to her. He was fighting again at midday. Already she could see the tension building within him as he prepared himself to meet another opponent, to kill or be killed. And, hiding deep inside, waiting for the time when he was at rest, lurked the nightmare.

  She glanced over at Tor, her gaze locking with his as she sent him her thoughts. We have to get away from here.

  How?

  I do not know, but it must be soon else Jarrett will perish.

  Tor nodded imperceptibly. They couldn’t go on like this much longer. When he probed Jarrett’s mind, he received little more than thoughts of death and destruction. It was only a matter of time before the warrior exploded into violence.

  Jarrett stood up as Keturah and Lahairoi walked toward him. It was time to go to the arena in Sidonni, time to face another swordsman, time to kill or be killed.

  A soul-shattering weariness engulfed him. He was tired of fighting, sick of the smell of blood and death, of the taste of fear on his tongue. A heavy lassitude settled over him as he stared at the heavy chain on his ankle. It would be so easy to escape it all. So easy. He had only to let his guard down in the arena to end it all.

  But then he saw Leyla watching him, her silver hair shimmering in the sunlight, her blue eyes warm with love and encouragement, and he knew he could not leave her to face the flesh peddlers alone. While he lived, she was accorded a degree of respect. If anything happened to him, she would be at their mercy, to be used and abused and finally sold into a life even more degrading than the one he now lived. He would find no peace in the grave knowing that he had left her in the hands of Keturah and his flesh peddlers.

  He stood passive as Lah
airoi shackled his hands behind his back, then removed the chain from his ankle. He thought of Keturah, of the mask, of being enslaved, letting his hatred grow and spread within him until it threatened to choke him.

  One way or another, today would be his last fight.

  Leyla stood in the shade of the tunnel, her eyes riveted on Jarrett. He stood in the middle of the arena, sword in hand, facing his opponent, a dark-skinned man whose body was covered with grotesque tattoos in the manner of the Jovites. A cold winter sun bathed the combatants in a blaze of light, shining off the long blades.

  She shivered as she watched the two men circle slowly back and forth, her heart pounding with dread as she went over the plan Jarrett had laid before her on their way to the arena.

  They were in a small arena in a small town. They would never have a better chance, Jarrett had said. Several of Keturah’s men had gone ahead to the next town to scout around. It was now or never, Jarrett had told her, and she had heard the underlying note of desperation in his voice, seen it in the depths of his green eyes.

  She glanced at Tor, who stood a little behind her. Will it work? Can it possibly work?

  She wanted assurance, but he only shrugged. He had tried to see into the future, but he saw only vague shadows and an endless darkness that left him with a feeling of great unease. He had tried to convince Jarrett to postpone his escape, but to no avail. In truth, Tor could not fault the man for his impatience. He was as weary of captivity as was Jarrett.

  The harsh ring of metal striking metal drew Leyla’s attention and she turned her gaze back to the arena. The fight had begun.

  Jarrett faced his opponent, all his energy, all his thoughts, focused on the other man. For this brief period of time, nothing else existed, not Leyla, not Keturah, not Greyebridge. There was only the dark-skinned man weaving gracefully before him, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he adroitly parried Jarrett’s thrusts.

  The man was a master swordsman and Jarrett knew he would have to be on guard every moment just to survive, and now his whole world centered on the other man. Time lost all meaning and he saw only the other man, heard only the sharp chime of steel striking steel and the labored rasp of his own breath. Only vaguely was he aware of the cheers of the crowd, of the dust that filled his nostrils, of the smell of sweat and blood. His sweat. His blood.