Hunkering down, Dagan released a long sigh. Fadil was not one of his favorite Brothers and he knew if he was truthful to himself, one of those he neither respected nor trusted. “Have you wondered what the Ordonese do with the herds if they do not eat the meat?” he queried. When Fadil remained silent, he looked up at the man. “That killing field was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
It had been just a few miles back, when they had crossed the Aquert River that Dagan and his men had come upon a sight that had turned their blood to ice. Fadil’s entire herd lay on its sides, the throats cut, and every drop of blood drained from the carcasses. The stench had been horrendous but the implication was even more disturbing.
Lord Fadil frowned. “I was too upset to wonder at Sekhem’s foolishness. Perhaps it was his way of taunting us.”
“With all due respect, Lord Fadil,” Lieutenant Ushabti put in. “I don’t think they believed we would follow.”
“Nor do I,” Dagan agreed. “And there was more than just those freshly killed beastees scattered across that barren plain. There were others in all degrees of deterioration. Bones were intermingled with pelts of later killed animals. None looked as though the first slice of meat had been taken.”
A gagging sound made Dagan turn and look behind him. One of his soldiers was spewing his breakfast and a look at many of the others revealed not only upset stomachs but also grave unease.
“Do you think the old tales could be true, Lord Dagan?” Ushabti asked.
“Certainly not!” Lord Fadil snapped but there was disquiet on his beefy features. His gaze shifted back and forth as though he expected demons to jump out at him at any moment.
The Master Trainer got to his feet and sighed heavily once more. The wind was turning colder, making his eyes water as he stared off into the distance. “I thought the old tales were nothing more than yarns to keep us on our side of the border, but that field of death concerns me.”
“Even more reason to take Sekhem’s keep and put every man, woman and child there to the sword!” Lord Fadil stated. “The only good Ordonese is a dead one in my book!”
“The Conclave does not make war on women and children,” Dagan growled, his eyes narrowed toward the man he was beginning actively to hate.
“My sword makes no such distinction when it comes to demons,” Fadil sneered.
“If demons they are,” Dagan replied.
“We’ll know soon enough, now, won’t we?” Fadil queried, his stubby nose lifted in challenge.
“Aye,” Dagan mumbled as he headed for his mount. “That we will.”
* * * * *
Prince Sekhem drained his golden goblet and leaned back in his chair, his belly sated, his thirst slaked for the moment. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and belched. “Nothing like good Conclave beef to fill a warrior’s belly, eh?” he asked.
The warriors sitting at the table with him laughed and banged their goblets with approval upon the thick mahogany wood. Here and there a slave rushed to refill the goblets of their masters.
“Think you it would be a better treat to have a few of the Brothers here to slack our hunger?” Lady Neith, the only female present save the slaves, inquired with an arched brow. She brought her filled goblet to her lips and smiled evilly before she took a long drink.
“Have you one of them in particular you would like to have join us?” Sekhem inquired.
Lady Neith licked her lips upon finishing her drink and motioned a slave to fill her goblet. “I was thinking of Dagan Kiel,” she replied.
“Ah, yes,” Sekhem said, nodding. “I’ve seen drawings of him our spies have made.” He grinned. “I can see why you would like a taste of that one.”
“And you would not?” Lady Neith countered.
Sekhem chuckled. “I believe I could feast quite nicely upon such a glorious male.”
“What if I had other things in mind for him?” Lady Neith asked, turning her head to look through the windows at the moon beginning its ascent in the heavens.
Those at the long table grew quiet. Even the slurping of their goblets ceased as the men turned their attention to the female warrior. They knew the woman well and her sorceress abilities often filled them with a dread they neither understood nor with which they felt comfortable. No other woman had ever sat at the table of the Prince and this one had won that spot through a brutal fight that had stunned each of them to the core of his being.
Sekhem steepled his long fingers, placing the sharp nails across his think lips. “Such as what, my sweet lady?”
Lady Neith rocked the base of her goblet against the table. Not looking at any of the men but directing her attention to the liquid in the golden vessel, she reminded them she was of childbearing age.
A gasp shifted through those assembled but not a single word was spoken, not even from their Prince. As quiet settled once more upon the room, Lady Neith lifted her gaze to Sekhem.
“I journeyed to Sahar Colony awhile back…” she began but Sekhem interrupted her.
“You did not dare!” he shouted.
A slow, venomous smile plied Neith’s lips. “I have no fear of the colonists nor the Brothers of the Conclave,” she informed him. “I have traveled to much of that area and have seen Dagan Kiel in the glorious flesh.” She circled the rim of her goblet with one elegant, vermeil-painted fingernail. “And have stood as close to him as I am to you, Khnum.”
Lord Khnum, the oldest of the warriors present, sat two men down from the lady warrior. He stared at her as though she had grown an additional head. “Foolhardy,” he pronounced. “That was a very foolhardy reconnaissance, Lady.”
“No more foolhardy than it was for you to experiment with me,” she reminded him and at his wince, laughed. “Oh, what a triumph that was for you, eh, milord Khnum?”
“A grave mistake,” Khnum muttered, unable to meet the glares of his fellow warriors.
“Mistake or not, I am grateful you chose me over the others,” she acknowledged with a bow of her lovely head.
“What was your purpose in going to Sahar?” Sekhem demanded. “Were you spying or was there something in particular you sought?”
Neith shrugged. “I was looking for a slave girl with whom to wile away the tedious hours between raids,” she answered.
Sekhem frowned. “I have seen no colonist here,” he accused.
“Unfortunately I did not win the bid on the one I sought,” Neith explained. “But Dagan Kiel did.”
“Ah,” Sekhem drawled. “So you would like to punish him for outbidding you.” Vengeance was something of which the Prince both agreed and approved.
“In a manner of speaking,” Neith said. “But again I remind you, I am of childbearing age.”
It was Lord Khnum who beat his fist upon the table. “You can not make a female warrior!” he snarled. “Only I can do that, if such is your intention, Wench!”
“And that is something you will never be allowed to do again,” Sekhem warned as all eyes fell angrily on Khnum.
“I agree,” Neith said, bringing the stares of the men to her. “Gaoth Keep needs no other female save me.” She lifted her chin. “I want Dagan Kiel’s get. I want a son of his flesh.”
Shocked murmurs spread along the table. Heads were put together and whispers hissed among the men.
“For what purpose?” Sekhem queried, his eyes narrowed to thin slits as his sharp fingernails pressed indentions into his chin.
“Because it would amuse me,” Neith replied although her own eyes were hard with what each man knew was a hidden purpose.
Sekhem stared at her for a long moment then waved a dismissive hand. “Then go to Lalssu Keep and lie in wait for him. Bring him back here and we will partake of him when you are finished.”
Neith’s lovely features tightened. “Let me make something clear to the lot of you,” she said, coming slowly to her feet. The only sound in the room came from the scraping of her chair upon the marble floor as her fevered gaze shifted from one warrior t
o the next until it landed with force on Prince Sekhem’s pale face.
“Dagan Kiel will be mine and mine alone,” she told the men, her words directed to her Prince. “No other will be allowed to lay hands to him.”
A challenge was being issued and Sekhem’s jaw clenched, a muscle working in his lean jaw. He glared at Neith, his hands now curled into claws on the arms of his chair.
“I have claimed this warrior as my consort and as such, he will be entirely mine to use or abuse or set free as I see fit,” Neith continued.
Lord Khnum laughed, drawing Neith’s withering stare. He cocked a brow at her. “Know you he was turned into a steer lo these many years ago, Wench?” he asked.
Neith narrowed her eyes. “Know you I have powers of which not even you are aware?”
Khnum lifted his other brow. “You think you can put starch in cloth that is wrinkled and limp?” he taunted.
In answer to the old warrior’s question, Neith turned her attention to the napkin lying beside Khnum’s goblet. In the flicker of an eye, the linen shifted upon the table, twisting until it was a tightly rolled tube that lifted straight up from the wooden surface.
“Ah…” those assembled breathed, their beady gazes beholding the rigid cloth.
Khnum frowned then shrugged. “You might put starch in the cloth, Wench, but you can not bring seed from pods no longer there.”
The napkin dropped back to the table and the men laughed nervously, though none dared look into Neith’s angry eyes.
“Perhaps not, Old One,” Neith said through clenched teeth. “But you can put the parasite in him then once it reaches maturity, put one of its nestlings inside my womb. The restorative powers of the parasite are marvelous. Don’t you agree?”
Shock spread over the men. Even Khnum stared at her with stunned realization of what she intended. The older warrior turned his beseeching eyes to his Prince.
“Please tell me you do not sanction such insanity!” Khnum pleaded.
It was apparent to every warrior there that the wheels of thought were turning inside Prince Sekhem’s head. His attention was riveted to Lady Neith, his long fingers tapping a rhythm against his chair arms.
“What do you hope to gain from this, woman?” the Prince finally asked.
“A son,” Neith replied.
Sekhem said nothing for a long moment then, “And that is all?”
“I want a son to champion me when my years advance; a male to whom I can grant the abilities given to me.”
“And overthrow your rule, Sekhem!” Lord Khnum shouted. “Be warned, Your Grace. This Wench intends to replace you!”
“Let her try,” Sekhem sneered, his gaze locked on Neith. “I welcome the challenge.”
Neith bowed her head. “A challenge I have no doubt I would lose,” she said demurely. Her lovely features were schooled into a look of humility. “I would never challenge you for the leadership of our people, Your Grace. Such a thought has never entered my mind.”
“Liar!” Khnum accused. He stood up so quickly, his chair crashed to the floor. He lifted a bony finger and pointed it at Neith. “She means to see us all withered to dust! She seeks to seize the throne for herself!”
Clucking her tongue as though at an unruly child, Neith clasped her hands at her waist. “When have I done anything but be of help to the warriors of Gaoth since my rebirth?” she asked. She looked at each of the men in turn. “Have I once asked anything of any of you that I was not willing to do myself?” At their shaking heads, she asked if they had ever heard rumors of her daring to usurp Prince Sekhem’s rightful place. Again, the men shook their heads in denial.
“Should you ever try,” Sekhem said, once more steepling his fingers under his chin, “it will be the last thing you do before your head is separated from your body or else you find your flesh roasting upon a slowly turning spit in yon fire pit.”
Shivering at the image such a torment would bring Neith bowed her head. “I will take your warning to heart, Your Grace.”
Strained silence met the female warrior’s words. The men stared at her, waiting for their Prince’s decision. When it came, their eyes shifted to him.
“Go,” Sekhem granted. “Take your handsome warrior and bring him here. I am anxious to see you put starch in his cloth ere he be introduced to the parasite.”
Nervous chuckles accentuated the regal command.
Lord Khnum shook his head of wiry white hair furiously. “I do not sanction you allowing an outsider to become one of us.”
Prince Sekhem stared at the elderly man. “Well, I sanction it for then we would have a Brother of the Conclave as hostage. Their Grand Master would dare not attack us for fear we would slit the man’s throat and drain him dry.”
Neith relaxed. Surreptitiously, she ran her sweating palms down the skirt of the gown she wore only to appease the males. She itched to pull on the men’s britches that were her normal attire, saddle her stallion, ride out to intercept Dagan Kiel and bring him back to her lair.
“Go capture your handsome warrior, Neith.” Sekhem waved his hand, dismissing her, then lifted his goblet to a nearby slave who jumped to refill the Prince’s vessel.
Neith bowed to her Prince and inclined her head to the others before exiting the room. Her back to the men, no one but a shivering slave saw the malicious grin that stretched the warrioress’ scarlet lips.
“This is a mistake, Your Grace,” Lord Khnum warned. “She is planning a coup. I’ve no doubt of that.”
“Nor do I,” Sekhem agreed as those assembled turned surprised attention his way. He took a sip of the thick liquid inside his goblet then tilted the amber vessel until he had drained the last drop. He then hurled the goblet across the room, the heavy gold striking a hapless slave who fell unconscious to the floor.
Growls spread around the table as salivating tongues thrust out to lick eager lips.
“Feast, my friends,” Sekhem said as he lifted his napkin and wiped at his red-stained lips. “Enjoy.”
The men shot to their feet and fell upon the unconscious slave. The slurping sounds that followed caused the other slaves to stand where they were, shuddering as with the ague.
Sekhem reclined in his chair, and watched his warriors draining the slave and smiled. Soon, he would have a royal slave of his own to exhaust.
As soon as Neith—her days already numbered—brought Dagan Kiel to Gaoth Keep.
Chapter Eleven
Dagan took the proffered bread and cheese from Ushabti, his trusted Lieutenant, and ate, chewing thoughtfully as Ushabti poured wine for Dagan to drink. The tent kept out the cold wind howling outside and the brazier before which he sat warmed his bare toes.
“We’ve all heard the tales,” Ushabti said. “I never believed them until today.”
“Neither did I,” Dagan said, thanking Ushabti for the wine. He took a sip of the warm brew then set it aside. “The thought makes me ill.”
“I had to down a flagon of beef’s blood upon my initiation into the warrior society,” Ushabti said as he took a seat across from Dagan. “As it was explained to me, it was to put iron in my sword.”
“I was made to drink that shit, too,” Dagan acknowledged. “It put no iron in my sword.”
Such was the relationship between the two men that Ushabti could laugh at the statement. “Don’t you wish it could have?” he teased.
Dagan clucked his tongue. “Not until I met Jameela,” he answered.
Ushabti’s brow furrowed. “You have never missed not being able to pleasure a woman?” he inquired.
“Aye, well there’s pleasuring and then there’s pleasuring,” Dagan remarked. “Apparently that beef’s blood I was forced to down put iron in my tongue.” He wagged his brows then joined Ushabti in laughter.
“I have always envied you being the Master Trainer,” Ushabti said then shrugged. “Up to a point, that is.”
“Well, my point doesn’t get up,” Dagan chuckled. “So there’s no reason for you to have envied me, my fri
end.”
A warning call from one of the sentries brought both men immediately to their feet, hands going to the swords lying on Dagan’s cot. Bootless, they rushed out into the gathering dusk, looking in the direction from which the call had come.
“Riders,” the sentry who had sounded the alarm said as he ran up to Dagan. “At least three score.”
“We have four times that many,” Lord Fadil scoffed. “We will ground them into the dirt!”
The sentry ignored the noble and kept his eyes riveted on Lord Dagan. “They know we are here, milord. I would stake my life on it.”
“And you very well may do just that,” Ushabti mumbled.
“They appeared out of nowhere, milord, as the sun set,” the sentry said with a shudder. “And they are not armed.” At Dagan’s blink, the man shook his head. “Not a weapon amongst any of them.”
“Well, see?” Fadil chuckled. “They not only don’t know we’re here, they are probably out for a leisurely ride to…”
“To what?” Dagan demanded. “Drain another herd of cattle?” He clenched his teeth and spoke through the constriction. “If the tales are true of these warriors, they need no weapon to engage an enemy. They have the strength of ten men in their hands and the smell of our blood in their nostrils!”
Lord Fadil’s face paled but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge what might be headed their way. “I will put my trust in this,” he said, holding aloft the sword he held. “It has never let me down.”
Dagan snorted and turned his back. He looked at his men. “Aim for the neck, men. Lop the head from their shoulders. Merely running them through might not kill them.”
“Oh, for the love of…” Fadil scoffed but was cut off in mid-complaint as Dagan grabbed him by the shirtfront and brought him forward.
“I don’t care what you do, Fadil, but if you fall victim to them, I will personally behead you. Is that clear?”
Tearing himself free, Fadil would have responded had not the sound of hooves come echoing toward them. As it was, as those around him joined in the battle with the Ordonese warriors bearing down on them, the cowardly lord took flight, hiding behind one of the tents. He never saw the Ordonese warrior until he felt the agonizing dual stings that pierced his neck and got a glimpse of the shaggy hair brushing his cheek as his life force was drained.
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