Blade's Edge

by Val Roberts

  "We don't. I watched you yesterday,” she answered as she twisted in her saddle. The young one who had given Blade trouble last night in the barn was slumped over his saddle, moaning, a bolt sticking out of his thigh.

  "They only got off one shot.” That was Blade, so she swung her gaze to him. “And it was aimed at you. It got Maris's leg because you ducked.” He shut his mouth with a snap and she saw a muscle twitching at the back of his jaw. Then his horse was galloping toward the rock cleft as he pulled the sword off his back.

  Galen's curse echoed behind her, because she had kicked the mare into a gallop half a second behind Blade. Damn it, he was the negotiator, not some berserker out of bedtime stories. She put her reins in her teeth and pulled her sword, probably slicing off some of her hair on the way because she hadn't had time to comb it, let alone braid it. And as soon as she got through the cleft, at least a dozen attackers were waiting, probably closer to a score; a half-company would have been assigned for an ambush in the Jags and she had already killed five of them.

  Blade yelled something and swung his sword in the wrong kind of slice for a saber. It kept the Zonan from getting a fatal cut on his leg, but it nearly pulled the sword from his hand and an officer was right beyond the first guard. Taryn pulled her dagger from the bottom of the sword scabbard and silently prayed to get him out of this alive, since unscathed was out of the question. The outland weapon chimed again and the officer dropped. All the Silvergard stopped for perhaps a second, then seemed to notice her.

  "No! Taryn, get out of here!” Blade screamed, his voice tight and furious.

  And then she was surrounded.

  Sweet mother of all, soon I will see your face and feel your true embrace. Forgive this daughter for any sins I have committed, and forgive me for those I am about to commit in an effort to save my life.

  Taryn swung, she thrust, she dodged and parried with both sword and dagger, not seeing faces, only targets. She growled around the reins, jerked her head and used her legs to maneuver, and she killed those she considered her sisters in arms. The outland weapon chorused again and again, bodies fell until her horse couldn't step without crushing what had once been human. A single saber slashed her side, cutting through coat, bodice, shirt and skin, but made it no farther. Strangely there was no sound at all in her head as it all happened, and the swordcuts were coming slower than Silvergard troopers moved in battle, but Taryn scarcely had the attention for it, focusing only on the next target or the next threat.

  All of the targets in her range of sight were down, she squeezed and wheeled the horse, yanking her head to pull the mare around in a circle, but no Silvergarders remained conscious, if any of them were alive.

  "Gods and demons, Blade, have you lost your mind?” Galen was yelling, the barrel of his weapon sending heat waves wavering through the air above it. Time snapped back into normal movement and she could hear the moans, smell the smoke, feel the throbbing in her right side, the stickiness of blood in linen.

  Another of the Bariani had died. Another of her charges’ soul on her conscience. Sweet mother of all, forgive me, I pray for you to forgive me for the lives I have taken or given this day. She spat the reins out.

  "The ambush was for her.” Blade's voice, audible ice-cold fury. She tried to pick up the reins from where they had fallen and was surprised to find her off-hand full of bloody dagger. “As soon as they saw her, they stopped attacking me."

  And her other hand was full of bloody sword. Two days in a row. She had killed her own people on two days in a row, her only sister hated her and wanted her dead, and her mother never wanted to see her again. She dropped the weapons, but there was blood on her hands as well. There was blood everywhere in her life.

  "Garid is dead because of your bone-headed stunt,” Galen was yelling. His name was Garid. She stared at the body, incongruous among all the dead Silvergard.

  "I know.” Blade again, but this time from her side, and hands were pulling at her, large hands, warm in the cold air. He dug into the cut and a sharp spike of pain made her cry out. “Gods, you've been hurt.” She was lifted off the horse, then the death was behind her and all she could see was Blade's chest.

  She forced herself to look up into those eyes, into the expression of concern glowing blue-green, but dark, dark, everything was dark. She shook her head and opened her mouth to tell him the wound was nothing, and a sob wracked her body. He crushed her against him, holding her close and bowing her head into his shoulder. She clutched at the smooth wool greatcoat and tried to control herself, but it was no use. Grief had a schedule of its own, and after a decade and more it was refusing to be put off any longer.

  "Shh. It's okay,” Blade murmured into her hair, cradling her and rocking her gently back and forth. “We've got a first-aid kit, we'll fix you up as good as new.” She shook her head, tried to tell him that it wasn't that kind of pain, it was the loss of everything she'd ever had, but the thought sent a fresh bout of sobbing through her. “Galen—Maris..."

  "Taken care of.” Galen's voice was tight, too.

  She felt Blade relax somehow, though his hold on her didn't loosen. It was worse, when the only person she had left to cling to was her enemy, and one who had secrets she didn't know and didn't know how to find out. He didn't feel like an enemy, though, he felt like a big, warm, gentle wall. A blanket she could wrap around herself to keep out the awful truth—she was alone, she had always been alone, in a sea of blood and death. She molded her body against him and leaned into his male, muscular strength just to be able to stand up.

  "It's okay, Taryn. None of them got away to warn command, we didn't lose any of the horses, we'll have at least a day or two before anyone suspects we got away.” He nuzzled the top of her head, moved one arm to stroke her hair in a comforting caress. Her hair, the one vanity she hadn't given up because it helped hide the scar. She should slice it all off with her bloody sword and leave it with the remains of the Silvergard attackers to signal the death of all that had remained of the old Taryn, the Taryn who believed that honor could exist in Zona and could reside in the breast of a Penthes. It was a small revenge, but it would confuse Talyn no end.

  Revenge.

  At last, the crying slowed, and she could almost get her breath again, although she didn't want to let go of him even for revenge. “Where—I dropped my weapons ... where are they?"

  "Don't worry about it. We're cleaning up.” He used a knuckle to raise her chin, very gently. “Better?"

  "I...” she took a deep breath. “I have to do something."

  "It wasn't your fault. Somebody set you up.” He looked concerned, almost worried. Almost as if he cared about her, and that was a crock of horse dung. Nobody cared about Taryn's pain. Even Leone had ignored her to hustle the Crown Prince away from the scene of a crime, and she had been holding her face together and screaming on that day.

  "I know.” She'd been set up long ago, it had just taken a while to spring the trap. A very long while. “I have to do this.” Because it was the only way to let them know she would survive no matter what they did to her. To let Mother and Talyn know, even if they wouldn't know what to make of it.

  "Do what?” The question was soft, almost seductive.

  "You wouldn't understand.” She pulled away from him and looked around. “I need to cut off my hair."

  "I don't think so.” It was the voice of a king. Negotiators were diplomats so they had coaxing voices, not the ringing tones of command, and no matter that he had framed the negation gently; there was no room for compromise. She straightened to her fullest height, prepared to be royal right back at him. “You're not destroying something beautiful for the sake of these people.” He pulled her back to him by her shoulders, almost pulling her off her feet. “They don't deserve it."

  "It's not for them.” She wriggled in his grasp, but this time he refused to let her go and she realized how much stronger he really was. But it didn't frighten her, when it would have a day ago, before—before he had said her la
ughter could topple empires, before he had flown into a killing rage because she had been a target, before he had let her cry all over him.

  "Then why? If it got in your way, I'll braid it for you.” It sounded like he was trying to coax a frightened animal out of its den. “I don't want you to do something you'll regret tomorrow, vixen."

  "Stop calling me that.” Juvenan, the silent one, had picked up her weapons and was using a cloth to clean off the blood. “No,” she called out, “I need the blood to stay on it.” He looked up, confused, and Blade's hands tightened on her even more.

  "Clean it,” he said in a tone that a wise man wouldn't quibble with, again a ruler, not a diplomat. Juvenan might be quiet but he wasn't stupid, and the blood was gone before she could do more than inhale.

  "Damn you, Bariani. Damn you to the coldest depths of hell.” She almost dislocated a shoulder getting way from him, then stalked over to claim her weapons from the nervous-looking lackey. They were all lackeys to Blade, and he expected her to obey without question just like the rest of them, even if her one safe haven in the world appeared to be his embrace. He was going to be very surprised when she did not obey, because all of her havens had proved false before and she learned quickly enough not to trust this one.

  "Better me than you,” floated through the morning behind her, “and you still need to have that cut looked at.” At least he didn't sound amused.

  "It's nothing. A little skin, some cloth. It's already stopped bleeding.” She fitted the dagger back into its piggyback sheath and resheathed her saber. There was no point in using it to cut her hair now. It wouldn't be the same if there was no blood on the hank wrapped around the Silvergard major's dead throat.

  "Wrong answer, vixen.” He loomed in front of her. There was no other way to describe it, because he hadn't been there a second before. “Remember that little chat we had this morning back at Leone's? This is part of it.” There was the sound of cloth ripping, and she realized he was holding something. “Strip, woman. I'm not gluing you back together through your coat."

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  Chapter Eight

  She glared at him. He stared right back, and that muscle was twitching in his jaw again.

  "I said it's nothing,” she spat at him.

  "Don't make me pick you up and drag you off to doctor you,” he spat back. From the way his eyes were glowing, he just might. “I'm not taking the chance that it breaks open and starts bleeding again while we're on the trail, because I know as surely as I'm breathing you wouldn't say a word until you passed out."

  "No.” She turned around to walk to her horse.

  "Yes.” He didn't pick her up, but he did wrap a disturbingly large and hard arm around her neck, then dragged her away from the rest of the men, back through the narrow gap and out of their sight. “I need all of my fighters in the best possible condition, and that includes you,” he said into her ear when they were away from everyone else. When had she become his fighter? “Now get out of the coat and the vest and pull your shirt out of your pants, or I'll do it for you, and I might not stop there."

  She considered refusing, but he'd already wrapped his other arm around her waist and was reaching for the first coat button.

  "I can do it,” she said, slapping his hand away. He let go and she turned around to glare at him as she undid the buttons, then unhooked her bodice. He started to breathe a little faster when her linen shirt came into view—especially the bloody rip.

  "Are you sure it's just a cut?” He sounded worried, which was amusing.

  "I've had blisters worse than this.” She pulled the shirt out of her pants and tried to look at her ribs, but her breasts were in the way. Blade stepped closer and pulled the cloth back, turning her to get that side into the light. The cold hit her skin and raised the fine hairs, making the cut sting still more.

  "I guess you're right, since I don't see any bone. The ribs are close to your skin here.” He touched her skin lightly, which sent a tingle down her spine. “I'll have to clean it out first, and it's going to sting a lot."

  Taryn smirked at him. She'd been lying about the blisters, because raising her arms hurt like anything, but she would die of strangled screams before she let him know she was in pain. “Just get it over with before someone comes looking. It's too cold to be on display."

  He pulled something out of the small bag and ripped it open, fishing out a small white rectangle. “This is a disinfectant wipe.” He dropped the bag and unfolded the square until it was the size of a handkerchief, but apparently made of wet paper. He wiped it over her side, gentle again, then along the cut, then inside the cut. And it did sting, badly enough to make her eyes water. She gritted her teeth and concentrated on keeping her breathing even. When he pulled the cloth away it was covered in her blood.

  "You know, it might be a good idea for you to have a code name until we get back to civilization,” he commented as he squatted and pulled a small tube of something from the bag. She didn't say anything, because if Blade wanted to give her a nickname, he would whether she objected or not. “Commander probably wouldn't work.” That sounded thoughtful. He snapped the lid off the end of the tube and squeezed it a little. “Dead giveaway.” He separated the edges of the cut and she inhaled against the pain. Something cold that stung almost as much as the wipe filled the cut. It felt like he was pressing the skin together and holding it. He looked into her eyes. “What about Vixen? You already hate it."

  "If you add honey-thighed, I'll kill you myself,” she said through the gritted teeth. The ache and the sting were subsiding, but slowly. He looked back at his work and added another line of whatever was in the tube, pressed again.

  "I promise I won't call you Honey-Thighed Vixen unless we're alone,” he said, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was repressing a smile. “Even if it's true.” He looked back into her eyes. “And it is."

  "Are we done?"

  "Give it another ... ten seconds.” His hands were warm. She tried to stare off into the distance, but all she could see was Blade and a few rocks. “Vixen?” She looked at his face and his eyes were glowing again, but his expression was tender.

  "Garid was an orphan. He once told me the only thing that bothered him about dying was that no one would cry for him."

  "Oh.” There wasn't anything else to say, not that she could think when he turned those eyes on her. Even blinking required concentration. Of course, she didn't want to spoil Garid's afterlife. And the way Blade was looking at her made her feel small, almost dainty, and somehow very precious, though she had no idea why.

  "Thank you,” he murmured, then his warm hands slid around her waist and pulled her close to him. “It meant a lot.” He was staring into her eyes, his mouth less than an inch from hers, and she couldn't think. He wasn't anything like what Barianis were supposed to be if he cared that his subordinate wanted to be mourned, and he appeared to care deeply. She should tell him the truth even if it wasn't quite nice.

  "Blade, I—” He cut her off by kissing her.

  It was a gentle thing, soft and sweet and slow, with a heat that built from deep within her and softened her joints. Her legs trembled from the effort of keeping her body standing, and her breasts felt heavy and full, almost tingly. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin and she wasn't cold anymore, but almost feverish, aching, needing. She pushed her fingers into his hair and opened her lips, seeking his heat, wanting his strength and the comfort of knowing there was someplace he belonged.

  Too soon, he raised his head and pushed her away, but only far enough to look into her eyes again, breathing as heavily as she was. He moved one arm, brushed fingertips over her scar, and she couldn't even flinch.

  "We need to get moving,” he said, staying right where he was, almost as if he knew she would have difficulty standing on her own. And there was something in the words—was it regret? Did he crave the connection as she did? Her body calmed, her knees firmed. She didn't trust her voice yet, so she nodded and stepp
ed away to pull her clothes back together, such as they were.

  Blade sighed. “Two days in a row and you're soaked in gore before lunchtime. Have you thought of getting into a different line of work, Vixen?"

  "Goddess, I hate that name,” she muttered as she buttoned her coat. “And in case you haven't noticed, you're covered in it, too."

  She spared one half-hearted glare for him before she marched back into the canyon to find her horse. Blade followed her and conferred quietly for a while with a white-faced Galen, then unbuckled his Zonan scabbard and accepted one of the Bariani swords, probably Garid's. The rest of them all looked grim, and she took it for a sign that what was going on was important, so she looked around for something to tie her hair back with, coming up with a scrap of leather lacing. Then, as the Barianis stood in a circle talking in low voices, she gritted her teeth hard and got onto the gray mare without embarrassing herself or screaming in pain. She watched Blade fasten the Zonan weapon on the gelding's saddle so he could draw it, then he mounted as well, the last one back on a horse. Dorcan was leading the spare, with Garid's body draped over it.

  "Ready, Vixen?” he asked with one raised eyebrow.

  "You couldn't think of a better code name than that?” she asked, just so the rest of them would know it wasn't something more, then heeled the mare into a trot before she betrayed the embarrassment by blushing. It was strange, because the way he said it made it sound like something more, almost like the affectionate nicknames some of the women in her barracks had for their primes. Praise the Goddess that he hadn't chosen one of the more nauseating ones, like Pooky Bear.

  The ride was pleasant enough after that, other than the constant ache and pull in her wound, and once the sun fully cleared the peaks it was even warm, for the first time since winter had descended. Warm enough to let her unbutton the heavy coat, anyway. They rode in silence among the birdsong and underbrush rustling of wild creatures until the sun was as directly overhead as it got during the season, but she was surrounded by male warriors the entire time. They didn't even let her get a step ahead of their leader in the center of the group, probably because he had threatened them with dire consequences if they did. The longer they rode, the shorter her temper got, because they were treating her like—like royalty.