by Milla Vane
Her hands trembled but her gaze was earnest upon his. Firelight gleamed in the darkness of her eyes. “Commander, do you wish to avenge your queen and king?”
Her words were dull knives shoved through his ribs. Was this woman sent here by Bazir to mock him? For the Syssian liar must know that Maddek had been forbidden to take his vengeance.
Quietly he said, “Upon that matter, you will hold your tongue if you wish to keep it in your head.”
Even in the dim glow of the fire and the darkness of her skin, he could see the bloodbare fear that bleached her cheeks.
Her voice trembled as she continued. “I know how you might have that vengeance against the one who lured your parents to Syssia.”
His eyes narrowed. Few people—and only fools—would have spoken after such a warning. This woman did not seem a fool. She only seemed terrified.
And she spoke as if reciting lines given to her, for although her words were full of conviction and purpose, she had barely enough courage to sit at his side.
He studied her more closely. An old scar bisected her left eyebrow, but he could see no other injury. Her nose was straight, her teeth strong and fine, and she had moved easily beneath her robes and wrapped linens. If she had been forced to come here, she had not been compelled by a beating. “Who sent you to me?”
Some of her agitation eased. Her eyes held his steadily, earnest again. Eager to offer the words, then—yet still relieved that he knew these words were not her own. “I represent someone with no love for Zhalen. Someone who would like to see him destroyed more than you do.”
A harsh laugh shook him, and Maddek gestured to Etan that he was done. “No one wants that more than I do. Now leave me be.”
“There is a daughter,” she said quickly as the warrior bent to take her arm. “A woman of Nyset’s bloodline.”
His gaze shot to hers again. “What do you say?”
“You may not touch Zhalen or his sons,” she said, her breath coming in panicked spurts as she pulled against Etan’s hands—as if afraid of being carried away before her message was delivered. “But there is a daughter. An heir with moonstone eyes. It was she who sent the letter that brought your parents to their end.”
A daughter. Purpose hot and fierce rose in Maddek’s chest. He stopped Etan with a lift of his hand. “Where is she now?”
“A full day east of Ephorn, on the road to Toleh.” Now courage rose in the woman, hard anger lighting her eyes and her soft fingers curling to fists. “Where Zhalen is sending her to be married to that old lech of a king.”
So that Zhalen and his offspring would sit upon the thrones of three realms within the alliance, spreading his corruption. But not if Maddek took Nyset’s heir and prevented the marriage. “How many soldiers serve as her escort?”
“A dozen, perhaps.”
Sudden anger hardened his tongue. But it was Maddek’s first captain who replied, and her thoughts echoed his.
“This woman is either a fool or a liar,” Enox said from her furs. “Send her away.”
“A dozen,” the woman repeated firmly. “There is a wedding caravan with a large escort that travels the main road to Toleh. But Zhalen believed that party might attract thieves. He sent his daughter on the southern track so she might pass through the hills unmolested.”
That made more sense than sending her with so little protection. The richly appointed caravan would act as a decoy upon the main road, while Nyset’s heir took a route less traveled, less likely to be a target for bandits.
Or a target for Parsathean raiders.
“They left Ephorn separately only one day past,” the woman insisted. “That can be verified by the guards at the east gate. Now, please”—fearfully she glanced over her shoulder, to where Ephorn’s great white walls gleamed—“I must return before my absence is discovered. I have told you all that I can.”
All that she had been instructed to. But Maddek would not detain her. The fear in her glance had appeared genuine enough—and he could not know whether she’d had any choice to play the part she’d been given.
But that part was over. Now the choices were his.
He looked to Etan. “Escort her back to the gate.”
Maddek waited until they were beyond the glow of his fire before speaking to Enox—aware that every warrior who had been sleeping nearby was listening. All of them had awoken when the woman arrived.
All of them yearned to avenge their queen and king as hotly as he did.
Sitting up, Enox drew her heavy furs around her bare shoulders. Her keen eyes searched his face. “What will you do?”
To the woman who had lured his parents to their deaths? “Toss her rotting corpse over Syssia’s wall.”
Slowly she nodded. “Do you wish for me to take a handful of warriors and fetch her to you?”
A cold smile touched Maddek’s mouth. “No.”
That was the only answer Enox needed—and was the one she likely expected. Maddek would pursue Nyset’s heir himself.
Wry amusement curved her lips before she eyed the warrior bedded down on Maddek’s right, who had been following their exchange with sharp interest. “Kelir, you and your five will accompany Ran Maddek and serve as his Dragon.”
Ran Maddek. It marked the first time any of the warriors called him by the title that had belonged to his mother and father. But it was not Maddek’s title yet. And wouldn’t be, unless all of Parsathe claimed his voice as theirs.
Enox met his grim look with a lift of her chin. She had never liked hearing him called Commander. That was the alliance’s title, not a Parsathean’s. “When you find Nyset’s heir, please add my greetings to yours.”
Maddek would—a greeting given by the sharp edge of a blade. As soon as Zhalen’s daughter was within his grasp, he would make her pay for her treachery.
Vengeance would be his.
CHAPTER 4
MADDEK
At dawn, the riders of Parsathe struck hard for home—with Enox at their head. The same dawn saw Maddek and his Dragon guard upon the road to Toleh, a half night’s journey already behind them.
But a half night’s journey for the Parsatheans was a full day’s for a bridal caravan, and that train of soldiers and wagons was in Maddek’s sight by the following morning. Another ten days of travel lay ahead for the caravan—and its escort would not know until too late that the bride had not arrived in Toleh with them.
Before they were seen, Maddek veered hard south through the trees that rose tall on either side of the road.
Riding alongside him, Kelir cast a doubtful glance over his shoulder—toward the caravan, though it was already out of sight. Over the thunder of their horses’ hooves, the warrior called out, “Are you certain we can trust the Syssian woman’s word?”
“We will soon see!” Maddek called back.
Because he could not be certain. But everything she had told him before begging to return to the city held the ring of truth. If Zhalen had hidden the daughter away until she was of marriageable age, then he would not likely expose her now, before she had fulfilled her purpose.
But Kelir’s concern was not unwarranted. What better way to lure Maddek to an ambush than by placing a path to vengeance in front of him?
Yet even an ambush would be welcome. Eagerly Maddek would meet an attack and spill the blood of anyone who challenged him.
By midday, they reached the southern path. The road’s soft earth had not seen recent passage. So either they were ahead of the daughter or no daughter was coming.
But if there was to be an ambush, it would be Maddek’s. The forested hills provided cover. A steep and narrow stretch of road offered a strong position.
All was quiet but for the chittering of birds and small feathered lizards that raced about on two feet. Infrequently came the howls and screams of the predators that prowled these forests and the heavy tre
ad of the giant reptilian beasts that foraged the treetops.
The midday sun began its slow slide west. Shadows lengthened. But the Syssian messenger had not spoken false, for as evening gold began to gild the clouds, Danoh’s signal sounded from her post high above the road, the trilling chirp of an infant drepa.
A dozen soldiers—ten mounted, and two driving a carriage. Harnessed to it were four horses too light-boned to pull such a burden over such a rough road for such a distance. Little wonder they lagged so far behind the caravan—and Maddek would not have to worry that those horses would outrace his mare. Unlike a Parsathean’s mount, the carriage horses had been chosen for their elegance rather than their strength.
That was also what it meant to be civilized. And for it, they would lose a bride to a barbarian.
Maddek bade his warriors to remain behind him and urged his mare onto the road. He came over the steep rise as the soldiers and carriage reached the narrowest part of the path, hemmed in by the thick growth of conifers and ferns on either side. The horses strained against their harnesses to pull the weight of the carriage up the incline.
Shouts rose from the soldiers, crossbows swinging up to their shoulders. But they did not look to another soldier for an order.
They waited for one.
Waiting for word from within the carriage, Maddek realized. By Temra’s fist, he prayed it was that murdering dog-king, Zhalen.
His prayer was not answered. The man who poked his head through the carriage’s curtained door was not the father but another son. Maddek would have thought it was Bazir but for his hair, lighter and longer than the sly-tongue’s. The smirk was the same, as were the moonstone eyes.
Maddek called out, “Give to me Nyset’s heir!”
Zhalen’s son barked with laughter. “Or what? You have been forbidden to harm me, raider!”
So he had been. Maddek allowed a smile. “When they find your meatless carcass and the bones of your soldiers scattered across the road, they will believe you fell to the apes. Not to men.”
Another bark of laughter was the only response before the son disappeared into the carriage. The soldiers looked to each other uneasily. Syssian men, not Zhalen’s hired Rugusian soldiers.
Maddek met the eyes of the nearest one. “I am Maddek, High Commander of the Army of the Great Alliance, son of Ran Ashev and Ran Marek, rider of the Burning Plains of Parsathe,” he told them. “You will lower your weapons before you take another breath, or the warriors behind me will make certain it is your last.”
They obeyed, as Maddek knew they would. They were soldiers, not warriors—and one warrior might follow another, as his warriors followed him. But soldiers followed orders and Zhalen’s son had given them none. So they would obey Maddek’s orders, instead.
He urged his horse forward again, then abruptly halted when Zhalen’s son emerged from the carriage, jewel-encrusted daggers at his belt, a gleaming sword in his right hand—and with his left, dragging a woman out with him.
Nyset’s heir. Last in the bloodline of the legendary warrior-queen.
That blood had thinned.
Ineffectually she struggled against Zhalen’s son, the sleeves of her blue robes riding up to reveal arms that were nothing but linen-wrapped twigs. Her legs folded beneath her when her sandaled feet struck the ground, and Maddek glimpsed ankles that appeared as fragile as a fawn’s. A black veil covered her dark hair but was thrown back from her face. Sitting in a crumpled heap at her brother’s feet, she glared up at him with features pinched and sallow.
Then she turned her head to meet Maddek’s eyes and a shiver raced over his skin, as if he had stepped into an icy wind.
He had heard tales of the legendary Queen Nyset—of how the moon goddess Vela had once walked within her, and of how part of that goddess’s power lingered in her blood. He had heard that the warrior-queen’s moonstone eyes possessed sight beyond what was seen. Listening to those tales, Maddek had always felt the same cold, as if he approached something beyond the reach of his ken and his mind gave warning that these were not matters for mere men.
For he could not deny the existence of the gods and goddesses—but in Parsathe, those gods did not influence their daily lives as they did in the temple-studded cities and villages of the south. The riders were given life at birth by Temra, who had reshaped the earth by the pounding of her fist. And they were taken at death by silver-fingered Rani, who flew them back into Temra’s arms. Every day between birth and death they lived by their wits and their strength, not by the whims and favor of the gods.
That was how Maddek preferred to live—without the gaze of the gods always upon him. And when Zhalen’s sons looked at him with their moonstone eyes, he did not shiver.
When this woman looked, it was as if a goddess looked through him. As if she peered down to his bones.
And approved of what she saw.
With her piercing gaze upon him, a slow smile curved her lips. “You had best do as the Parsathean commands, Cezan. Give me over to him and depart in haste like the coward you are.”
Her voice was not weak, but bold and amused. Then was sucked in on a sharp breath when Cezan released her wrists and backhanded her across the mouth.
“You will be silent, Yvenne!”
Maddek stiffened. Nor was he the only one. Each of the Syssian soldiers went rigid—because perhaps her brother had forgotten that this would be Syssia’s queen, but they had not.
And she was bound, he saw now—her wrists tightly tied, palms together. Her pearlescent eyes were still upon him, her mouth still smiling despite the blood trickling from her battered lips.
That pale gaze finally left Maddek’s to slide down his mounted form. “Do you see that he is dressed for battle, brother? Black paint upon his brow, drepa-skin guards upon his shoulders and arms. And those silver claws will rip out your throat.”
Cezan’s fingers fisted in her thick hair, dragging the woman to her feet. “You will be silent.”
Though her neck twisted awkwardly and she stumbled unbalanced against her brother’s side, she did not heed his warning. “Dressed for battle, but he wears no breastplate. Do you know what that means, brother?”
“It means I will run him through all the easier.”
Yvenne’s amusement only deepened. Standing, she barely reached Cezan’s shoulder. “It means the Parsathean has no fear of you. He does not respect you enough to armor his stomach or his heart. It is an insult that you do not even recognize without being told. And he will defeat you. Without effort. So you had best leave me here with him and flee as quickly as you can.”
That was all true. His blood pounding slow and hot, Maddek tore his gaze from the woman and looked to her brother.
“This is what you would take to your bed, barbarian?” Irritatedly pushing his sister behind him, Cezan lifted his sword and regarded Maddek with insolent disdain. “She is a foul, treacherous, ugly stain upon our house.”
“I will have her,” Maddek said, though he had no intention of taking her to any bed. Instead she would never sleep easy again. “And your house will know my vengeance.”
Cezan laughed. “Will you make her repay your mother’s screams? Will you do to my sister all that we did to your queen?” His vicious gaze left Maddek and swept his Dragon. “You will need more male warriors—”
Abruptly his pale eyes rounded, mouth open in an agonized rictus. From between his gaping lips, a gout of foamy blood spurted over his chin and splattered down the front of his robes.
Shouts rose from the soldiers, horses snorting as their riders tensed, searching for the source of attack. Gaze scanning the trees, Maddek spun his mount to the side. None of his warriors had struck the man—though, like Maddek, they had been on the verge of it. If one more word had been spoken of their queen, they might have killed him. But someone had beaten them to it.
Had someone else come for Nyset�
�s heir—?
Swiftly Maddek reined his mare back around just as Cezan fell to his knees, moonstone eyes rolling in their sockets.
Behind him Yvenne stood with her brother’s bejeweled dagger clasped between her bound hands. Crimson dripped from her fingers and was a spreading stain down the white linens wrapping her forearms.
“I warned you to run,” she told Cezan flatly before placing her foot against his back and shoving him dead to the ground.
All was silent but for the uneasy stamp of hooves that echoed the uneasy hearts of Syssian soldiers.
She looked to the nearest. “Did you witness that it was me and not the Parsathean who killed him?”
The soldier stared back at her wordlessly.
A weary sigh lifted her chest, but her voice only strengthened. She turned so that her moonstone gaze swept all of the soldiers. “Did you see that it was me? Did you see that I used the dagger he was fool enough to put within my reach?”
“Y–Yes.” Visibly trembling, the soldier bowed his head. “My queen. We did not know you truly lived—”
“I am not yet queen. And as I was kept veiled and hidden, you could not have known. What is your name, soldier?”
“Jeppen, my lady.” He sounded on the verge of tears.
“You and your fellow soldiers will have my gratitude, Jeppen, if you always speak the truth of what happened here.” With her sandaled foot, she nudged her brother’s body. “We could leave this for the scavengers, but it would likely turn their stomachs. Instead you will take him directly to the alliance council, so they might see the wound in his back to corroborate your story. Do not take him first to Zhalen or Bazir, for my father and brother might decide to make another story of it, and you would not be long for this life.”
The soldier had gone deathly pale. “Yes, my lady.”
Maddek tensed when two soldiers clambered down from the carriage and approached the woman, but it was only to collect the body.
“Put it on one of the horses,” Maddek told them, and they paused, as if in confusion. Patiently he said, “Unharness the horses from that overheavy carriage and ride them. But leave one.”