The Lone Warrior (24 page)

The Necromancer pressed cautious fingertips against a spot on the side of his skull. His head still ached when he grew tired. Completely against his will, memory shoved an unpleasantly vivid image toward him—Prue McGuire advancing, blue green eyes ablaze in her pale face, swinging a gardener’s spade with all her compact strength—a fucking
spade
! One day. His lips drew back from his teeth. One day . . . Her screams would never end, he swore it by all that was unholy.

The candles guttered, the temperature in the tent dropping ten degrees in as many seconds. Dotty whimpered, hunching down until she resembled nothing as much as a bundle of dirty laundry.

Gods, every time he thought of Erik the Golden! That big body, so strong and smooth-limbed and physically adept, such a magnificent envelope to house his own Dark Powers. Physically, Nerajyb Nyzarl wasn’t much of a substitute, not if one aspired to male beauty, though presumably there was muscle hidden somewhere beneath the lard. Nonetheless, the diabloman had a number of advantages to offer. First, there was the wealth and power conferred by the favor of the Grand Pasha, nicely topped off by the gift of the estate in the south. The Necromancer licked his lips. The south—where he sensed the weight of some vast presence, utterly alien. It couldn’t be coincidence, it
couldn’t
.

No longer did he have the power to kill with nothing more than a thought, to pinch nerves and arteries between his spectral fingers, but he and the razor-sharp edge of his blade had managed to make the last murder last a good long time. Crouched in the back room behind an apothecary’s shabby shop front, he’d dipped his hands to the wrist in blood and pain, drawing sigils on the dusty floor to net the man’s agonized soul with bonds of power.

He’d done what he could with the apothecary, riding the old fool’s death hard, as if it were an unruly horse. The Dark Lord had been with him then, vouchsafing him a glimpse of carnage in some hillside village, people running this way and that, shouting, falling in midstride as if felled by crossbow bolts, whereupon they writhed and shrieked like souls in torment. Fascinating. Because there were no bolts, no weapons of any kind, only a strange, shrill, whistling sound, and dark clouds scudding across the indifferent faces of the Sibling Moons.

Instinctively, he’d grasped at the energy released by so many deaths. With the ease of long practice, he let the power buoy him up, and he’d seen it, etched against the stars—the Pattern.

Not as clear as the last time, but still so fucking pretty he wanted to spit. A five-pointed star, a Pentacle, complex and yet perfect. Complete in itself. Drawn despite himself, he’d drifted closer, peering, his breath coming short.

Fortunately, he was always wary. Without warning, a fireball bloomed above the Pentacle like an improbable flower. A whoosh of angry air and it was hurtling toward him, a tail of flame streaming behind with the speed of its passage. He’d barely escaped unsinged. In fact, his retreat had been so precipitate, he’d regained his senses sprawled across the apothecary’s doorsill, his cheek resting in a puddle of congealed blood.

He’d recognize the distinctive flavor of the fire witch’s fury anywhere. And clearly, although the air wizard was so newly come to his Magick he barely qualified as a novice, Erik Thorensen knew his enemy. The Necromancer’s mouth twisted. Shaitan take them, that degree of cooperation did not augur well. As for that old bastard, Deiter—Something in the Necromancer’s chest clenched, hurting him. He pressed his palm to the spot. It felt like a warning.

“A power source,” said a decisive voice at his elbow, shattering his reverie. Dotty smoothed a steady hand over the graying tangle of her hair like the Technomage of old, her level gaze clear and cold and clever. “Did you realize we don’t have one?”

“No.” The Necromancer’s fingers flexed involuntarily, despite the stiffness in his knuckles. He glanced down at his hands, at the wrinkled mottled skin. He was still stronger than she—perhaps. But if he throttled her now, he’d be left stranded, an old man in an old man’s body. “It’s your problem,
Technomage
. Solve it.”

“I can’t.” He caught the shadow of a flinch. “I mean, I think I can do it, but only with you—using death energy.”

“Ah.” The Necromancer regarded her with interest. “How many?”

“Two, if they’re young and strong.” Little by little, her face collapsed in on itself, as if all the teeth were dissolving in her gums. “Two, two, two,” she warbled. “Who are the two? Two by two is four, four by two is—”

“Give me that.” The Necromancer took the apparatus out of her hands and placed it carefully in the padded, wooden box he’d purchased especially for the purpose. Then he drew his arm back and cracked the Technomage across the face. “Nyzarl wants to feed you to his demon, did you know that?”

Dotty gibbered, fingers splayed across the reddening mark on her cheekbone. As she scuttled toward the dubious safety of a shadowed corner, not for the first time, the Necromancer considered Xotclic and the interesting problem of its True Name.

He’d been thinking about the demon pretty well continuously from the moment he’d first laid eyes on Nyzarl. Possession of a demon was what defined a diabloman. If he could take all that was Nerajyb Nyzarl’s—his body, his demon, his wealth and status—it wouldn’t matter if the gods shat Pentacles all over the sky, let alone how many witches and wizards Deiter rallied to the cause.

He’d be as near to a god as made no difference, not only their equal but more, Shaitan’s heir maybe. No—he smiled, suffused with fierce pleasure—an usurper, Shaitan Himself.

But without Xotclic’s True Name, there was no chance, it was all piss in the wind. Infinitely worse, he’d be trapped in this decaying jar of flesh until the final indignity when it failed him utterly. A cold shudder raised the hair all down his spine, a wave of atavistic terror that took him by surprise, though on reflection, it shouldn’t have. The Dark Lord had His own way of dealing with incompetents and upstarts.

The Necromancer sank down onto his blankets. With shaking hands, he removed his spectacles and set them aside, massaging his aching eyes. Once again, he set himself to think. He was a scholar, he’d held the office of Queen’s Knowledge. Logic, intellect and experience, they were all on his side.

If only he weren’t so godsbedamned tired . . .

No, there was a way. There had to be.

Walker woke, suddenly and completely as he always did. But the regular rhythm of his breath didn’t change. He listened to the quality of the silence a moment before rolling over and opening his eyes. Sun poured in through the open window. The little room was empty.

He never slept that soundly, let alone in the presence of another. By the Ancestors, he’d wring her silly neck. Swiftly, he donned his boots and crossed to the door, wrenching it open. He stopped dead, his eyes narrowed.

On the far side of the courtyard, a slim youth stood with his back to Walker, chatting amiably with a wizened old man holding a rake. The boy’s hip-shot stance was casually masculine. He leaned against the stable wall, his shoulders straight and square, his waist trim, one hand dug casually into the pocket of his trews. His head was bare, the nut brown hair with the slightest tendency to curl at the nape of his neck. A scruffy little dog sniffed at the old man’s horny toes where they protruded from his rope sandals.

Walker blinked and the picture shifted, coming into sharper focus. He hissed. The fabric of her trews pulled tight across that luscious heart-shaped ass. As he watched, Mehcredi turned her head, pushing the tinted spectacles farther up her nose.

Why the fuck had he been fool enough to think they’d get away with it? Yes, the assassin was a tall woman, lush and well made, with good strong bones, but godsdammit, the fineness of her wrists, the pure, sweet line of her jaw, the mouthwatering curve of her backside—How could any man with balls not look at her and . . .
know
?

He was halfway across the courtyard before he realized what he was doing, impelled by a driving compulsion to grab her and hustle her back to the dock and onto a ship bound for Caracole. After which he’d shake her until her teeth rattled. An
adventure
? ’Cestors give him strength!

“Meck,” he said sharply and she jumped. “What in the seven icy hells are you playing at?”

A single, wide-eyed glance from behind the tinted spectacles and her head dropped. “Wajar. Um, sorry.” Her voice came out husky, a tone deeper than usual. “I was only . . .” She trailed off, scuffing in the dust with the toe of one boot.

“Don’t be too hard on the lad.” The old man spat into the straw. “He were just lookin’ at the horses.”

Walker slapped her across the back of the head, pulling the blow at the last second.

“Ow,” said Mehcredi, rubbing the spot.

“He has chores,” Walker growled. “Lazy little shit.”

“Ah well,” said the old man, his grin exposing three yellowed teeth in an expanse of gum. “We was all boys once, yes? He weren’t no trouble.”

“Hmpf.” Walker gave Mehcredi a shove to get her moving, then nodded a curt farewell to the old man.

The moment the door closed behind them, Mehcredi whipped off the glasses. “Did you see?” She grinned, her eyes shining. “He didn’t have a clue.”

“He’s probably half blind.”

Her face fell. “He is not!” She set her hands on her hips. “And even if he was, the stable slave wasn’t, or the van master.”

Walker’s guts clenched. “Who?”

“The stable sl—”

“The van master. You spoke with him?”

“Only a few words. I mumbled a lot.”

“Was he tall and lean, clean-shaven, with a scar on his lip and a gold earring?”

“No, he had a beard.” Mehcredi looked puzzled. “Why?”

Walker released a breath. “Then it wasn’t Delal Dinari.” Reaching for the Janizar’s sword, he buckled it on. “I signed on with him as a caravan guard, remember? He’s a hard man to fool.” He ground his teeth, hating what he was going to say, disappointment and fury a seething mass in his belly. Gods, what a fool he’d been! “We should get back to the dock. You’ll be better off taking your chances with Deiter. I can ask Dai to—”

“Walker.” Stepping right up to him, she gripped his shoulder. “Don’t. I can do it, I promise. I’ll be good.”

Abruptly, his head was full of Amae, her skinny fingers clutching his arm, black eyes snapping with determination.
C’mon, brother, teach me the blade. I’ll try so hard, I promise. You’ll be proud of me.

And he had been. How many trained Trinitarian pikemen had she killed before they got her? Two? Three? Not bad for a slip of girl.

Right on cue, Mehcredi said, “I’ll do you proud, I swear.”

Standing a prudent three yards behind his demon, Nerajyb Nyzarl had turned his head to watch as they carried Amae’s limp body away, and he’d licked his lips.

With a shudder, he dragged himself back to the present. Mehcredi’s face was luminous with her intensity. “I’ll swear on anything you like,” she was saying.

“One chance,” he said harshly. “Fool Delal Dinari this morning and we stay. Fail, and—” He shrugged. “I should be able to get us away more or less in one piece.”

“You’ll help me?”

“What do you think? Of course.”

A sparkling smile bloomed. Releasing him, she danced over to her pack and scooped it up. “Let’s go,
Wajar
.” She shoved the spectacles onto her nose and clapped him on the shoulder.

An hour later, seated cross-legged on a rug in the shade of Dinari’s van, Walker sipped at bitterbrew in a tiny enameled bowl. Trinitaria floated on the godsbedamned stuff, all negotiations required pints of it, but he’d never much cared for the taste. Thankfully, his apprentice was too insignificant to warrant such consideration. Leaning against a wheel moodily chewing a thumbnail, Meck was the perfect picture of surly adolescence, with a touch of cowed apprehension thrown in for good measure. He’d hardly credited his eyes at first, until the nagging sense of familiarity gelled into recognition. Florien, gods, she was Florien to the life.

By the First Father, he had to admit it was clever. The head cloth obscured the line of her jaw and the delicacy of her neck, while the swell of those glorious tits had been ruthlessly suppressed by the breastband beneath the folds of the loose shirt. Did it hurt, being bound like that?

“The greatest threat is here . . . and here.”

With an inward curse, he wrenched his attention back to Dinari. The van master leaned over the map on the low table between them. Tracing the curving route Trinitarians called the Spice Trail, he tapped decisively. “Trimagistos take them, I think the bastards are breeding in the Stony Hills. They must be. We kill enough every trip, but still they come, like evil djinns.”

His hard gaze lifted. “Which is why I’m supplementing my own guards with men like you.” A one-name, masterless and mercenary.

Walker allowed himself to look grimly amused. He gave a curt nod.