The Lone Warrior (30 page)

Leaping to his feet, the Necromancer shoved Dotty forward, sending her sprawling across the floor. At her bleat of surprise, the diabloman lifted his heavy head and blinked.

“Hmpf,” he said. His eyes fell closed.

“Summon your demon, lord,” urged the Necromancer. “Dotty’s not much I know, but surely it is always hungry?”

“True . . . enough.” Nyzarl spoke the creature’s name in a slow halting mumble.

When the final syllable was out and green fog billowed across the floor, the Necromancer almost fainted with relief. But this was only the first step. Far greater danger lay ahead. Taloned hands grasped the sides of the mist and
pulled.
The demon lurched out into existence, impossibly alien.

“Take her,” the diabloman choked. “Take . . .” He stared at his hand in puzzlement, his heavy brows drawn together. “Wha’? . . . Mmpf . . .” Spittle ran down his chin.

The little slave girl made a noise like a frightened kitten, but the Technomage tore off her veil and stared, eyes narrowed with interest.

This was it. The Necromancer drew what Dark Magick he retained about him like a tattered cloak. “Xotclic.”

The hideous head swung toward him, then away to focus on the prone figure of the diabloman. A hissing grunt that conveyed both comprehension and bone-deep satisfaction. The demon advanced on the bed, claws sinking deep into the pile of the rugs.

“N-n-no,” gurgled Nyzarl, and fell silent, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks of horror.

“
Xotclic,
” said the Necromancer sharply. “Wait. I have something better to offer.”

The demon’s mouth opened—and opened, and opened—revealing a forked tongue and most of the mottled tract of its gullet. When it roared its displeasure, the building shuddered, as if all its fundamental molecules had been rearranged. For all the Necromancer knew, they had.

The moment the horny plates shut with a snap, he said, “Remember? I said we’d bargain.”

Xotclic swung its tail, embedding the barbs in the fleshy part of the diabloman’s thigh. He didn’t move, though he blinked frantically. Crossing its legs at the ankles, the demon leaned a bony elbow in the small of Nyzarl’s back, leaned against the bed and tilted its head. “Ss?”

The Necromancer almost smiled. The thing had nerve, he’d give it that. A worthy foe. “I propose,” he said, “a partnership—of equals.”

One last throw of the dice. Delving deep, he scraped up every vestige of the power he’d been hoarding, the death throes of the apothecary, Hantan’s final scream, even the old flower seller. Shit, this used to be so easy! Shaking with effort, he stretched out a spectral hand to the slave, wrapped his fingers around a couple of ribs and squeezed, ever so gently. In the old days, he would have thrust bone and muscle aside to grip her heart, but now, godsdammit, he hadn’t the strength.

Immediately, she clutched her chest, her face turning a horrible putty color.

Easy. Easy now. Slowly, the Necromancer drew her forward, step by stumbling step, until her forehead was pressed against the demon’s leathery sunken chest. Sweat popping on his brow, he released his hold, even managing a thin calm smile.

Casually, Xotclic slung one of its arms around the girl’s neck and snapped it. Her body slipped to the floor to drape over one clawed foot.

“Your True Name,” said the Necromancer hoarsely. “Give it to me and I will give you mine.”

Silence.

By Shaitan, what the fuck was it thinking? Did it think at all? He’d gambled everything on its intelligence.

Peripherally, he was aware of the Technomage at his elbow, muttering under her breath as a brush whisked across parchment. He was seized by an insane desire to laugh, but he forced it back. “Well?” he demanded. “You’ll be free in this world. Masterless.”

Ah, now he had its full attention. The huge dark orbs were like liquid, incongruously beautiful in that repulsive visage. Something else swam behind its face, an echo of someone he’d once known, once desired.

Resolutely, he continued, “I’ll give you more than you’ve ever dreamed—more power, more Magick, more lives.”

Xotclic retrieved its tail and blood welled from the deep gouge in Nyzarl’s thigh. The Necromancer winced. “And more deaths, but not that one.”

Tail lashing, a grating rumble issued from the demon’s chest. Its maw opened. “You can have his soul,” said the Necromancer hastily, “or whatever passes for it. But I need his body.”

The demon slouched around to the head of the table and lifted Nyzarl’s chin with a taloned finger. For a long moment, it stared down into the diabloman’s terrified eyes.

The Necromancer snatched up a towel and wadded it against the wound. Shit, it was going to hurt like Shaitan’s bitch, but hell, it would be worth it. “The drug I gave him won’t last much longer,” he lied. “Decide.”

Xotclic patted Nyzarl’s cheek. “Ss,” it said.

“You’ll do it?”

“Ss.”

Oh, thank Shaitan. He had to close his eyes for a second to regain his equilibrium.

“Ss?”

He blinked, only to see the demon staring at him, its head twisted at an impossible angle over one spiky shoulder.

“Ah yes,” he said. “How to go about it? I thought . . . we might exchange one syllable at a time, very slowly. We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?”

“Ss.”

Was it laughing at him? He couldn’t be sure. Abruptly, he rounded on the Technomage. “Get the equipment. Check it all again.” He dug his fingers into her shoulder, watching sanity waver back and forth in her faded eyes. “Everything has to be perfect, Dotty. Do you understand me? Because if anything goes wrong, I’ll give you to Xotclic, I swear.”

She made another bleating noise, threw the demon a last terrified glance over her shoulder and scuttled off.

“Right,” said the Necromancer. Crossing the room in defiance of every human instinct was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. His hindbrain writhed, shrieking at him to
run, run
! Carefully avoiding the spikes, he laid a trembling hand on one scaly forearm and very nearly snatched it back. Shaitan! How could something be oily and freezing at the same time?

He bared his teeth in a rictus of a smile. “Let us begin. As a gesture of good faith, I will start, but we will finish together, or not at all.”

“Ss.”

Show me how you ride,
the swordmaster had said. At Lonefell, she’d ridden bareback in the summer, up in the high pasture where no one could see. Saddles she knew nothing about.

He secured a mount for her, an elderly broad-backed mare with a sleepy disposition and an accommodating nature, boosted “Meck” into the saddle and walked him around and around the moving caravan in ever-decreasing circles. Finally, he tied the mare to Abad’s van. The dog favored her with a toothy grin as he leaped up to scramble over the backboard, but all Walker said was, “You’ll do.” Then he’d cantered off for his shift as advance scout.

There’d been so little expression on his face, he might have been sculpted out of bronze. His hunter’s face, hooded eyes cold and calm. Mehcredi wondered . . . Gods, how she wondered.

She frowned, thinking back. It’s not what he says, she told herself firmly, it’s what he
does
. That’s the only coin you understand.

Sister save her, all the pain he kept locked up inside him—only someone as unperceptive as she could have missed it. On the other hand . . . She shifted in the saddle as the mare plodded on. To be the only survivor of the massacre of all your kin—that was truly tragic. She thought of his deep voice saying softly in the dark,
Do you know what demons look like?
and shivered in the sun.

Awful beyond her comprehension. Her fingers tightened on the reins. Poor Walker. No, not Walker. What was it? A long liquid run of sound, beautiful in its own way, but incomprehensible. Welderyn . . . something, something. She must ask him to repeat it, slowly.

At Lonefell, gossip had run on greased wheels. People adored it, she knew that much about human nature. If even a single person knew Walker was the last of his people and why, it would be nigh on impossible to keep such a deliciously dreadful story secret.

But she’d heard not the slightest hint of it.

This private, quiet man had trusted her with something no one else knew, a torment wrenched from deep within his soul. Sister in the sky,
her
, Mehcredi of Lonefell. A small sweet glow warmed her insides. She’d never had a secret to keep before, never had a . . . a . . . What
was
Walker, precisely? A friend? A teacher?

Not a lover though.

Scowling, she fingered her lower lip, remembering, and the godsbedamned feelings started up again. She wasn’t sure precisely how to describe them, but they made her so restless if she hadn’t been perched so high above the ground she would have had to wriggle to relieve her frustration.

But she had only to close her eyes to feel his weight pressing her into the bed of feathergrass, their bodies sealed together from neck to knee. She knew he was made of muscle—gods, she’d watched him perform the
nea-kata
shirtless every morning for weeks—but she wasn’t used to feeling so weak and small, so very feminine. Not only was he damned heavy, but oddly enough, she liked it. In fact, she’d liked it so much, she’d arched up against him, frantic for more. And when it was granted to her and skin met skin, she’d thought she might die of wanting whatever came next.

Despite herself, a disgustingly kittenish sound escaped her lips. One of the mare’s ears flicked back, but her steady gait didn’t falter. Somewhat heartened by this tacit show of support, Mehcredi gripped the saddle and ground herself down, grumbling under her breath.

It didn’t help. In fact, it made her breath hitch and the liquid burn between her thighs intensify. Surreptitiously, she pressed one arm over her breasts. Imprisoned within the confines of the breastband, they tingled with the strangest sort of ache, with the physical memory of his lips and tongue moving over her skin, while his weight held her helpless, so strong, so hot—gods, so
knowing
.

Her secret flesh had flowered for him, slick with her body’s honey, yearning so desperately that her thighs had fallen open and she’d reached for what instinct told her she needed.

The scowl deepened.

Shit, she’d ruined it. Brought all the lovely, breathless, soaring flight of mutual desire crashing to the ground. Stupid,
stupid
.

But nonetheless, she, Mehcredi, had aroused him, given him pleasure, the evidence of it hot and rigid in her hand. Gods, he’d been thick, much thicker than she expected. Longer too. The memory made her insides squirm like a puppy being petted.

She hadn’t known. How could she? All she’d seen of Nedward and his scullery maid were the pale hairy moons of his bum bunching as he drove upward again and again and the girl’s plump white calves wrapped around his waist. When he’d come, he’d just frozen with a final grunt and squeezed the poor girl even harder. The moment it was over, he’d laced up his trews, slapped the girl on the flank and walked back to the forge whistling. The maid had stood staring after him, her face red and her lip quivering

I do want you,
Walker said, his voice flat and cold.
Just not enough to make you a convenience.

Unlike Nedward, let alone Taso.

Mehcredi sagged in the saddle and all the minor twinges associated with the unaccustomed exercise coalesced into a clamoring wholebody ache. The reminiscent tingles, the physical memory of joy, everything dissolved, leaving her miserable and heavy. Exactly like last night, except that now she was baking in the desert sun and covered in dust.

“Hey, Meck?”

She glowered at Abad. The waggoner swayed easily with the lurching movement of the van, reins held negligently in one big brown hand. “How ye doin’ over there, lad?”

How was she doing? “Like shit,” she muttered. “Thanks for askin’.”

Abad reached under the wooden seat and fished out a stoppered bottle. “Thirsty?”

Without waiting for a reply, he tossed it with a flip of the wrist. Mehcredi had to bend and twist to snag it out of the air, nearly unseating herself in the process. Her heart thundering, she cursed Abad even as she wrenched the cork out and tilted it to her lips. Warm, flat water, nectar of the gods. Swishing it around her mouth, she spat to one side, then drank deep.

“Needed that.” She tossed the bottle back and the waggoner caught it neatly enough.

Abad grinned, brown eyes twinkling. “How’s your ass?”

She glanced sharply at his face, but she couldn’t see anything to alarm her. “Fuckin’ hurts,” she said cautiously.

“Ye can come up here if ye like.”

Mehcredi studied him from under her lashes. The waggoner had a pleasant enough face, swarthy like most of his countrymen. Under the head cloth, dark greasy curls tumbled around his ears. Looked safe enough—unless he was the sort who liked boys. Mentally, she contrasted his expression with that of the man with the gold teeth. What was his name? That’s right, Letafa.