The Lone Warrior (47 page)

“Ooh, where?” Florien’s dark eyes sparkled with relish. “In the guts? Did he yell?”

“Shoulder,” said Mehcredi.

“Dai’s been teachin’ me, same as Walker taught you.” Florien’s skinny chest puffed out. “He says I got promise.”

At the House of Swords, she’d had so little time with Dai. At first, the silence had been awkward, but then the swordsman gave one of his hoarse chuckles and pulled her into a brief hard hug. It seemed that despite everything she’d done, she had a friend of sorts. Mehcredi sighed. He still sounded . . . terrible, all raspy and ruined, though he swore the pain had left him completely.

“They should have left you with him,” she said, frowning.

“I do what I fookin’ want.” Florien shrugged, then spoiled it by snickering. “Swore I’d follow. Prue an’ the old man got mad, but Cenda an’ Gray believed me. Hah! So they should,” he added darkly.

Yet they’d insisted she come, though she couldn’t quite work out why. Not that their wishes were of the slightest consequence. If Walker was waiting at this Guardpass place, she had nowhere else to be. She’d grown to love the House of Swords, but even the exquisite garden was nothing in comparison with the man at its center, the quiet sun around which everything revolved.

Mehcredi listened with half an ear to the conversations around her, fretting. Yesterday, she’d walked out into the swordmaster’s garden, basking in the autumn sun, and gazed at it with new eyes, marveling. How was it she hadn’t understood before? His personality, his heart and soul, were imprinted on every flower, every branch and leaf. The impact of that realization, the recognition of how far she’d come and what she’d accomplished against all the odds—it caught up with her on the lawn beside the contemplation pool. She
ached
for him—as if the gods had scooped out some essential part of her and callously tossed it aside. Looking back now, she thought she must have lost a few seconds there, because when she regained her senses, she was on her knees with her arms wrapped around the smooth trunk of a widow’s hair tree, sobbing. She’d wept for ten minutes straight, her cheek pressed to the silvery bark.

It had helped. By the time a tight-lipped Erik arrived to collect her late in the afternoon, she felt as limp and pale as an overcooked noodle, but calm enough.

“You’ll spend the night at The Garden,” he said. “We leave at first light.”

The brusque delivery couldn’t make his deep voice less than beautiful, nothing could, not even reading a laundry list. She smiled at the memory, because he’d done just that. Prue had sent a neatly written list of everything she was to bring. Mehcredi had shrugged, admitted she couldn’t read, and handed it back. Three shirts, a warm jacket, gloves if she had them, good boots . . . Erik read on and on, giving her goose bumps. Holy Sister, he was a handsome man, all big and blond, with eyes like a noonday sky.

From beneath her lashes, Mehcredi watched him riding knee to knee with Prue, chuckling when an errant breeze blew a curl into her eye and she batted it away with a laughing glare, the color rising in her vivid, heart-shaped face. Overall, they were a well-favored group. Rose was simply spectacular, while Prue and Cenda each had their own charms, she supposed. As for Gray . . . He was decorative enough, if you preferred dark-haired men—which the gods knew she did—but there was something about him that made all the hair stand up on the back of her neck, something that flickered in the corner of her eye. She worried at her bottom lip, trying to work it out.

Shivering, she turned up the collar of her padded jacket. Her blood had grown thin and warm away from Lonefell. The company was four days out of Caracole now and a chilly wind blustered out of the north to slip sly icy fingers between buttons and fastenings. The coat was Walker’s—she’d had no compunction about entering his room and taking it from the cupboard. In fact, it had given her a bittersweet feeling to look at his neatly made bed, to touch the plain wooden brush on his dresser. The garment swam on her a bit and she’d had to roll the sleeves up, but every time she closed her eyes, she felt him near, the smell of his skin and hair.

When Scrounge pressed closer, she opened the jacket and folded him inside, taking comfort from his animal warmth. Every night for three nights, Cenda had crouched over the fire, calling Walker’s name, again and again. Nothing. What had begun as a faint unease had rapidly gained momentum, filling Mehcredi’s belly with a cold spiky ball of dread. A hideous litany sang in her ears, with every beat of her heart.
He’s dead, oh gods, he’s dead.
That hard bronze body smashed and broken, the lively black eyes filmed and dull.

And she was stupid. A great daft lump. Mehcredi straightened her spine, forcing herself to take stock of the gentle roll of the plains, the wide fields of stubbled grain, the occasional farmhouse of weathered wood, its roof high-pitched to cater for the winter snow. Who better at survival than Walker, last of the Shar? Not only a warrior without peer, but a shaman with mind-boggling powers. She forced herself to take deep, even breaths.

Up ahead, the guard captain, a broad-faced woman called Yachi, barked a command and the company jingled to a halt. She gestured at the blue bulk of a mountain range in the distance. “Stormsoul Range. We’ll be in Guardpass tomorrow night.”

Deiter rummaged around under his heavy robe and produced a rolled-up map. Muttering under his breath, he ran a horny forefinger over the parchment. “You’re right,” he announced.

The captain rolled her eyes but said no more, merely kicking her rangy bay into motion. The guards fell into formation and they were off again.

Farther to the west, beyond that double notch in the mountains, lay Lonefell. Would she ever see the keep again? A wry smile twisted Mehcredi’s lips. Who cared? Gods, she’d seen more of the world, had more adventures, than a brute like Taso could conceive of. Well, if adventure meant near wetting yourself with terror but having to squat behind a bush to do it. On the other hand . . . Her mind filled with the vision of Walker stretched out beneath her as she rode him. Her sex clenched involuntarily. He’d been so high and hard, wedged all the way to her womb, filling her so brutally, so exquisitely. And Holy Sister, his face!

Just like that, she was back where she’d begun, caught on the wheel of her fear.
Dead, not dead. Dead, not dead
.

Guardpass couldn’t come soon enough.

The tavern turned out to be the largest building in Guardpass, and it felt like every citizen for miles around was crowded into the fusty space. The walls smelled of resinous wood, the floor of ingrained beer. Every so often, a cart clattered up, or a horse, and the double doors swung open to admit a blast of chilly air and another hard-eyed, weather-beaten farmer.

Mehcredi stood with the others at the back of the room, trying to avoid contact with the greasy wall, Scrounge pressed against her calf. Florien perched halfway up the stairs to the upper rooms, hanging over the banister. Purist Deiter and the Guardpass headwoman stood in uneasy proximity on top of a table. Tugging at the three plaits of his beard, the old wizard glared at the crowd, which seethed like a rough stew about to boil over. In the confined space, the uproar battered at Mehcredi’s senses, making her head ache.

Springing from a chair to the top of the bar, Yachi produced a surprisingly effective parade-ground bellow. “Settle down!”

Mehcredi blinked, impressed.

“You’ve heard the Purist. You want to speak, go right ahead, but don’t waste my time.” The guard captain pointed to a man with a barrel chest and a straggly beard. “You! Spit it out!”

The man flushed and shuffled a bit, but his companions egged him on. “First storms o’ winter,” he said. “Jest rumors.” He shrugged. “Folks get skeered when weather’s bad.”

Yachi set her hands on her broad hips. “What am I? Chopped liver?” She leaned forward. “The
queen
sent us. Get it?” The words,
you fucking idiot
, echoed unspoken.

Voices overlapped, complaints, jeers, catcalls. A sense of ill usage hung over the assembly.

“Waste o’ bloody time!”

A rangy woman shook her head. “Fer the Sister’s sake, I have beasts in calf, hay to get. I’m off.” She pushed her way to the door.

“I ain’t never seen no Magick.” A snort of derision. “Not gunna now.”

Outside, hoofs rang on the packed earth of the single street. The rider was pushing hard, the animal faltering.

“Sister save us, he’s going to explode,” Mehcredi murmured, watching Deiter’s face slowly turn purple.

A small strong hand gripped her forearm. “Brace yourself,” Prue said, for once too preoccupied to bother with the glare she reserved especially for Mehcredi.

Cold air slithered down her spine as the doors opened to admit a latecomer. Deiter’s furious gaze lifted, then grew fixed. “Ah,” he said.

Heads turned, one by one. The silence spread and pooled like beer leaking from a sprung barrel.

“Walker!” Black spots obscured Mehcredi’s vision.

The swordmaster stood framed in the doorway, gaunt as a winter-starved direwolf, a limp body slung over one shoulder. But although the limbs dangled, they jerked so violently Walker had to clamp a hand over the young man’s calves to stop the spasmodic kicking.

“No!” Prue blocked Mehcredi’s instinctive lunge forward. “Wait.”

Walker’s head turned as he quartered the room. When his eyes met Mehcredi’s, the world settled, fell into place with a click so loud, she couldn’t fathom why Prue, standing right next to her, showed no signs of hearing it. His shoulders dropped as if he’d blown out a long breath, then he blinked and looked away, fixing his gaze on Deiter. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut, the shadows beneath his eyes like bruises.

The crowd parted as the swordmaster stalked to the bar. Willing hands helped him lay the young man on top of it. In the shocked silence, his moans could be clearly heard, the hollow thud of his heels drumming against polished wood.

“A healer.” Walker’s voice was scraped so raw, she almost didn’t recognize it. The front of his shabby jacket was stiff with blood. “Do you have a healer?”

In the circle of lamplight, something shifted beneath the wounded man’s clothing. Walker drew his dagger and sliced the leg of his trews to reveal a round protuberance distorting the flesh of the man’s thigh, surging purposefully toward his torso.

The stout innkeeper craned over the bar, his eyes wide. The headwoman made a sound of utter revulsion. “Sister of mercy, what the hell is
that
?”

“It’s how the djinns kill. He’s young, strong. He had the best chance. I had to—’Cestors’ bones,
the healer
?”

“Here.” A plump woman pushed to the front, her face as pale as milk. She made the sign of the Sibling Moons. “Can we get him to my house? It’s only a step.”

At Yachi’s gesture, a couple of guards stepped forward. Gently, they lifted the man and carried him out into the night.

“How much time do we have?” Deiter asked Walker.

The shaman shrugged. “They’re about a day behind me, spread out over a ten-mile front.” He glanced after the wounded man. “He was plain unlucky. There were three of them. Maybe they blew into his farm on an evil wind, or they were advance scouts. By the time I got there, only he and his wife were still alive, and she . . . had no chance.”

The silence was absolute. As he rubbed his face, the finger bones swung to and fro, pale against the blue black of his hair. “They grow stronger as the temperature drops. Nyzarl’s men talk around the campfires. The djinns are heading for the ice.”

“The only other gap in the mountains is miles to the west of here.” The headwoman’s voice shook. “They’ll come through Guardpass. It’s the most direct.”

“Which gives us an advantage,” said a cool voice.

Cenda’s hand in his, Gray made his way to Walker’s side. With his slanted brows and his shadow flickering ominously behind him, his grin was positively demonic. “Because we have weapons the djinns cannot imagine.”

His steely gaze zeroed in on a gnarled individual who looked like a trapper. “You say you don’t believe in Magick? Watch, my friend, and learn.”

With the impeccable timing of a born showman, he stepped aside to reveal Cenda, her face suffused with embarrassment. But at his nod, she raised her chin and held out her hand, rills of fire bursting from her fingertips. People shuffled backward, the space before her clearing with remarkable rapidity. With a hungry whoosh, the flame expanded, wreathing her arm all the way to the shoulder.

“Five-it!” As the fire winked out, the sleeve of Cenda’s shirt fell away in a charred ruin. “I keep forgetting.”

In the frozen silence, Gray laughed and kissed her cheek. “Never mind the wardrobe.” He gathered the crowd with his gaze. “The djinns are terrified of fire,” he said. “But that’s not all.” With an open-handed flourish, he bowed in the big man’s direction. “Erik, my friend?”