Warrior's Lady (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Kedar was a large village located in a verdant valley south of the Cyrus River. Like most towns in the region, there was an arena where various types of contests, similar to the original Games of Skill, were held on a regular basis. Just now, sword fighting was the most popular amusement. Contestants were usually slaves who fought to the death, though occasionally village champions competed against each other, vying for fame and lucre.

At dusk, Jarrett stood in one of the tunnels, his hands bound behind his back while he waited his turn in the arena. Earlier that day, Tor had worked his magic, healing Jarrett’s wounds.

Leyla stood close beside him, her face pale, her eyes sad and worried. “Perhaps thee should tell Keturah thy name,” she suggested. “It might be he would free thee if he knew thee to be related to the Lord High Ruler of Aldane.”

“And perhaps he’d turn me in for the reward Rorke has placed upon my head,” Jarrett muttered. “I’ve told him my name is Dumah and that we come from the hill country of Fenduzia, near Cornith. We will leave it at that, for now.”

Keturah came striding down the tunnel. He was a huge man, thick of bone, with not an ounce of fat. A man who had no pity for those who were less strong, less intelligent, than himself. A man totally lacking in honor.

“You fight next,” Keturah said, his sharp brown eyes raking over Jarrett. “Your opponent is unbeaten in this arena.” He reached into his shoulder pouch and withdrew a black mask. “You will wear this when you fight. It will add a bit of mystery.”

“No!” Eyes filled with loathing, Jarrett took a step backward, his heart pounding with dread. “No mask!”

“You will do as I say, Dumah,” Keturah warned. “I will suffer no insolence from the likes of you.”

Jarrett shook his head. “No. I will not wear it.”

“I have wagered much on your success this night,” Keturah said, his voice edged with anger. “I warn you now, do as I say, or be prepared to watch your woman suffer the consequences of your disobedience.”

“Not only have you no honor,” Jarrett muttered under his breath, “you do not fight fair.”

“But I always win.” Keturah summoned Lahairoi. “Loose his hands.”

Two of Keturah’s other men stepped forward, their swords at the ready, while Lahairoi cut Jarrett’s hands free.

Keturah took hold of Leyla’s arm. “Should you try to escape from the arena, the woman will die,” Keturah warned. He fixed Jarrett with a hard stare. “Do we understand each other, Dumah of Cornith?”

“Aye, flesh peddler. We understand each other well.”

“Put on the mask.”

Jarrett shuddered with revulsion as he slipped the thin cotton mask over his head. It was nothing like the heavy black hood he’d worn in the dungeons of the Pavilion. This cloth was lightweight, inanimate. Slits had been cut in the material so that he could see clearly. No hint of silent, subtle menace lurked within this mask. It did not mold itself cunningly to his skin or pulse with a life of its own.

A moment later, his name was announced and he walked out of the tunnel and into the Kedar arena, which was illuminated by hundreds of torches.

Shouts of derision and hoots of scorn rose on the evening air. He was the challenger, an unknown, with no one to champion him.

Hands clenched, he waited for his opponent to enter the arena.

A roar of approval swept through the crowd as his adversary entered the field. He was a Giant, his yellow eyes glittering with anticipation, his hulking frame clad in nothing but a pair of tight green breeches and knee-high boots. Wide copper bands encircled his massive biceps.

The Giant raised his arms over his head, accepting the cheers of the crowd. And then he turned to face Jarrett, a slow smile spreading over his face.
An easy victory,
his expression seemed to say.

Three heavily armed men entered the field then, followed by the Master of the Arena bearing two swords. The hilts were of polished brass, the blades of gleaming Fenduzian steel. The Arena Master offered the first one to the Giant, the second to Jarrett, and then the Master of the Arena took his place at the entrance to the main tunnel while the three armed men took their positions at the three arena entrances.

Jarrett eyed the Master of the Arena thoughtfully. If either swordsman refused to fight, or showed cowardice, it was the Arena Master’s duty to slit the man’s throat.

The Master of the Arena raised his arm, held it up for a long moment, then let it fall to his side. It was the signal to begin.

With a roar, the Giant charged Jarrett, the sword in his hand poised to strike at Jarrett’s heart. Jarrett pivoted sharply on his heel, a soft oath escaping his lips as he felt the sword’s breath whisper past his chest.

The Giant, for all his bulk, was quick and agile. He turned, graceful as a cat, his guard up, as he faced Jarrett.

For the next twenty minutes, Leyla sat on the edge of her seat, hardly breathing, her heart hammering as she watched the contest. She was grateful that it wasn’t a fight to the death. The Giant had drawn first blood, the edge of his sword catching Jarrett high in the thigh. But now, well into the fight, both men were covered with dust and sweat and blood.

The crowd cheered wildly each time their champion struck a blow, screamed with indignation when Jarrett’s sword found its target.

She sobbed, “No, no, no,” when the Giant feinted to the left, stooped, grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it into Jarrett’s face. Momentarily blinded, Jarrett stumbled backward and the Giant lunged forward, his blade driving toward Jarrett’s heart.

Suddenly, it seemed as if everything had slowed. She watched in horrified fascination as Jarrett shook his head…took a step forward…turned to the left so that the blade, only inches from his chest, sank into his shoulder instead.

She screamed as he jerked back, then brought his own sword up, slashing wildly at the Giant’s sword arm, the blade biting deep into muscle and bone.

A high-pitched scream of pain erupted from the Giant’s throat as his sword fell from a hand gone numb.

Eyes wild, chest heaving, Jarrett lunged forward, pressing the edge of his blade against the Giant’s throat.

“Do you yield?”

The Giant glared down at him. Then, with a curt nod, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head in defeat.

Shivering uncontrollably, his body sheened with sweat and blood, Jarrett stood in the middle of the arena while the crowd cheered their new champion.

Two brawny men clad in black entered the arena. Collecting the Giant’s sword, they escorted him out of the arena.

Moments later, the Master of the Arena rode toward Jarrett. Dismounting, he took Jarrett’s sword, then placed the red victory cloak around Jarrett’s shoulders. And the crowd, their loyalty as constant as mercury, cheered again.

Jarrett took a deep breath. Then, gathering what little strength he had left, he walked across the arena and into the tunnel, his ears ringing with the crowd’s enthusiastic applause.

In the next fortnight, Jarrett fought eight times. Three, against slaves, were fights to the death. Five ended with the first crippling blow. He won each contest and the name of Dumah, the Masked Swordsman of Keturah, began to spread across the southern provinces.

Though Keturah was a crude, uneducated lout, a man totally without honor, he proved to be a generous master. Pleased with his new discovery, he treated Jarrett like the valued slave he was, making sure he was well-fed and well-clothed.

But the clothes were of no consequence, and the food tasted like ashes in Jarrett’s mouth. He had spent eight months in the bowels of the Pavilion and now he was a prisoner again, forced to fight like a wild animal in order to survive, to insure Leyla’s well-being. In that, at least, Keturah had spoken the truth. Leyla was not mistreated or abused by Keturah’s men. She cooked their meals when they were between towns and Keturah allowed her to sleep at Jarrett’s side.

It was torture of the most exquisite kind, being near her but unable to touch her. Lying beside her, with the three moons of Hovis overhead, he ached to bury himself in her warmth, to lose himself in her sweetness and forget, if only for a moment, that his life was no longer his own. Ah, that short, sweet taste of freedom when he’d had no one to answer to but himself, when he’d been the master of his own fate.

Worst of all, his nightmares had come back to haunt him, resurrected, no doubt, by the mask he was forced to wear when he fought in the arena.

He grinned ruefully as he recalled the night after his first fight. Leyla had told him that his screams had roused the whole camp. She’d smiled as she described, in great detail, how Keturah’s men had rolled out of their blankets, swords in hand, certain they were being attacked by a horde of Serimites. Caught up in the horror of his nightmare, he’d been unaware of the turmoil around him until Leyla’s voice pierced the blanket of darkness, softly pleading for him to return to her.

Leyla had begged Keturah to let Jarrett fight without the mask, but the flesh peddler had refused, ridiculing Jarrett’s fears.

“They are only dreams, after all,” Keturah had said. “They will pass.”

But they didn’t. Eight times he fought in the arena. Eight times the nightmare drew him down into a black abyss where he relived the terrors of the Pavilion, the horrible memory of the hood clinging to his face like a second skin, enclosing him in a smothering cocoon of darkness.

And now he stood in the arena again, his sword stained bright red with the blood of his opponent, his body splashed with blood, listening to the cheers of the crowd. He saw Leyla standing inside the tunnel, her expression one of mingled relief and concern. Glancing past Leyla, Jarrett saw Keturah accept a small pouch filled with the lucre he had won. And beside Keturah, his expression impassive, stood Tor.

Moments later, the Master of the Arena rode forward to collect his sword and drape the red cloak of victory around his shoulders. And then he was walking toward the tunnel and Leyla’s waiting arms.

She drew him close, embracing him fiercely, before Lahairoi came to bind his hands and lead him away. As soon as they were out of the tunnel, Keturah removed the mask, allowing Leyla to bathe the sweat from Jarrett’s face and neck.

At their camp, well away from the town, Jarrett’s leg was shackled to a tree and Tor was called to heal his wounds.

Jarrett endured Tor’s touch because he had no choice, but it galled him to accept the Maje’s help. They had a peculiar relationship, Jarrett mused. The animosity between them was strong, yet they were bound together, Tor’s very existence dependent on Jarrett’s survival. They had nothing in common save that they both loved Leyla.

When Tor’s ministrations were complete, he went off by himself, needing time alone to recover his strength.

Jarrett glanced up as Keturah came toward him.

Keturah’s gaze ran over Jarrett, assessing him in much the same way a man might examine a valuable animal after a day’s hard work.

“You fought well, my friend,” he remarked. He patted the heavy pouch hanging from his belt. “Well, indeed.”

Jarrett stared up at the flesh peddler. “I want a favor.”

“A favor? Peradventure I was of a mind to grant it to you, what would you ask?”

“I want a night alone with my woman.”

“It is not possible.”

“It is. There’s a small clearing not far from here. You can shackle my leg to a tree so that I can’t escape. You can post guards, at a distance, if you think it necessary. But I want a night alone with Leyla. Now. Tonight.”

Keturah dragged a hand over his beard. Jarrett was a warrior, and a warrior, like any man worth the name, needed a woman.

“I would have your word that you will not try to escape.”

A cold smile twisted Jarrett’s lips. “I give you my word,” he said, his voice thick with contempt, “as you gave me yours.”

“A man who takes the word of an outlaw deserves what he gets,” Keturah replied affably. “But you, my Lord Jarrett, are a warrior, and a man of honor.”

“You know who I am?”

“Your fame is not unknown to us.”

“A night,” Jarrett said again. “One night with my woman.”

“Done,” Keturah agreed.

And so it was that Leyla found herself lying on a blanket beneath the shelter of a yellow fern tree with Jarrett at her side. His left ankle was securely chained to the trunk of the tree, but his hands were free. Keturah had thoughtfully provided them with fresh bread and cheese and a flask of watered wine, warning Jarrett of dire consequences should he try to escape.

But Jarrett had no thought for food. His hands and his lips were hungry for other things. He drew Leyla into his arms, holding her tight against him, reacquainting himself with the warmth of her skin, rediscovering the silken hills and valleys of her body, the fragrance of her hair. She fit into his embrace, filling the emptiness of his heart as she murmured his name, whispering words of love and encouragement.

Keeping a tight rein on his passion, he pressed her back on the blanket, his mouth slanting over hers, drinking from her lips, craving the taste of her as a starving man craved nourishment. He shuddered with pleasure as her hands moved over him in return. Her touch was warm and gentle, chasing the hatred from his soul, the rage from his heart.