Bloodstone (18 page)

Dribeck started, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Pentri? Hmmm. The gossip in Breimen is stale . I've grown tired of the minx. She's down the hall with Kane, probably. My moody friend seemed unhappy without the immediate prospect of battle, so I sent Pentri to him to ease his melancholy."

"He needn't mope for long. There'll be another battle, and soon! Did you really think Malchion would give up this war, just because your trickery dealt us a temporary reversal? Before the snows come, your victory celebration will seem a sour mockery!"

Dribeck drew his fingers together before his face, cradled chin on thumbs, elbows on knees. "Perhaps not," he commented, dropping his hands. "That's what I hope to discuss with you. There is no point in continuing this war, really. Your defeat must have convinced you of what a mistake your invasion was. (Let me finish!) Breimen lost the best part of its army.

You can bankrupt your treasury, arm every farmboy and alley rat, try to cross the Macewen again, and there'll be another bloody defeat for you. All right... say by chance you were victorious after your best effort has already failed. Selonari wouldn't fall easily. You'd be left with a decimated population, a bankrupt government, mercenaries running riot through your land, and your great prize would be a burned-over city-state. That's the best you'd come out; all odds are you'd never make it across the Macewen!

"Why do it? Breimen doesn't need Selonari's wealth, or our lands. Maybe the Wollendan tradition is to seize land as you desire, but you should damn well realize by now that Selonari isn't some backwater settlement you can march right over, like your countrymen overran the northern towns some years back. If you feel the need to expand your holdings--a dubious necessity--then move east. There's nothing but miles of timber between Breimen's borders and the slopes of the Great Ocalidads. Selonari has no interest in seizing Breimen's lands. If that were true, my army would be at your gates this night. What logic, then, in continuing the war?"

"War is seldom logical, I'm told," Teres returned. "My people's honor is at stake, for one thing... though I doubt you would understand the idea of honor. And Selonari's hostility toward Breimen is well proven. We know you mean to consolidate your control of this degenerate court by invading Breimen. Why else did you so carefully assassinate two of our leaders before we even thought to invade Selonari in our defense!"

"Your army had been marshaled for months! And I swear to you these so-called assassinations were done utterly without the knowledge or complicity of Selonari!"

But our spies tell a different story, she thought, smiling that she had a certain defense for his too persuasive arguments. "Well, now I know how good your word is," she replied ambiguously.

Dribeck frowned at her. "Well, you think about it for a while. You'll have the time. I've tried to act in good faith with you, whether your suspicious mind will let you recognize that or not. And if you're wondering about your fate, let me say I intend to return you and the other prisoners to Breimen, and I hope to do this as a gesture of faith that will include a treaty of peace."

"So you can hatch further schemes, no doubt."

He slid to his feet. "I won't waste the night arguing with a deaf mind. You think about it, though--might not corrupt your spirit to do that. Sleep on it. The two girls will see to your needs."

Dribeck looked back at the door. "It's really an interesting face, when it's clean enough to see your skin," he concluded.

Teres swore at his back. The maidservants stole back inside. Basic male tactic. Sweep a woman off her feet with flattery, then she'll believe every word you say. Some women might. And the next man to call her face "interesting" would die horribly.

After Dribeck's departure, Teres tired of prowling about the room. Throwing back the curtains, she stretched out across his bed, boots dug into the furs, her back arched against piled cushions. Little had she slept, despite the racking fatigue of these last days of nightmare. For all the exhaustion that gnawed at her, her nerves were too tightly strung, her position too uncertain to permit her to relax. Besides, this night of mad celebration might offer as good a chance to escape as she would ever be given.

She drew her knees together, clasping her hands about them to raise her back from the pillows. One of the two maidservants slumped down upon a couch; the other sat upright in a chair--taking first watch, Teres noted. Baiting her maids was one of her favorite amusements.

With unblinking stare, Teres gazed into the other girl's eyes. The other returned her gaze curiously a moment, then dropped her eyes in alarm. Teres continued to watch her face. The maid fidgeted with her garments and cast about the room for something to occupy her thoughts. Every few minutes she raised her eyes again, found Teres still watching her, and nervously looked away, At length she set her lips and boldly stared back, seeking to end the game. Teres held her eyes for a space, then pursed her mouth to form a kiss. Flushing, the servant girl glanced away, looked helplessly toward her companion, whose soft breathing indicated she slept.

"Come lie beside me, where you'll be comfortable," Teres whispered. "There's no need to pass the night stiff as a guardsman at his post." The girl colored and muttered something in vexation, too soft for Teres to hear. Anxiously she rose to search the room for something to take her thoughts from the prisoner. Teres smiled mischievously and began to hum disjointedly a scurrilous ballad popular among the troops, freely translating bits of verse to suit her spirit.

Challenge sounded in the hall. Men's voices drifted through the door. Someone protested about orders. Another voice explained that they were to finish their watch, give them a chance to share in the victory celebration. Teres, listening with interest, decided from the muffled sounds that her guard had just changed. To her memory, there were only two soldiers posted in the hallway, but with a fresh pair her chances of slipping past probably edged a hair closer to nil.

Stealthy footsteps approached; voices mumbled at the doorway. Feeling a thrill of alarm, Teres ceased her teasing and rose to her feet. The door rattled and swung suddenly open. Her breath caught.

Three men hastily entered. A pair of tough-looking mercenaries--and Ristkon, twisted smile as malevolent as the coiled whip on his shoulder.

His henchmen showed knives. "Not a sound!" he hissed warning to the startled maidservants. "Cry out, and my men will carve a smile across your throats!" He turned hot eyes on Teresa.

Quickly his men bound and gagged the terrified maids. Dumping the girls in a closet, they reluctantly quitted the room.

Deliberately Ristkon placed his sword and dagger beside the doorway, well out of reach of the captive. Serpentine as the uncoiling whip, he stalked across the chamber toward her. "I said I meant to learn what manner of freak the Wolf's pup might be," he grinned. "And I've known a whip to turn many a bitch's snarl to a whimper."

"Hadn't you better get your stooges to bind me for you first?" Teres spat. "It's out of your reputation to take such personal risks!"

The whip licked lazily toward her boots. "You'll see that my lash cuts as sharp as your tongue," he warned unruffled. "Before long you'll whine and grovel like a well-mannered bitch should for her master."

"Dribeck will deal harshly with a minion who transgresses his lord's pledge!" she promised hopefully. Biting down a wave of panic, she backed toward the bed.

Ristkon laughed in derision. "What can Dribeck do? My men have replaced his guards. My noble lord and his brainless cousin have stepped into the night to clank mugs with his soldiers--to win their love, so he thinks. The others here are all besotted with drink and carousal. There's none to give a thought to you, and when you'll soon moan for me, your cries will be swallowed up in the night's riot. If tomorrow Dribeck finds his pampered prize somewhat less haughty, what can he say to his most valued captain? The fool has enough cunning to know he needs my horsemen in this war! Do you think he'll scruple at a captive's well-being to quarrel with his most powerful ally? He'll laugh and shrug it off, as if it had been his plan from the start!"

He strode closer, face livid with hate. "Do you know this weakling means to make peace with your father? After he promised me governorship of Breimen for my support of his cause! Well, I was driven like a dog from that city, and I'll return like a conqueror! And the Wolf and his vainglorious line are going to whimper on their bellies before my feet!"

The whip snaked out, to curl about her waist. Its lash did not cut through the iron-bossed leather jerkin, though her breath stuttered at its force. Laughing, Ristkon yanked back on the whip, spinning her as its coils unwound. "Will you climb out of your man's leathers, she-wolf? Or shall I peel it from your flanks!"

Again the whip struck for her. She threw up her arms to guard her face, felt the bed press against her calves. Fury fought terror; wildly she tried to think. Ristkon stepped closer, drew back on the lash. Staggering, Teres let herself be pulled forward to his grasp.

His smile somehow leered wider. He crushed her to his chest, still grasping the whip's haft. She felt his heart pounding, his breath in her flair. "Lost your fight this easily, have you?"

She clasped her hands around his back. No trace of flab had the years implanted to flaw his dancer's body. "A lord usually needs no such weapon to shed a lady's clothes," she murmured unsteadily, not daring to meet his face.

"A wanton so soon?" he rasped, and pressed his lips against hers, his vanity flattered by her swift capitulation. She closed her eyes, hesitantly returning his harsh kiss. "My bitch has sheathed her claws... or more likely dreams of trickery! Do you fear my whip now? You've had but a taste." "No man has ever mastered me," Teres whispered. "The fastenings, are on the back." She snuggled against him. The coils dropped from her waist.

The wine of Ristkon's breath made her dizzy. There was smug mastery in his sneering face. "Perhaps there is a woman inside these jabbing tits of iron," he muttered hoarsely, fumbling with the fastenings of her jerkin. "We'll soon both know. Serve me well, wench. If you please me, perhaps you'll face the morning without your ribs shining through your back."

The hacton carne loose down the nape of her neck. Docilely she raised her arms and let him tug the garment over her head. Underneath, she wore only a thin shirt, clinging to her flesh with chill sweat. "Not a boy, after all," observed Ristkon thickly. He ran his thin fingers across her firm breasts, trying to cup them, but she threw her arms around his neck, embracing him tightly. The whip dropped to the floor, atop her cast-off jerkin. Roughly Ristkon tugged out her shirt and slipped his hands beneath the garment. She sighed huskily in his ear, feeling his throbbing neck pulse.

The cloth he drew off, and as he stared at her boldly, she loosened the ties of his shirt. "Stand back a pace," he warned. She complied meekly, as he quickly yanked his shirt over his head, suspiciously alert that she make no move while the cloth briefly blinded his vision.

Leaning against the bed pillar seductively, Teres worked her boots free. "Am I so displeasing to your eyes?" she whispered. Ristkon made an impatient gesture. Her forgers dug at the clasp of her pants. Watching his face with half-lidded eyes, she slid the leather trousers off her slim hips, wriggled them down her thighs, stepped out of them as they crumpled onto the floor.

Wearing only a brief undergarment, Teres swayed across the room. Ristkon's eyes branded her, but she held her smile. He tried to embrace her, but she laughed and touched his belt. Her fingers tickled his tight belly, then broke open the clasp. With a sudden wrench, she jerked his pants down to his knees. "Your boots," she breathed heavily.

Impatiently Ristkon fumbled with his clothing. "Stand away!" he mumbled, struggling with boots and trousers in haste.

Instead Teres drew back half a step. She hooked her fingers into the waist of her undergarment, and began to roll the thin cloth down her hips. Ristkon watched greedily as the furrow of her belly was bared. He bent forward clumsily, in an awkward half squat, as he blindly tore at the restraining trousers, bunched stubbornly over his boots.

Not daring to think of consequences, Teres shot her knee up. It slammed full into his outthrust face, smashing broken teeth into flesh.

With a choked cry--too startled to express his pain and rage!--Ristkon snapped backward, legs entrapped in his clothing. He fell heavily on his back, head striking the floor. Before he could recover from the stunning impact, Teres leapt upon him.

She snatched up the whip--there was no time to reach Ristkon's sword. A crimson spray whooshed from his ruined lips, as she drove her knees into his chest. The lash she twisted about his throat to choke off his angry bellow.

He twisted desperately, striving to throw her clear. But Teres had resilient strength in her willowy frame, and she was trained in the subtleties of hand-to-hand combat. She grimly fought for her hold, every spark of shame and rage strengthening her strangling grip.

The whip bit deep into his splotched throat as she mercilessly twisted the garroting coil. Her knees pinned Ristkon's shoulders, but his legs lashed wildly, still ensnared in his clothing. This muffled the drumming of his heels, and presently their staccato pounding ceased.

Her hands shook as she at length relaxed their grip on the whip. She contemplated the purpled face a moment and felt loathing shudder through her. As she rose to her feet, the room wavered somewhat, though her thoughts worked in cool clarity.

Their struggle had been silent. If any sounds had reached past the door, Ristkon's guards must have assumed their leader was at play. Perhaps she could bar the door...

Then what? Dribeck's reaction to the death of his captain might be anything. At best, she would merely remain his prisoner. Slumping upon the bed, she gnawed a favorite knuckle as she thought over her situation. Ristkon's interference had completely altered her status. Fake guards waited beyond the door, Ristkon's weapons lay before her, her wardens were bound and helpless. The entire city had gone mad this night, and by Ristkon's words the citadel was abandoned to drunken revelers. Her chances would never be better--if she could get past. Ristkon's henchmen alive.