Swordmistress of Chaos (20 page)

Pretending a disinterest that sat heavy upon her, she determined his whereabouts during the feast that followed in celebration. Carefully, she asked her questions, acting the part of a dupe come, now, to awareness, grateful to those greater ones who had saved her. Diplomacy was a difficult language to master, but she succeeded, lulling suspicion and gaining that knowledge she sought.

How to use it was another matter.

The geis placed upon her by Belthis remained strong, and she was unable to speak of the happenings in Gondar’s hall, nor of the warlock’s ambitions. Realising that, she refrained from the attempt for fear of alerting the mage to her enmity. Better, she felt, to remain as a hidden serpent than a drawn sword, thus to insinuate herself into the weakness of this unholy alliance of armed might with dark magic.

And so she passed the noonday in idle conversation, aware in a manner both pleasant and frightening of the attention paid her by Krya M’yrstal.

That night the attention was crystallised into purpose. The feast had continued past sun set and on into the dark hours. Raven, pleading weariness of journeying, had excused herself early, seeking the quietude of her rooms in which to decide a plan. After bathing, she stretched upon the great bed, pondering the difficulties of her situation.

Belthis, it would appear, was unmindful of her presence, content to let her go so long as he held Spellbinder. The latter was held in the caves beneath the city hill, awaiting the warlock’s pleasure. The Altan was not to be swayed from his decision: too great was Belthis’ influence upon him. Which left the sword—or the Altana.

At that moment come a soft tapping upon the inner door of the chamber, followed immediately by the entrance of Krya M’yrstal. Again Raven felt the curious sensation of mingled horror and interest stirred by the woman’s eyes, though now there was less of her natural imperiousness to be seen, and more of desire. Krya wore a hooded cloak of some thick, night-black material as though she sought to disguise her coming. And she closed the door behind her as might a thief. Raven drew the silken sheets around her as she felt the Altana’s eyes settle upon her body, the ambiguity of the situation stirring within her hints of danger that allied strangely with the warm anticipation she felt.

It was the same way when she entered battle: a fusion of confidence and fear, an eagerness to begin the combat, no matter what the odds, linked to an awareness of danger. Krya smiled, letting the cloak slip from her shoulders to reveal a sheer gown of gossamer silk that revealed the soft curves it covered in ways more enticing than nudity itself. About her full, firm mouth there hung a smile that was both knowing and pleading, and in her green eyes, a look of age-old knowledge and new-sprung desire.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I wish to speak with you in private. There are things my brother the Altan does not understand, amongst them the ways of women.’

‘Welcome, my lady,’ said Raven, half-knowing what Krya planned, wondering if it might be bent to her own wishes. ‘Would you take wine?’

‘Wine may be found in many sources,’ whispered the Altana, settling herself on the wide bed. ‘From grapes it comes, or from honeycomb; from flowers...or from lips.’

She reached across the silken sheets as she spoke, letting one hand touch gently on Raven’s arm where it held the sheets across her breasts. Slowly, though with considerable strength, she drew Raven’s arm down, pulling the sheet loose.

‘My brother does not interest himself overmuch in his marital obligations.’ Her voice was a soft, hypnotic purr. ‘He leaves me to my own devices.’ One hand moved gently to touch a nipple, stirring it to hardness. ‘Thus I find my own pleasures,’ the sheet slid from Raven’s body, ‘where I may. I guess that you seek the release of your companion. I see it in your eyes. Perhaps we might reach some agreement, you and I.’

The hand moved down, soft, stroking, fingers delicate as summer moths fleeting over Raven’s body. Krya’s breath grew deeper, her voice huskier. And Raven knew where Spellbinder’s rescue might lay.

‘But Belthis cries for his death,’ she said. ‘What of that?’

‘Prisoners escape.’ Krya’s face moved closer to Raven’s, lips parted to expose hungry tongue. ‘As Altana I can arrange such things.’

The lips drew closer and Raven felt the power of those great green eyes; felt within herself the stirring of desires she had not recognised. Unthinking, commanded by some will set deeper than conscious thought, she reached up to unhook the fastenings of Krya’s gown.

Consciousness faded into desire as the silk slid from a body perfect as her own. Lips fastened on hers, the tongue probing deep as hands of velvet softness stroked her body. Then Krya drew back with a low, moaning gasp, and fastened her mouth to Raven’s breast.

‘Long...too long.’ Her words were throaty mumbles of desire. ‘Please me, and name what you will.’

Raven was aware of the longing that flooded her body, for this contact was unlike any other she had experienced. Spellbinder, Gondar, they had both been powerful, commanding lovers, drawing from her ecstasies undreamed of; but this was something different, a fusion of like to like, a matching of softness, of understood and mingled lusts that caught her up and bore her away in subtle spasms of secret delight. She gave herself up to the pleasures of gentle hands and subtle tongue, feeling that exquisite eruption of tension both agonising and joyous as Krya’s head delved between her legs.

She shook and shuddered, sinking her fingers deep into hair blonde as her own. She touched nipples hard with desire, caressed them, forced the body round until she might serve Krya as she had been served. And lapped with a hunger she had not known she owned at the sweet, thrusting core of Krya’s being.

They clung and clutched, lips and fingers and breasts darting and thrusting, pressing flesh to nubile flesh in an unthinking ecstatic release.

Then, washed in sweetly desirous sweat, they sank down, arms wrapped around one another, lips touching in darting, butterfly kisses.

‘You said that prioners escape...’ Raven’s head darted kisses over Krya’s breasts. ‘Would you release Spellbinder?’

‘You desire him more than me?’ Krya thrust up, so Raven must lift her face to peer up from between wide-spread legs.

‘No.’ The head went down, tongue delving. ‘But I owe a debt...it must be settled.’

Krya groaned, sense fighting sensuality, then: ‘If it must be, then yes! I’ll help you free him, only stay here with me. Promise that and I’ll have him freed.’

Raven spread hands over thrusting breasts, using her tongue in better persuasions than speech until Krya writhed and stiffened and trembled a mindless, ecstatic agreement.

‘I promise,’ Raven whispered, not meaning it, ‘if you will.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Krya’s voice was harsh now with spent desire, suppliant, agreeing. ‘Name what you will. Only stay with me, that alone.’

‘And in return you will free Spellbinder?’

Hand and lips drew the answer in a moaning, languid sigh.

‘Surely. My word on it. Here.’ Krya tugged a great red ring from her thumb, pressing it into Raven’s hand: ‘Take this as promise token. It shows you enjoy my favours, a better key to this palace than any a smith might forge.’

Raven took the ring, bending her head to the task of ensuring Krya’s infatuation with an ardour that was not entirely feigned.

Dawn broke to suffuse the room with golden light, the new-risen sun shining on bodies intertwined, blonde locks mingling over soft-curved limbs sheened with the sweat of love. Krya rose worried that her presence would be missed from her rightful chamber, departing with a promise that she would return later, leaving Raven to ponder her new-won knowledge.

Now that Belthis had proved his ability to utilise the Skull of Quez as a weapon, Quez M’yrstal had no further need to keep Spellbinder alive. He had agreed an execution in three days’ time, when his army was due to march south. The ring Raven hung about her neck ensured entrance to all but those places in the palace kept secret by M’yrstal or Belthis, and so was a key to Spellbinder’s dungeon. Freeing the dark warrior was a greater problem, for Raven was sure that Belthis must have set magical controls about the prison, and while she had—to her surprised delight—enjoyed the attentions of Krya, she had no wish to remain in Karhsaam as a plaything of the Altana. Equally, she had still to satisfy her desire to kill Karl ir Donwayne.

Effecting the joindure of those three wishes was a problem she had to resolve with infinite care. How she chose the first step in her plan was a decision she could not rightfully explain. Part vengeance-lust, part a firm resolve that it was the right step, she took it unthinking, as a desperate warrior rushes into battle against odds known to be superior.

She asked for her boon: the right to meet Donwayne in mortal combat.

The arena was bright in the noon sun, its sand glistening as Raven waited.

The Altan had been loath to grant her request, for he valued the services of the Swordmaster higher, if anything, than Raven’s presence. But a promise given before the court was one that could not be withdrawn: he was caught by his own ambition.

Two years or more had passed since she had last seen Karl ir Donwayne, but she recognised him still. His face was bluster-red as when it hung above her, eyes hot and breath sour with excess of wine. And his limbs were muscular as she remembered, the scarred knuckles of his right hand smashing her into insensate acquiescence. Then he had wom only a thin tunic of Lyand silk, and that not for long; now he was armoured, and girt round with weapons.

Knee-length boots of steel-hard Xand hide covered his legs and feet; a kirtle of plated steel, his loins. Above a belt of Yr leather was a breastplate of steel, beneath it a shirt of mail that covered chest and arms. A silver helm hid his face, cheek plates and nose bar exposing little but the glinting, porcine eyes. He bore a round shield upon his left arm, in his right hand a scimitar, curved and hooked in the style of Karhsaam. A dagger hung from his weapon belt, and in a sheath slung between his wide shoulders, a short-handled axe.

He shouted as he came into the arena, his voice hoarse and insulting.

‘So! A plaything would argue her honour. Silly little girl, you should be pleased that Donwayne favoured you; not seek to find death at his hand.’

‘You killed my mother.’ Raven’s voice was toneless, flat, reciting a long-held litany of hate. ‘And then you sought me. I promised myself then that I would kill you. And so I shall, Karl ir Donwayne, Swordmaster, woman-killer. I am no girl now, no plaything, defenceless, unarmed; but an enemy. Will you take me now, Karl ir Donwayne?’

Her taunts stung the Swordmaster and he ran forward, his scimitar cleaving air before him. Raven darted to the left, avoiding those skull-splitting blows, assessing her advantages. She wore the armour Spellbinder had given her back in Argor’s desert camp: a thigh-length shirt of black mail hard as any armour and the tall boots of Yr leather. She carried the sleeve-shield upon her left forearm and the silver-bladed sword in her right hand. Her arms were, to a minor extent, protected by the torques she wore, and around her waist was the belt of throwing stars.

Her armour gave her the advantage of speed, but Donwayne was sufficiently protected as to stand off most attacks.

She ducked beneath the scimitar’s swing and cut at the breastplate. Her sword glanced off Xand hide and Donwayne laughed, forcing her back over the sand.

As she retreated, she assessed his weaknesses.

No matter what a warrior carries on him,
Argor had told her,
he must always bear some vulnerable point. Too much armour slows a man; too little bares flesh that may be cut...

Karl ir Donwayne had sought to combine defence with freedom of movement. His upper body was solidly encased, yet his thighs were exposed. There she might strike, or at the throat where helmet joined to cuirass. Hands, too, were potential targets, for he wore no metal gauntlets to cover wrists and fingers. And yet, that clever shield moved constantly to guard legs and throat, a shifting bulwark from behind which thrust the curved razor edges of the scimitar.

No, there was no swift resolution of this combat, only a long and hard-fought duel which would prove the skill of Argor’s training—or Donwayne’s long-learned fighting-talent.

Raven backed away, fending off great curving blows with her sleeve-shield, cutting in return against the greater bulk of Donwayne’s buckler. Three times they circled the arena, Raven depending largely upon her greater speed to avoid the savage cuts of the blade, the rammings of the shield. She knew the man to be stronger than she, and therefore knew she must win, or weaken him, before his strength told against her and tumbled her down to die.

She moved back until she felt the wall behind her, let her sword-arm droop. Then ducked under Donwayne’s thrust, moving fast behind him to slash at his shoulders, where joined mail was weakest.

The great shield swung back, glancing the blade away before slamming against her to pitch her headlong over the sand.

She spat blood, coming to her feet like a snarling cat, silver blade cutting viciously at face and weaving, protective shield. A blow smashed air from her lungs and she toppled again, light spinning before her eyes. A great weight numbed her left arm and she saw, as though time itself slowed down, the scimitar descend upon her. Slow and slow it cut downwards until the shining edge reached her upflung arm, gouged deep, bright blood spurting as fingers numbed and the sword fell from her hand. Then back as she kicked desperately away, feeling that descending edge strike against mail, shove her to the sand.

She twisted, driving her feet hard at Donwayne’s knees, ignoring the slashing blade that drew crimson lines across her legs. Saw the man topple as she rolled over, fighting to gain distance from that lethal blade.

She came to her feet again, her sword gone, facing the Swordmaster. Donwayne laughed and dropped his shield, tugging the axe from between his shoulders.

‘Now, pretty one.’ His voice was harsh, mocking. ‘You must learn your lesson, that I may have others such as you to warm my bed.’