Dangerous Talents (33 page)

Cele pulled her legs up and punched them forward with all her strength, into her attacker’s unprotected groin. He screamed and doubled over, crumpling to his knees, retching. Scrambling closer crab-like, she axe kicked his neck. His gasp of pain was cut off as he collapsed.

Cele stared at the man’s motionless body, not trusting that her battle was won.

A short scream brought her head around in time to see Dahleven pulling his sword out of one of his enemies. The man fell to his knees and toppled over as the steel, slick and red, was withdrawn. The other man already lay still on the ground.

Breathing heavily, Dahleven kicked his foe’s sword out of easy reach and rapidly scanned the forest. Then his focus snapped to Cele and he ran to her, kneeling by her side. “Are you injured?” His hand was gentle as he cupped her face, her shoulder.

Cele shook her head, then noticed the blood sprayed across his chest and staining his sleeve. “You’re hurt!” She reached for his arm, but Dahleven drew her to her feet and away from her downed attacker.

“It’s not mine. Not most of it, anyway.” He fumbled with her ripped blouse, trying to cover her exposed breasts, but the cloth wouldn’t stay.

“Never mind that. Let me see.” She tried again to look at his bloody arm, but he pushed her hands away.

“Celia, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. We have to get you out of here.”

She began to shake.

“Where’s your tunic?” he muttered. He scanned the ground, then bent and pulled the bloodstained and crumpled fabric from under one of the men he’d killed. He grimaced. “You can’t wear this.” He tossed it away as he stuck his blade in the earth. Then he pulled off his dress tunic and handed it to her. It was stained with blood but was still better than letting her return to Quartzholm bare-breasted. She fumbled with it, unable to make her fingers do what she wanted. Dahleven took it from her and helped her put it on. She felt like a child, unable to manage the simplest of tasks, grateful for his care.

Her trembling increased and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “Who are these guys? They’re your own people! Why’d they attack us? Do you know them?” A tiny part of her mind knew she was overloaded with adrenaline. She tried to clamp down on it, but the words continued to pour out. “Are you sure you’re all right? You really should let me look at that.”

She paused just long enough for Dahleven to repeat, “I’m fine.” Then her babbling rushed on, tumbling out with no control as she looked at the man who’d attacked her. “Is he okay? He just grabbed me. I had to kick him; he had a knife.” She knelt abruptly next to him, rolled him as carefully as she could to his back, and put her ear to his mouth, watching his chest. “He’s not breathing!” She tilted his chin to improve the airway. Nothing. The man’s chest remained still. “Oh, God!”

Cele wiped the vomit from the man’s lips with the hem of Dahleven’s tunic and exhaled a breath into the man’s mouth before Dahleven pulled her away.

“What are you doing, Celia? Stop that! Come away.”

“No! He needs CPR!” Cele shrugged violently out of Dahleven’s grasp.

She felt the man’s neck for a pulse. Her hand shook visibly; all she felt was her own trembling. “I can’t find it!” Cele moved her fingers and still couldn’t find the pulse. She pressed her ear to his chest. All she could hear was her own blood rushing in her ears. She bent to give another rescue breath, but Dahleven pulled her away again folding her into his arms.

“Leave him. He’s dead.”

“No!” Cele struggled, pushing hard against Dahleven’s chest, trying to writhe out of his grasp. “I might be able to save him! He doesn’t have to die!” She couldn’t get away. Dahleven held her tight. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “Too many are dead already! I have to try!” She saved people, she didn’t kill them.

The unyielding warmth of Dahleven’s hard muscles slowly penetrated Cele’s frenzy. She stopped struggling, but her heart still pounded wildly and her breath came in rasping gasps.

Slowly, gradually, her pulse slowed. She became aware of Dahleven rubbing her back and stroking her hair. His deep voice kept rumbling, “It’s all right. You did well. It’s all right.” His soothing tones calmed and steadied her, and she clung to his strength until she regained a measure of balance.

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” she said at last, her voice muffled by Dahleven’s shoulder.

“And I hope you never need to again.” Dahleven set her back from him just far enough to look into her eyes and gently stroked a stray tendril from her damp face. “But you did need to. You protected your life, and possibly mine as well. You did what you had to do.” He gave her a little smile. “Few women could have done so well. I’m proud of you.”

Cele let his words sink in for a moment, then she said, plaintively, “I might have saved him, though.”

Dahleven looked at her, doubt wrinkling his brow. “How? Even a Great Talent couldn’t bring a man back from death.”

Cele turned to look at the man. She’d trained for two years to learn how to defend herself, and now she’d used her knowledge. Fatally. Dahleven was right, she had performed well. A man was dead because she had done well what she had trained to do.

She didn’t like the way it felt.

But it was better than being dead.

*

Dahleven kept his sword in hand as they walked downhill, alert for the possibility of another attack, though he didn’t really expect one. Celia was calm now, silent, and he watched her scramble over a rocky ledge with something like wonder. There were tales of women in the past who’d taken up the sword to defend their lands and loved ones. The women of his own family were certainly strong-willed enough to do so, but he’d never seen a woman defend herself bare-handed against an armed opponent. Celia might not have the skill with a blade necessary for full battle, but she’d done very well today, her hysteria notwithstanding. That was an entirely normal reaction, especially for a woman. And he’d known young warriors who hadn’t stood up as well as she had to her first kill.

And her last
.

Dahleven ground his teeth. She would never have to kill again because she would never again be in that kind of danger. Never before had he experienced the terror he’d felt when he’d looked up to see those men almost on them. He’d fought for his life before, and was familiar with the tense excitement that accompanied battle. This had been different. Celia had been at risk. She’d been the target. He never wanted to feel that kind of fear again.

Someone wants her taken, alive
. The thought chilled him.
For what purpose
?

He’d increase the guard assigned to her, but would that keep her safe? There’d been no reasonable way to predict the attack they’d just survived.
Who would expect it, so close to Quartzholm
? Which raised the next question.
Who ordered it? Who would dare
?

They entered the alleys and Dahleven followed Celia through the twists and turns, guarding her back. The late morning sun heated the drainage and the sour smell of refuse mingled with the bitter tang of ale. Ahead of him, Celia stepped into the street.

A male voice called out, “Come back for a sip, sweeting? Looks like you had that tumble after all.”

Celia stiffened.

Dahleven stepped out of the alleyway, the shine of his sword still marred by streaks of dried blood. With extreme satisfaction, Dahleven watched the expression of the lout who’d spoken change from a leer to fear. The man backed a step and sat down hard.

“Did he trouble you before?” Dahleven asked Celia.

Celia shook her head. “No. He tried to push his friend into it, but he was all talk.”

Another day, Dahleven might have reminded the lout of the virtues of courtesy, but at the moment he was more concerned with getting Celia to safety. He urged her onward.

Three turns and two hundred yards later, they entered the gates and stepped into the hubbub of the market. He would not sheath a bloodied sword, so he held it high, and clasped Celia’s hand with his other hand. The crowd parted, opening a path for them across the courtyard.

By the time they reached the stairs leading up to the open arch, ten warriors waited to escort them. Dahleven spoke in the voice he used to command. “You, Jeger, take Lady Celia to her room and remain outside her door. You others, there are three men dead on the western slopes near the edge of the forest. Get Tracker Talents to follow their backtrail. Bring their bodies here.”
Someone at the Althing should know who they are
.

He turned back to Celia. Her fingers had tightened in his when he’d given direction for the guard to take her to her room. Her face was tense. He’d much rather escort her himself, but Neven needed to know as soon as possible that even the fields surrounding Quartzholm were no longer safe from Outcasts. “You’ll be all right, Celia. Jeger will keep you safe.” He pulled his hand from hers and turned back to the guard, giving him a look that promised mayhem if he failed. “Go. Tell Thora to give her some spiced mead.”

*

Less than an hour later, the events of the morning were still chasing themselves through Cele’s mind, but her body was more relaxed, thanks to the warm mead Thora kept pouring. The older woman had wrapped her in a blanket as thick and warm as a hug, but Cele wished for Dahleven’s arms around her again, instead. She’d finally stopped trembling, but she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that a human being lay dead on the hillside because of her. She wondered at her inconsistency; the two Dahleven killed didn’t bother her. They’d been trying to kill him. But she kept seeing the slack features of the man whose neck she’d broken.

She knew she hadn’t used excessive force. She’d learned in her training that real life shouldn’t imitate the movies. Too many women on TV ran away the first time their assailant stumbled, leaving him to follow and catch and kill. In a real life and death struggle, you made sure the bad guy was down, really down, and would stay down long enough for you to get away. The groin shot hadn’t been enough.

She knew that was true. But it didn’t make her feel better.

Thora bustled back into the room. “I’ve drawn a bath for you, my lady, nice and warm.” She took the empty cup from Cele. Men’s voices spoke just outside, then a sharp rap drew Thora to open the door.

A clear male voice said, “Lady Celia is summoned to an audience with Kon Neven.”

Cele noted the lack of polite veneer. Not “requested” or “invited.” She was
summoned
.

“A moment, please,” Thora said.

“Now.” The door was pushed open and the guard addressed Cele directly. “Come with me, Lady Celia.”

Cele stood and took off the robe, revealing her torn blouse and Dahleven’s too large tunic. It covered just enough to satisfy modesty, but Cele noted with grim satisfaction that Neven would have a clear view of the bruise rising on her collarbone. The guard’s eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch, only gestured to the door. Cele walked with what she hoped was a dignified pace. “Let’s go, then.”

Just outside the door, Jeger fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry, my lady. It’s by the Kon’s order.”

She gave the guardsman half a smile. “Not your fault, Jeger.”

She was taken to a chamber she hadn’t been to before. Jeger was forced to remain outside. Kon Neven sat in one of two massive chairs in front of a large, intricately woven tapestry. Gris met her at the door. Neither of them offered her a seat, but kept her standing.

The chamberlain loomed over her, dressed in grays and blacks like an undertaker, his thin arms clasped behind his back. “You attract trouble wherever you go, don’t you, Lady Celia?” Gris began without preamble.

Cele wasn’t interested in playing games. She’d had a bad day, and it wasn’t getting any better. “Is this blame the victim time?”

“What makes you such an attractive prize, my lady?” Gris sneered. “Are your friends trying to steal you away from us?”

“What are you talking about?” Cele stood her ground.

“The attack this morning was clearly for the purpose of getting you away.”

“Me? Don’t you think it more likely that Dahleven was the target?”

“Why would
Lord
Dahleven be attacked?”

She looked at Neven when she answered. “He’s your heir, isn’t he? That makes him important. You may have a spare, but wouldn’t Dahleven’s death throw a monkey-wrench into things?”

Gris shifted his body so she had to look at him. “But he wouldn’t have been there, if not for you.”

“You think it’s my fault? How could I know he’d follow me?”

“Why did you enter Alfheim in Renegade territory?”

“What?” Gris’s change in direction threw Cele off balance.

“Did Lord Dahleven find you before your friends could?”

“What friends?”

“Did Sorn die because they attempted to rescue you?”

The question landed like a slap. Had someone
brought
her to Alfheim? Had those people been trying to get to her, when Sorn was wounded? If she hadn’t been here, would Sorn still be alive?

Cele shook her head. This was all twisted. She couldn’t let Gris and Neven distort the truth this way. She wasn’t responsible. Someone else had torn out Sorn’s belly, not her. “Why are you doing this? I was the one attacked out there this morning!”

“No one has come to Alfheim from Midgard for six hundred years, my lady. Why you? Why now, when our borders are threatened?” Gris sneered. “Do you truly expect us to believe you
tripped
and
fell
into Alfheim, when it required the act of a god to bring us here?”

The mead and her frustration made Cele reckless. With her torn blouse trailing nearly to the floor from under Dahleven’s too-large tunic, she ducked past Gris and stood in front of Neven, hands on hips. “Why are you setting your dog on me? Do you think I
wanted
to come here? Do you think I want to stay? I had a life, before. It might not have been much, but it was
my
life. If you don’t like me being here, find a way to send me home.”

Neven met her eyes. Her outburst had elicited no visible emotion from him. His voice was cool and calm. “We’re looking into it.”