Fire Witch (6 page)

She braced herself with a slow, purposeful inhale and then let it go as she took a step toward the camp. She could see the flames of the campfire through the branches and knew that the horses were hobbled to a fallen tree nearby. There was no time to waste. Even now, she imagined they were picking their way through the woods toward her and if she didn't hurry, she needn't bother at all.

She was visualizing the path she would take through the trees when she heard the rustling of branches from behind her. It wasn't a sound anything would make except for a man or woman, and she knew if she made one movement, whatever shadow that might conceal her would shift enough to call attention to the fact that it shouldn't be moving at all.

Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she imagined that whoever was behind her could hear it. She didn't dare swallow, she didn't care breathe. All she could do was continue planning around, imagining herself running through the trees, popping this way and that, until she met the campfire and the horses just beyond. She visualized herself jumping up on the first one's back and kicking it into action.

"I see you," came a voice and every muscle seized within her at the sound. She knew exactly whose it was.

The cold realization that it was Feran who had found her fed her feet the courage to step away from the tree and streak her way into the route she had picked through her in her mind. She knew each branch she needed to push away, every tree root she had to jump over. She knew she would have to ignore any pain that blistered over her skin as the thickets scratched at her legs and face. She barreled onward, oblivious to anything but her destination and the fire that shone like a beacon through the trees.

She was snarling her way through the last knots of branches and tangles of roots, pumping her arms and batting away everything that came within reach when she heard him launch himself along with her. Blind panic took over despite her careful intent to remain calm and focused, and when she caught the scent of him creeping up at her from behind, she knew she was losing and bolted sideways, abandoning her plan. She was a rabbit, now, streaking along to the forest on pure, fear-soaked adrenaline.

Fingers tangled in her back of her hair and yanked her backwards; she sobbed out loud from frustration more than pain. It was over. Whatever she had been saved from before, she would suffer in spades now.

She was drawn ruthlessly against his stinking body, his fingers unknotting themselves from her hair and slipping around her mouth, letting one foul finger probe her tongue. His other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her even closer against his unyielding hips.

"You know how to excite a man," he hissed in her ear.

She tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he gripped her wrist even as she struggled, pulling her arm around his back and pinning it there.

"I want to see you," he growled against her neck "Every bit of skin." He hoisted her onto his hip, carrying toward the camp.

He found the fire in a few short strides. She tried to prod into his wound with searching fingers, but he managed to hoist her over his shoulder. The smell of horseflesh rose on the air and she wanted to sob against his back.

"Don't worry, vixen," he said. "I won't waste your time like the young pup. I have a lot more staying power."

At that, he flung her on the ground and was on top of her so quick she didn't have time to even roll to her side and jump to her feet. One filthy finger found its way into her mouth even as his free hand worked at her shift. She bit down, tasting earth and moss and the remnants of old blood. He yelped and pulled his finger free, only to deliver a wet slap against her cheek. He planted his filthy finger and thumb on either side of her mouth, squeezing mercilessly until she felt her lips grind against her teeth.

"You like it rough?" he said. "Just so happens rough is my style."

He flipped her over so that she was face down in the moss. She tried to imagine the fire, willing herself to feel its heat, to cradle it in commanding hands and stuff it inside his mouth, send it blazing to his lungs. The fire roared to life beyond her and she sobbed. More than she'd ever managed, and still not enough. Her chin plowed in to a damp spot even as her cheek ground against a cold stone. But her hands were free. Thank the goddess, her hands were free and there was a stone just right there. She felt him lift her shift to her waist and dig his fingers into her hips. If she was going to do it, it had to be now. In a few moments, she knew she'd be far past fighting at all.

Her palm had just settled down onto the chunk of rock when she realized the fingers gripping her hips had stopped their probing, that the stinking weight over her back had eased off so gently it was as though he'd never intended to do her violence at all.

It was then that she heard the distinct sound of Chelan's voice, the undertones of threat as clear as the feel of cold stone in her hand.

"I told you she was mine," he said and she realized that he was crouched behind Feran.

She felt Feran's fingers leave her bare hips as he eased away from her. She scrambled to pull down her skirts and crab her way backwards against a tree trunk, pulling her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them. The darkness was no longer complete. The rest of the men lurked nearby, holding aloft torches from the fire. Feran was still on his knees in the firelight, his arms pulled back in supplicating surrender as Chelan held a broad knife against the man's throat.

Even so, he seemed far from passive.

"He who finds, keeps," Feran said. Even in the shadows, Aislin could tell his breeches were unlaced, but that stiff member she had felt pressed so insistently against her had gone flaccid.

"Give a man time to lace his britches," he complained.

Chelan's only answer was to grip Feran by the hair and pull his head back, arching his throat even more toward the blackened sky. Aislin held her breath, waiting for the sickening smell of blood to wash over the air.

"I should end you," he said.

She wished she could see Chelan's face, she wished she could see anyone's face besides that of the brute who had attacked her. As it was, she could see him all too well. His hands were still raised, but she could see his fingers wiggling just outside of Chelan's periphery. She had the feeling that although the man was on his knees, he was far from the point of surrender.

She stumbled to her feet and charged him, fully intending to scoop a torch from the fire and cram it down his throat. If she couldn't call the fire from him, she'd send it to him.

Someone hooked her by the waist, and she smelled mud and body odor. Raga.

Chelan reacted as though nothing was amiss. She watched him from Raga's arms as he held the man fast. Feran too, remained composed, held calm by the play of imminent death on the air.

"You kill me, you'll have to answer to your brother," he said.

"My brother will understand."

"Will he?" Feran said. "How will you explain the death of his best warrior for the sake of a skinny red-haired bitch?"

Chelan's expression shifted; Aislin could see something peculiar cross his face as he cocked his head to look at her. It was only a moment, a heartbeat even, but she saw the spark of realization ignite behind his eyes. Then it was gone and he was staring down at Feran again with cold intensity.

"I won't," he said.

"You won't kill me?"

"I won't explain."

The answer was so deadpan, so cold, that her fingers crept into her mouth of their own accord, choking off the whoop of victory that wanted out. She wanted the brute dead. She squeezed her eyes closed, waiting, praying to the goddess that it be so, and quickly. Her chest burned with it and she suffered a moment of dizziness as an unbid coil of power shifted restlessly within her.

She expected some sort of groan, a dull thud as his body met the earth, but when a pained sort of grunt met her ears instead, followed by that of rustling boots in dead leaves, she stole a peek. To her horror, she realized that Feran was again on his feet, his sword drawn, and that Chelan was hunched over himself, cradling his groin. Someone cheered while another one called out in warning.

But Chelan didn't move. Despite the fact that Feran had planted his feet just firmly enough to root himself as he swung, despite the way that broadsword was already arcing toward Chelan's neck, the younger warrior remained still and calm.

She watched with a sickening dread as the sword neared its mark.

Before she realized her own intention, she shrieked at Chelan to move and tried to launch herself forward, hoping to push the brute out-of-the-way before his sword could strike home. Before she could manage more than three ineffectual steps, she found herself pinwheeling in place. Raga held her fast and whispered in her ear to be still.

Impotent, she watched, her heart in her throat as Chelan feinted sideways. In the same motion, he sliced out with his knife toward Feran's leg, and caught the man just below the knee.

With his body in full thrust, Feran didn't have time to recover before Chelan danced out of the way. With great deliberation, he drew his sword from his back. She told herself she could breathe again.

"Stand down," Chelan told the older man.

"Stand down to some pup," Feran said with disgust. "The same pup intent on killing me moments ago?" Feran's gaze fleeted toward Aislin and in the yellow light of the torches she could see how it raked over her.

"I think I'd rather fuck your bitch over your dead body."

The arm that had wrapped around her midriff traveled to just beneath her breast, lingering there like a whisper.

"Don't worry," he said. "He's the best we have."

"Which one is that exactly?" she asked, thinking as she watched the men circle each other that it was either one's game at that point. Feran's physique was broad and thick and muscled to the point that she wondered how he could be so deft in his movements. Chelan was more lithe, quick and wiry.

"Stand down," Chelan said, "and we can forget this happened." He was in shadow now, and Aislin couldn't see him clearly, but she had the feeling he was holding himself in check.

"What's wrong, boy?" Feran taunted. "Afraid to die?"

"No," came the flat answer. Why he was hesitating was beyond her, but it didn't seem to confuse Feran. In fact, he seemed to expect it and was using the hesitation to his advantage. He strolled perfectly into the light, almost as though to taunt Chelan.

"You're a fool," Feran said, "The girl is just one more example of your stupidity. Yield to me, and I'll let you watch."

Chelan's voice came from the shadows in a tone as dark as the shadows that surrounded him.

"If you want her, you'll have to kill me to have her."

Feran chuckled. "I would have killed you for less," he said, and pulled a knife from a sheath tied to his thigh. Aislin could see it glistening in the firelight as he waved it in the air back and forth as though it were a like a flame moving on the wind.

She watched as he crept sideways, step-by-step searching out a way to get to Chelan's weak side. Rago filled her ears with excited commentary, explaining how Chelan would let the bigger man take the first swing and how he would use that second of momentum to drive his knife up into the man's rib cage. Unless of course the bigger man expected it and executed a counter swing to the other side, leaving Chelan stepping into empty air.

"So what you're saying," she said. "Is that it could go either way."

He shrugged. "If it was a certain thing, one of them would have made a move by now."

As it was, the dance was mesmerizing. Aislin had seen plenty of men battle over the years as they practiced the game of war on the outskirts of the village. Yet each one of those practice sessions had shown themselves for exactly what they were. No man stained the ground with blood when it was over. Each young woman who decided to train did so with the understanding that they would be going home to their families at the end of it. It was a farce created by her mother to let her subjects believe they had some part in their own protection. The truth of it was they hadn't needed any protection other than the temptress of flame for a dozen years and they all knew it. Once a man came within the village walls, and showed himself an enemy, Indiris executed him without a single qualm.

This battle was different. She knew from the tension in the air that one of these combatants could easily live his final moments here. Whichever man was the victor, her fate would be decided with a dying breath.

Just knowing it nearly took the strength from her legs. She found herself buckled against Raga, who helped her find a spot on a fallen tree when he realized she wasn't enjoying the battle as much as he. He settled next to her, keeping his hand on her thigh just a little too high for her liking. He couldn't have been more than thirteen seasons, and she felt a sort of empathy for him. Rather than push his hand away, she took it from her leg and held it with both her hands. He seemed not to notice the shift, so interested in the pending battle that he was leaning forward with his free arm on his knees.

"Now," he whispered and she knew that the time had come. She swung her gaze to the two men in the middle of the circle just as Feran launched himself forward, the full length of his sword in a broad swing that seem to be aimed straight toward Chelan's neck.