VirtualWarrior (3 page)

Ardra set off up the mountain to Nilrem. ‘Twas said the old
man’s wisdom included healing. The wind whipped her skirt about her legs and
stung her cheeks.

Ardra found the wiseman sitting outside his hut, eyes raised
to the conjunction. His long gray beard reached his knees.

She thought of the man naked in the cold, bleeding, and took
a deep, steadying breath. Sense had replaced fear on her run to the wiseman.
Whether the stranger served the high councilor or not, she owed him her life.
“Nilrem. Please. You must help me.”

The old man started. “Ardra of the Fortress of Ravens! What
are you doing so far from home?”

“Please, my reason for coming must wait. I need your help. A
man is hurt…quite badly.”

“Hurt?” The old man staggered to his feet. “How so? Fallen
from a horse?”

“Nay.” She shook her head and swallowed. “Beaten. By
outcasts. Come.”

The old man lifted a woolly brow but asked no more
questions. He retrieved a satchel from his hut and gestured with his walking
stick that she precede him.

Overhead, the spill of light from the rising turquoise orbs
lit their way to the mountain meadow. She glanced over her shoulder every few
moments to make sure the wiseman was still behind her.

She moved cautiously, ever mindful of the possible return of
the outcasts. Without being told, the old man did likewise.

The man was not where she’d left him.

Then she saw him, lying by the fire near the candles she had
never relit. “Nilrem, he’s moved.”

For a moment, she only stared. The man had pushed off her
cloak. She had seen enough of men to know that many women would appreciate this
one. His body was strong, his muscles honed by war or hard labor. His face was
comely too, but she had known comely men before—and been betrayed by one as
well.

The glass roses bit into her palm and reminded her that this
man was not some innocent victim. “Look,” she whispered, indicating the man’s
painted arm when Nilrem panted up beside her.

Nilrem handed her his staff and knelt. He paid no heed to
the mark on the man’s arm, but instead ran practiced fingers over the
stranger’s brow and jaw, probed his skull. “You say outcasts did this?”

“Or rebels.”

“Filthy creatures. He is more likely to die of their vermin
than of his injuries.” Nilrem searched his satchel. He drew out a twist of
linen and a tiny flagon stoppered with wood. “I see the candles here. You were
practicing the ancient way?”

Ardra nodded. “I would prefer that you not tell anyone. I
never completed the ritual.”

She held the man’s head while Nilrem waved the flagon
beneath the man’s nose. With a groan and cough, he opened his eyes and began to
flail his arms. Nilrem, in a move surprisingly agile for one of his age, leaped
to safety.

Ardra scooted away, but when the man’s energy expended
itself and he fell back with a groan, she edged closer to get a better look at
his face. His eyes remained open this time. Their color tempted her nearer. She
had not seen eyes so dark before, as dark as the hair on his head.

“Who are you?” Nilrem asked. “From whence do you come?” The
man said nothing, just stared wildly about.

Ardra knelt by the fire. “He spoke before. Just briefly.”
She put a hand on the man’s bare shoulder. His skin was as cold as the rising
wind. “Who are you? What do you want here?” she asked.

“He does not seem to hear us. Build up the fire, Ardra,
whilst I determine his injuries.” Ardra did as bade while Nilrem began to
examine the man in earnest.

“Are you able to sit up?” Nilrem asked, and she could not
resist a peek to see if he responded. His bare back was inches from her, a
strong expanse of brown skin…skin that knew the sun. The valley of his spine
was lined with hard muscle and descended to… Only warriors looked so very…able.

“Thank you,” the man said to Nilrem in a hoarse voice. The
sound reverberated low in her belly. A splendid voice. Then she looked at the
coiled art upon his arm. A serpent. A mark of evil. Shame that she had stared
overlong at the naked man made her shift her attention away.

Her fire, lit for ceremonial reasons and badly done at that,
flamed as if she had built it with care and fed it with fatted pine cones. It
was strange, and somehow as unsettling as the man’s sudden appearance at the
conjunction. She glanced overhead. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon.

“Ardra—” Nilrem held out her cloak, “I have several robes I
keep for pilgrims that may be of use to this young man. Fetch one. Your cloak
will be little protection, I think, when the winds rise.” The winds had risen
already. Trees around them lifted their boughs in nightly exaltation. Nilrem
followed her glance. “Aye. It will grow colder every hour. With our help I
believe this man may walk, and once settled in my hut, answer your questions.”

Ardra ran up the mountain. The old man’s hut needed a good
cleaning. It smelled of spoiled apples and clothing not washed often enough. On
a hook she found several long robes of undyed wool. She snatched one up.

In a trice, she was back with the wiseman. “Here,” she
whispered. “Clothe him if you must, but we should take him to my men. I would
feel better with their protection.”

Nilrem lifted one woolly eyebrow.

“He wears a mark of evil,” she explained.

“Then let us take him down the mountain, Mistress Ardra.
I’ll not tend him ‘til you decide I should.”

“Look.” She held out her hand to Nilrem, the two roses
sparkling in the firelight. “Why would this man bear the high councilor’s
personal emblem?”

“Even more reason to let him lie right here.” But Nilrem
made no move to let the man fall back to the ground.

Blood stained the ground where the man had lain—in several
places. She saw again in her mind’s eye how he had come to her defense, an
unarmed man against three. “Nay. Deny him no care.” With a sigh she handed
Nilrem the roses.

Nilrem held out his walking stick, but it was quickly plain
that although the man’s eyes might be open, he had no awareness of where he
was. She hurried forward and with Nilrem managed to get the stranger to his
feet. Strong he might be, and certainly the arm beneath her hand was as hard as
the weapon master’s hammer, yet he stared through her unseeingly, moved only
when prodded, took no steps on his own. They stumbled along like a three-legged
mule.

“How much did I drink?” Neil sat up and rubbed his head,
then groaned. His jaw hurt, his nose hurt, in fact, everything hurt. With a
glance he took in the hut made of mud and sticks. Sky showed through a gaping
hole in the roof. “Where’s the little pig? And how fast can I move to the brick
house?”

An old man snickered, then bent over him. “Ah. You recover
quickly. It is a good sign.”

The room spun a moment. Neil swallowed his nausea. When his
stomach settled, he gazed around. Beyond the skinny, mad Santa who smelled like
he’d been wearing his costume since last Christmas, there were two very
intimidating Tolemac warriors. He didn’t need the game booklet to identify
them. They wore black leather breeches, high boots, and white tunics heavily
embroidered in black and gold. They could be Swedish ski champions from the
last Olympics if you traded their swords for ski poles.

He’d done it. Gone into the game. Then a tendril of memory
curled from beneath the pain in his head. A woman on her knees, a filthy man
tearing at her skirt. The memory slipped away. Where had the thought come from?

“Where’re my shorts? And where am I?”

The old man grinned and slapped his knees. The sound hurt
Neil’s ears. “You are at the base of Hart Fell, and I am Nilrem, a simple
wiseman.”

Nilrem was in the game manual, but little used. Game
warriors didn’t ask for advice. They acted. A wave of pain flooded Neil’s head
like ten toothaches hammering at one time. He managed a glance to the roof. “Is
this your place?”

“Nay,” Nilrem said. “‘Tis a shepherd’s hut, no longer used.
And who are you?” The man had a smoker’s rough voice.

Neil had thought long and hard about his name in this new
world. Had, in fact, thought long and hard about coming here and all the
questions he would need to answer. He had entered the game to escape everything
he was in Ocean City. Everything he hadn’t been. Everything he’d screwed up.
Without hesitation he christened himself anew. “I am Lien.”

“Leeee-en? What manner of name is this?”

“An ancient one from my land. It means good fortune.” He’d
also learned you needed every break you could get just to survive—in any world.

Nilrem rose and studied him. The scrutiny was at odds with
the amused smile twitching the old man’s lips. “I am most honored to meet you,
Leee-en. Now, off with that robe and let me better tend your wounds.”

“There’s a rule where I come from. Keep your robe on in
front of an audience. And where’re my clothes?”

The two guards left without argument when Nilrem requested
it. Neil pulled the robe over his head. “I feel as if I’ve been beaten with a
stick.”

“You were—several. I most humbly offer my apologies for such
behavior. The men who accosted you were most likely outcasts. They live by
thievery. As for your belongings, this is all we could save.” The old man held
up his hand.

Neil stared at the glass earrings and a broken chain. His
hand shook a bit as he took them from the old man’s dirty palm. “This is all…I
mean…are you saying everything I had is gone?” What the hell was he to do now?
He stared down at the jewelry; a sick dread churned in his stomach. So much for
good fortune.

Nilrem nodded. “‘Tis all that remains. Those were cast off
by the robbers.”

He was truly screwed. “You said ‘we’. Who’s we?”

“Ah, that would be Ardra. She says you saved her life.”

“Ardra.” He whispered her name. The woman Gwen had suggested
for
Tolemac Wars III
. Refrigerator Girl.

So, it had been Ardra on her knees. “Is she all right?”

Nilrem brought a bowl with a gray gloppy substance in it to
Neil’s side. “She is shaken, but thanks to you, unharmed.” The old man took up
a small stick and began to spread the goo on Neil’s bruises and wounds. The
gray paste was cool, then in a few moments, began to feel warm, like Ben-Gay.
The bandages the wiseman wrapped about his leg were white and clean.

“Do you know Mistress Ardra?” the wiseman asked.

“I don’t. It’s just an unusual name.”

“Leee-en isn’t?”

Neil pushed the old man’s hand away and stood. The room spun
and turned; the bile rose in his throat. He gripped the old man’s shoulder.
“No. It’s common as dirt where I come from.”

“Mistress Ardra will need to stitch you up. Two of your
wounds are too deep for the herbal to heal on their own. Should they fester—”

“Stitch me up? Fester?” Neil said softly. One cut was on his
inner arm, from his elbow to his wrist. It was already swelling. The other was
on his shoulder, near his collarbone.

“When you have covered yourself, I shall call her.”

Neil hastily sat down and drew several of the bed furs over
his lower body. He felt vulnerable without his shorts, and his head was still
spinning. Everything from stepping into the game booth until he woke here in
the hut was fuzzy and vague.

He remembered the attack on Ardra. Maybe. He remembered a
fire. The flare of flames. An electrical odor. Pain. A burning pain—as if
someone had put his head in a waffle iron.

The door opened and in stepped a woman. Ardra. Her green
gown and hooded cloak were embroidered in gold and purple. She dropped into a
deep curtsey directed at Nilrem. Her eyes never turned to where he sat.

“Mistress Ardra, ‘tis necessary you stitch this man’s
wounds. I have no talent with the needle.”

As he spoke, the old man tapped Neil firmly on the shoulder.
Each touch caused pain to shoot down his arm.

“Stitch? I cannot—” She stepped back a pace.

“Aye. You can. Just think of it as two pieces of cloth, a
simple joining. If you can render such decorations as are on your cloak, you
can do this simple chore.”

Nilrem took her hand and drew her forward to stand before
Neil, urging her onto a low stool by his bed, which was no more than a pile of
clean straw.

She lifted her gaze and met his.

Neil swallowed. The game creator hadn’t captured her at all.
Oh, the basics, yeah—the oval face, the patrician cheekbones, the sensuous
lips—but not the eyes. They were unlike any he’d ever seen—golden eyes, glowing
in the firelight as brilliantly as polished amber.

Her hands were cool when she touched his arm to assess the
wound. “They were merciless,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked.

She leaped up. “Your—your voice. I have heard only one other
speak as you do.”

He didn’t answer.

“Nilrem.” She turned to the old man. “Whence came he?”

Neil had an answer ready. “I’m from beyond the ice fields.”

“Ardra,” Nilrem said sharply. “He needs tending.”

Ardra hesitated but a moment, then obeyed. With a sharp
intake of breath, she bent her head, and Neil felt as if she had dismissed him
from her consciousness. She opened her pack and drew out a fabric pouch tied
with ribbon. She unwrapped the bundle to reveal needles and thread wrapped on
small smooth sticks. The needles looked less than sharp.
Don’t be a wimp,
Neil
, he told himself.

No, he must think of himself as Lien. He was a different man
here.
Lien the pauper.
What a nightmare.

She swallowed and looked up at him, inspecting him like a
piece of furniture she had to refinish. Then she spoke, and the quaver in her
voice told him she was not distant, just very nervous. “Forgive me. You came to
my aid, and now I must come to yours.”

“Thank you.”