VirtualWarrior (4 page)

“Your thanks are not necessary.” She looked at him, and the
color of her eyes reminded him of old-fashioned fall chrysanthemums.

“Why weren’t those guards with you when you were attacked?”

“I—I was gathering firewood.”

The old man made a snorting sound, then rubbed his nose on
his sleeve. The young woman impaled the wiseman with a haughty stare. Here was
one thing the game creator had captured perfectly—she was as cold as the ice
she guarded. “You helped me and I am grateful,” she continued, bringing her
attention back to his wound.

She clasped her hands about his forearm and pressed the
edges of the wound together. He nearly levitated off the pallet. He jerked his
arm away.

“This may hurt badly.” She poked his wound again.

“Wait!” He covered her hand with his. “I think I want it
washed first. With really hot water. And do you have any alcohol?”

Ardra and Nilrem merely glanced at each other and shook
their heads.

“Alcohol? You know…wine? Ale? Something like that?”

“Ah. The man wishes to be drunk! A wonderful idea. He will
feel less pain that way.” Nilrem cackled in amusement. He was gone but a moment
before returning with what looked like a wineskin from the hippie era. Lien
tugged off a wooden stopper and sniffed the inside. It was wine.

Ardra pursed her mouth, and he realized she did not approve
of the idea of his getting drunk. After she bathed the wound in very hot water,
she cried out when he doused it with wine. He clenched his fist against the hot
flare of pain as the red fluid coursed along the deep cut.

“Now you can stitch it.” He rested his arm on his lap and
fisted his hand.

She patted the wound dry with a clean cloth and began. It
hurt like the devil, and he had to bite his lip to keep from swearing. Bad as
it was, it was pretty tame stuff compared to the jackhammer in his head.

“Can’t you go any faster?” he gritted out when she had
neatly gathered together about half the wound. Cold sweat broke out on his
brow.

“I have never done such work. Perhaps I am going too fast.”
She jerked the thread tight and tied a knot. When she looked up, he saw
something in her gaze that told him she was angry. It took several moments for
her to thread her needle again. His arm throbbed from shoulder to wrist.

“Never mind,” he muttered as she slowly began on the second
half of the wound. He wanted to vomit. He took a deep breath. She wore an
exotic scent he imagined didn’t exist in Ocean City…or anywhere else in the U.
S. of A.

“Now your…chest.” She leaned forward to inspect the wound.
She bit her lip…her very full lip. Wherever had he gotten the idea she was
prissy?

His head filled with a vague buzz. He slipped backward and
groaned.

“Oh! Nilrem!” Her hand was cool on his brow. “He is soaked
in sweat!”

Nilrem pushed her gentle hand away and replaced it with his
scratchy claw. “He is not feverish. ‘Tis just that he is not so brave.”

Lien closed his eyes and groaned. The food he had eaten
after the funeral threatened to erupt from his lips. Somehow, the meal and the
funeral seemed a world and a millennium away.

The rustle of Ardra’s skirt told him she was near. She
placed a damp, cool cloth over his eyes.

“Foolish is more accurate,” she said. “He came after the
outcasts with naught but his bare hands.”

Lien knew when he was being insulted. “I can sit up now.” He
pushed her hand away.

“Nay. Remain as you are.” She touched his shoulder.

It was easier to do as she said. He fell back against the
bedding.

Without being told, she bathed his chest wound in very hot
water, repeatedly, then doused it well with wine as he had done. He felt the
warm liquid soak the cloth beneath his body.

“Waste of good wine. Give me that, child.” Nilrem took the
wineskin and poured a hefty draught into a wooden cup. He slurped it down,
smacking his lips and then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I think our Lien
needs to explain this curious mark on his arm.”

Lien feigned sleep. Each stitch turned his stomach. As Ardra
sewed up his shoulder wound, she and Nilrem whispered about him.

“A snake is a mark of evil,” Ardra whispered.

“Aye. But it coils thrice about his arm and in the very
place a warrior wears his arm rings,” Nilrem whispered back. “Perhaps he is a
warrior from…his place.”

“In scarlet and gold robes?” Her fingers drifted from his
shoulder to his upper arm. They did not touch his tattoo, but he could almost
feel a static charge as he pictured her fingertips hovering over the design.

Her breath whispered soft as a summer breeze across his
shoulder. “And look…the snake markings are not scales. They are one of the old
designs…the weave of eternal goodness found on the cauldrons of the ancient
priests.”

“Most curious,” Nilrem said softly. “So, he wears a mark of
evil, yet it is richly decorated by ancient markings of goodness. Hmmm. And
what of this?”

Lien couldn’t resist. He peeked. There dangling from the
broken chain, inches away from his nose, were the two glass rose earrings.

“They’re mine.” He reached out with his good hand. Pain
rocketed through his shoulder as he strained to reach the jewelry.

Nilrem held it just out of his reach and stepped away.

Lien threw back the blankets and sidestepped Ardra to reach
the old man. He snatched the chain from Nilrem’s hand, then dropped it over his
head and turned back to Ardra. “Now. Finish the job,” he said.

Ardra just stared at him, mouth open. He felt his cheeks
flush hot as he realized just how naked he was. Forcing himself to move at a
normal pace, he walked past her to the straw, sat down, and drew a blanket over
his lap.

This time, she kept her eyes downcast as she stitched.

“Of what significance is the jewelry, young man?” Nilrem
took another deep drink of his wine.

“The earrings belonged to my mother.”

“But they are glass. No one may make such a thing here,”
Ardra said.

“They were not made
here
.”
And damn it
, he
decided,
I’m not saying another word.

When Ardra had finished her work, she coated each wound with
the gray paste, then tore strips of clean cloth and bound both his arm and
shoulder.

“Thank you, Mistress Ardra,” he managed.

For the first time, she smiled. Only a small smile, which
died quickly as she caught sight of his tattoo.

“Have you no such marks as these here?” he asked.

Nilrem answered for her. “Once, when men ran about in
nothing but furs, they marked themselves on their faces, chests, and so forth,
but not in such an artful manner…and not in such a place. The place of arm
rings.”

“There are no arm rings beyond the ice fields,” Lien said
simply. “Do you have something I could wear?”

Nilrem handed him what looked like a monk’s robe. It was
thick and scratchy. So much for sartorial splendor.

He glanced at Ardra. In a swirl of skirts she was gone.

Nilrem offered him a strip of rough leather to loop about
his waist with the words, “I have asked Ardra’s men to collect a few pairs of
boots for you.”

“Her men?” Lien imagined a small army of warriors, garbed in
leather, armed with sharp swords. Great. He tugged at the robe, which reached
only to his calves.

“Oh, aye. Did you think a woman would travel about
unprotected?”

“No,” Lien said slowly. “I didn’t know she was traveling
anywhere.”

Nilrem burst into a delighted laugh complete with knee
slapping. When he calmed himself, he finally spoke. “You did not suppose her to
reside with me?”

Lien shrugged. “If I can just have those boots, I’ll be on
my way.”

“Your way? And which is your way?”

Before Lien could answer, Ardra entered the hut. Behind her
were three large men. Blond, hard-looking men. The cold air went straight up
his robe. He was nearly naked, barefoot, and outnumbered.

“Come. Come.” Nilrem waved them all in. The hut became
immediately crowded. Maybe it was the pain in his head, but the boots the
warriors dumped at his feet looked enormous—as did their swords.

When her guards retired to the outside—gone but close enough
that Lien could hear the murmur of their voices— Nilrem asked Ardra, “What
brings you here to me, Mistress Ardra of the Fortress?”

Ardra turned her wide tawny eyes not to Nilrem but to him.
She slid her hands into her sleeves and looked, not hesitant, but wary. Lien
concentrated on the boots lying at his feet, tried to appear uninterested.
Maybe he’d hear something useful before setting out on his own. It had been his
plan to check out the local politics before settling in any one location.

Nilrem nodded in Lien’s direction. “You must speak before
this young man. He is not fit to stand outside awaiting our pleasure.”

Good; the more feeble they thought him, the less of a threat
Ardra might see in him.

She nodded as if coming to a decision. “I fear I must speak
if he is not able to…go.”

Her hair was loose about her shoulders. The fire’s glow cast
a soft sheen on the ripples. He shook his head. What the heck was wrong with
him? It was just hair.

She pitched her voice low, and he pretended to be intently
interested in the boots he was trying on. He tried not to appear to be
eavesdropping.

“Tol is grievously ill,” she whispered.

“What may I do?” Nilrem patted her knee gently. “I have
several potions that will ease his pain.”

Ardra squeezed the gnarled hand on her knee. She nodded, and
for a moment her head bowed. “I accept with my deepest thanks. The healer has
been unable to give him ease.”

“Done.” Nilrem rose. He opened a wooden cask and withdrew a
stoppered stone bottle. He tapped a small pile of yellow powder into a square
of cloth and folded it as if it held gold dust. “Here.” He handed the parcel to
Ardra. “Four grains only in clear water as he needs it. Allow him to decide
when he needs more. Twice as much…is fatal.”

Ardra opened her cloak, and Lien saw an embroidered gown in
a deep green. He thought she could be Robin Hood’s mate, all garbed in shades
of green as she was. She tucked the package into a leather purse hanging from a
belt at her waist.

“It is not just for Tol’s ease I have come. He sent me with
grave news to impart.”

Lien settled on one pair of boots and realized he had no
socks. There seemed to be nothing resembling socks here. With a sigh, he
wrapped some strips of fabric about his feet and became aware that Ardra was
watching him most intently.

The boots were stiff brown leather, without the distinction
of being a left or a right, but fit him well enough with the cloth wrappings.
He imagined that if he walked far, he’d have horrendous blisters. Where was Dr.
Scholls when you needed him? As he contemplated the sorry and not very clean
robe he was wearing, Nilrem and Ardra continued their hushed conversation, but
she kept glancing at him, worry etched on her face. Lien decided to fake sleep.
He groaned as he tried to shift his feet onto the pallet. The heavy boots
defeated him. He settled for falling diagonally across the straw mattress and
watching through half-closed eyes.

“What other matter brings you here?” Nilrem asked Ardra.

“Samoht is camped on the border. Did you know?” Ardra leaned
forward and knotted her hands into tightly clenched fists.

Nilrem followed her gaze but shrugged. “Is he? Alone?”

“Nay! He comes with an army.” She began to pace and wring
her hands. “Oh, ‘tis said he comes to await the birth of his first child.” Her
tone was sneering. “His Selaw mate was not good enough to dwell in his Tolemac
palace. Nay, she must be returned to her mother in Selaw once she was breeding.
He treated her like a mare, taken to stud. I despise the man!”

Lien wanted to rub his aching temples, but bruises prevented
him—and would alert her that he was awake.

She planted herself before him. “I know you are listening.”

He opened his eyes. She was very close and practically
quivering with emotion. “Is Samoht your master?” she spat out. “You bear his
symbol. He comes to take my lands, my fortress. Some say he covets me as well.”
Her head bowed. No color rose on her cheeks, but he sensed she was deeply
mortified. Then he saw a single tear run down her cheek. “He could not even
wait for Tol’s death to come.”

“Samoht? Tol?” Lien struggled up on his elbow. What had he
landed in?

Nilrem took a deep breath and answered for her. “Tol is
Ardra’s lifemate. He is ill.”

Nilrem’s tone said it all. Tol’s illness was terminal, Lien
interpreted. “Can’t you heal him?”

Nilrem caught his eye and gave one quick shake of his head.
If Ardra caught the gesture, she did not react. “What else may I do for you?”
Nilrem took Ardra’s hand and gently rubbed it between his. “I am at your
service.”

She looked up. As Lien watched, she visibly gathered herself
and took a deep breath. “I cannot lose the fortress, Nilrem. I cannot.”

“Tradition will not allow you to rule, my child.” He patted
her hand. Lien winced at the patronizing gesture.

“Tradition!” Staring up at her hurt his neck. “This is
tradition.” Her long, elegant finger pointed at him. “A rose passed from one
man to another. Secret symbols to tell one man that another is on his side.
Well, I will not be deceived by it. Men may rule by might, but a woman may do
just as well with her wits.”

“Whoa,” Lien said. “These roses are just jewelry. Nothing
more. I’ve never met this Samoht.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “One may serve a master even
if one is too lowly to be permitted into his presence.”

“Perhaps he tells the truth, my child.” Nilrem hooked his
hands together on his belly. “After all, we know little of the lands beyond the
ice fields. Roses may have other meanings there.”