Caller of Light (12 page)

“Sire, if I may…?”

Marek cleared his mind. Not known for idle chatter, if Damon wished to discuss something, the man deserved his full attention.

“Of course.” Marek crossed his arms and waited.

“You know I have three daughters. The eldest is Carina’s age and just recently wed.”

“Your daughters are fine, young ladies. You and Serena are raising them well.”

Damon shifted from one foot to the other, acting as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he stood. Marek started to prod him, but Damon blurted in one great rush of air.

“I’ve noticed Carina sleeps with you and the resulting implication.”

Marek’s shoulders tensed. Damon needed to be very careful with what he said next.

“I’m not sure where you received your information, but I think she’s innocent.”

Movement caught Marek’s eye and he turned to see Carina strolling back from the creek, her hair once again tamed and in place. He almost missed her disheveled, unguarded appearance.

“Why do you say that?” Marek asked, his eyes never leaving her.

“Because I live in a house full of women.”

His eyes flicked to Damon before returning to Carina.

“She has the innocence of all my girls, Sire. She’s strong and tries to act brave, but in the end, she’s just a girl experiencing a man for the first time.”

Her eyes roamed the camp until they found and locked him in an invisible hold. Unable to resist her call, he stood motionless as she walked toward him. His eyes devoured every inch of her. The curve of her hips, beckoned him. Her skin glimmering in the sunlight, whispered to him. Her lips parted in a slight smile, tempted him. The hardness of her nipples pressing against her blouse enticed the rising desire in his groin.

By the time she reached him, his overheated body ached with need to claim her. He fisted his hands and restrained his arms across his chest to keep himself from whisking her into the tent. Struggling to keep the hunger out of his voice, he rasped, “Good morning, Carina.”

“Good morning.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling in the dawn light.

“Did you sleep well, Lady Carina?” Damon asked.

She hesitated and a blush rose on her cheeks. Fumbling for an answer, she lowered her eyes. “Um…yes. Very well, thank you.”

Marek knew the reason for her embarrassment and fought to hide the smile threatening his lips. Their nightly talks had become a wonderful habit. He would wrap her in his arms and hold her close as she fell asleep, enjoying her smell and the feel of her body.

“Excellent,” Damon said, acting as though he hadn’t noticed her red giveaway. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the others will think I’m shirking my duties.” With a slight bow, he left.

Carina refused to look at him, focusing on her riding boots with particular interest as her blush deepened. Marek knew he wasn’t helping by staring at her, but couldn’t stop himself.

With an exacerbated sigh, she lifted her head and glared at him. She squared her shoulders and clenched her jaw in challenge. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but failed miserably when he burst out laughing. Damon was right. She was innocent, which meant she should be sleeping in her own tent…alone. But after spending these past few nights with her, how was he going to find the strength to let her go?

“What?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. Her simple one word question contained an undercurrent of complex meaning, a defiant edge poised like a sharpened blade warning him to beware.

Another royal might’ve taken offense at her tone and posture, but he’d grown to expect nothing less. Carina would always stand her ground, and he would have her no other way. Without thinking, he reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. Her lips parted in a startled gasp at his unexpected touch. Ignoring what his mind told him, he stepped closer surrendering to the desire driving his body. Her bottom lip trembled. Fascinated, he brushed his thumb across those amazing lips to soothe their quiver. She stayed her ground, her eyes wide. He buried his fingers in her hair, and in a voice that displayed less control than should from a king, whispered, “We need to talk.”

“All right.”

He noticed her eyes fill with worry. How was he going to tell her that from now on she’d sleep in her own tent, especially when he didn’t want to spend a night away from her? He’d made a proper mess of things.

A sudden yell from the forest, shouting for a call to arms immediately transformed his mind and body into a warrior anxious to protect his command and keep those he cared about safe. The camp blurred into a whirlwind of commotion as soldiers grabbed weapons and took up defensive positions or plunged into the forest to help comrades.

He grabbed Carina and pushed her behind him while drawing his sword, a large claymore.

Sampson ran toward him. “We’re under attack,” he shouted. “From the forest over there.”

“Tiwans?”

Sampson nodded.

“Keep a contingent here,” Marek ordered. “Get the riders in the sky.”

Sampson spun and raced away, bellowing orders.

Marek clutched Carina’s hand and rushed for the tent. Only when they were inside did he turn to her. “You must stay here.”

His eyes darted to the door when the Critons took to the sky in a deafening roar, followed by FireStrike’s angered scream for being left behind, forced to wait for his rider.

Carina’s eyes were wide with fear. He didn’t want to leave her, but needed to join his men in the battle. He’d have to rely on the contingent to protect her.

He turned to leave, but she gripped his arms with uncompromising strength.

“Marek,” she whispered, her voice quavering.

He pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. “I must go.” His tone hardened becoming the voice of a king. “Do as I say and stay here. I’ll come back for you.”

She nodded, her head still hidden in his chest. He pulled away and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. Tears threatened to bubble over her eyelashes, but even now her mouth captured his attention. He brushed his lips across hers, a whisper and promise of something still to come, and smiled at her tentative response. They had much yet to share. After a hurried kiss on her forehead, he bolted from the tent.

Leaving her behind did not sit well in his gut. Darkness cooled the blood in his veins, an omen foretelling he’d made the wrong decision. But they were in battle, and the feeling was simply the uncertainty of the pending fight, he rationalized. As he took wing and glanced back at the tent with the men standing guard around it, he had to quell the unease that his soldiers wouldn’t be enough to protect her.

16 – FLAMES

The pungent odor of smoke drifted through the air as Tiwan warriors burned the camp, while the sounds of clashing swords and men yelling flooded Carina’s ears. Marek’s soldiers fought with valor, but they were outnumbered. Although she wanted to believe the guards would protect her, she couldn’t ignore their screams as they died on her behalf.

A dawning understanding of her bleak situation clouded her mind. If forced to defend herself the confines of the tent would make it difficult to maneuver. She had two choices, ignore what was happening around her and die where she stood, or do something about it.

She scanned her surroundings. Master Dupree had taught her how to fight so she wasn’t helpless. She knew the fundamentals of wielding a sword, and shot a longbow with uncompromising accuracy. But training to fight and fighting for her life was different. She bit her bottom lip as mind numbing fear swirled inside her. As a mixed blood, she’d been raised to do as she was told, and Marek had ordered her to stay inside the tent to await his return.

A soft thud from a torch landing against the tent flaps caught her attention. An instant later, with a loud whoosh and crackle, the front of the tent burst into a raging blaze of brilliant red-yellow flames. Her heart skipped beats and adrenaline surged through her. She watched the conflagration in paralyzed horror.

Heat from the spreading inferno radiated around her. Like a live animal, the fire engulfed the tent with an insatiable hunger, sucking up the oxygen with such greed she struggled to inflate her lungs. Smoke filled the air and burned her eyes, but she stood frozen and stared through the haze and flames with a surreal detachment as a large Tiwan wielding a hammer club, crushed the skull of one of Marek’s guards.

She’d never been one to give up. Even during Master Dupree’s unforgiving training regimens, which left her so sore and tired she could hardly move, she’d never yielded. In a rare moment of companionship, Master Dupree had praised her for having a hidden strength. And if she ever doubted, she just needed to peer inside herself to harness the power lying dormant within her. He had then proceeded to pound her with a wood sword until she was bruised and face down on the cool earth, gasping for air and praying for mercy.

Tears rolled down her face as smoke swelled her eyes to slits. When another soldier fell to the hammer pounding Tiwan, a small seed of anger unfurled in her belly. Their deaths were unnecessary. They were just passing through the Bridal Lands to get home.

With a loud pop, the tent began collapsing around her, jarring her into action. She scrambled to her makeshift bed and snatched the rolled bundle Master Dupree had given her. Reaching inside, she searched for the welcoming feel of the hilt waiting for her. With a practiced hand, she freed the sword and in a smooth downward motion, slashed the back of the tent open. She grabbed her longbow and quiver before racing through the opening and up a hill to the safety of the forest.

Pausing at the tree line, she crouched and glanced around to see if anyone had followed her, but in the turmoil, she’d escaped unnoticed. She unwrapped her longbow and quiver, and with an ease from years of practice, bent the tip of the bow before looping the sinew-fibered bowstring into the nocked grooves of the upper limb. She grabbed the quiver strap and slipped it over her shoulder so the arrows rested against her back, then secured her scabbard and sword around her waist.

Surveying the annihilation of their camp, she saw dozens of bodies, from both sides, amid the burning tents and carnage of battle. A mortally wounded Criton screamed in outrage. Shot in the chest with a harpoon cannon, the animal had crashed to the ground leaving a trail of destruction behind it. Although the Criton belonged to a Tiwan, remorse shot through her as the poor beast flapped a wing in the air before growing still.

Within minutes, the little clearing had transformed from a tranquil respite into a torn up mound of dirt and bloodshed. Smoke hung in the air like a thick blanket as the last of Marek’s men perished. The world stopped turning as she watched the final moments of the soldier’s life. A large Tiwan approached from behind and before she could belt out a warning, the Tiwan smashed a hammer club into the young man’s head with such force it burst like a melon, dispersing blood and brain matter into the wind. The guard folded like a rag doll, never knowing death had come from behind.

Her throat constricted as she silenced the scream threatening to explode from her mouth. The remaining Tiwans cheered their victory, laughing and patting each other on the back for a successful battle. But where was the honor in sneaking up from behind to kill? Her childhood belief that war was the result of honorable men fighting for a worthy cause crumbled around her. As the large Tiwan slammed his club into the fallen guard’s chest while his companions shouted their approval, the angry seed inside her burst open like a dam breaking. Those dead men deserved a warrior’s respect.

She moved from the safety of the timberline and stood in the open. One of the Tiwans spotted her. Even from the distance, she could see the tattoo covering part of his face. Her impartial mind interested in self-preservation demanded her immediate retreat, but her emotional heart kept her feet planted.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE.”

The men glanced at each other before erupting into additional bouts of laughter. Fear rippled down her spine when their expressions darkened and three men began jogging toward her, spreading out to flank her as they approached. The hammer wielding Tiwan took point.

Run!
Her rational mind screamed. But her heart controlled her actions and she bladed her body. Her hands shook as she fumbled for an arrow. Keeping her eyes on the men, she noted their long, ground-devouring strides eating up the distance. Panic clawed at her, preying upon her insecurities in an attempt to immobilize her.

She nocked her arrow and using a three finger split hold, drew the bowstring back to her anchor point, aiming for the large Tiwan holding the hammer club. To her surprise, he skidded to a halt and spread his arms wide exposing his chest.

“You better make it count, girl.”

He spoke with an unfamiliar accent in a low, gravelly voice that made her skin crawl. “Because if you miss, you’ll beg for death before we’re done with you.” His sneer exposed a mouth full of rotten teeth.

Her arms trembled, shaking the bow. Fear jumbled her mind. She couldn’t focus. But somehow all the hours of routine practice took control of her body and when she released the arrow, it struck the man with a thud in the chest. The two smaller men stared at their companion in openmouthed disbelief.

She held her breath, waiting for the Tiwan to fall. But to her chagrin, he laughed—a loud cackle, mocking her. With exaggerated movements, he broke the shaft leaving the barbed broadhead imbedded in his body. The jagged metal tip would stay impaled in his chest until he cut it out. She stared at her adversaries, confused. Why hadn’t he fallen? Although a big man, the force of her arrow still should’ve incapacitated him. Only chainmail would have prevented severe damage. She’d just made a very foolish mistake by not factoring body armor into the equation.