Daughter of the Sword (46 page)

“A plundering killer and night thief?”

This time he knocked her to her knees. The side of her face was numbed, but she felt the slow trickle of blood from her lip. At his feet, in range to touch the dry bedraggled scalps, Deborah thought with lucid remoteness that she still had her thoughts, could say anything she wished, but the price would be a blow. Enough could break her physically no matter how right she was.

As if considering the plight of another person, she tried to see if provoking Rolf to kill her would save Conrad, then saw no way that it could. If she were missing, he'd follow the plain track of the brigands.

“At first I stayed because of you,” Rolf said. “Someday I was sure to find you. But your chance at being my pampered wife in St. Louis or London's over. You'll ride at my stirrup, share my pallet, and if you've any sense, you'll keep my hell-hounds from knowing you're a woman.” His voice roughened. He took a step forward and stopped. “Blood on your mouth, Deborah! As it was that first time. I want to kiss it away, but that'll have to wait till dark.”

“You can't keep me alive long if I decide to die.” From somewhere, bracing for his hand, she found the strength to laugh. “I might show your men I'm a woman, work them up into killing you.”

To her shock, he didn't strike her but laughed in delight. “I knew there was fire in you! I'll have it if it roasts me! But you mean to bargain or you wouldn't show your hand. What do you want that I might give you?”

“There's a man, a friend, helping me hunt for Dane.”

Rolf's pupils seemed to spread dark over the irises. “A man?”

“Yes. He's in Lawrence trying for leads. If you'll promise not to hurt him when we meet, I'll say—oh, that you know where Dane is and will take me there, that he needn't trouble further.”

Rolf slanted her a strange look. “If you weren't waifing after my brother, I'd think you loved this—
friend
.” He studied her with narrowed eyes, then finally shrugged. “I suppose it's worth some forebearance to have you pliable. Convince this fellow that you're freely with me and he can depart in peace.”

The Bowie pressed against her leg inside Laddie's loose corduroys, a last grace. She wouldn't feel bound by her promise once Conrad was safely gone, but she couldn't guess now whether the blade would be for her or for Rolf. She only prayed that Conrad would accept her story and not insist on seeing her reunited with Dane. He was stubborn enough, certainly, and this gang was pure and undiluted Border Ruffian.

“Get your stuff together and let's ride,” Rolf ordered. “I promised the boys a drink in Lawrence if we can find anyone with the guts to sell it after those temperance ladies took to telling men what to do!”

Fresh alarm shot through her. She'd been too dazed, too frightened for Conrad and herself to wonder what the troop was doing this far from the border. There were still back-and-forth raids in the southeastern part of the Territory, but since the Doy affair, this northerly region had been fairly quiet.

“You're not going to cause trouble in Lawrence?” she cried.

“Not unless your Black Republicans and abolitionists ask for it,” Rolf drawled. “I had some fine times in that funny little town. Hurry up! The boys are getting restless. I'll go tell them how you're all in a sweat to join up with us.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because you're a runaway kid who liked a little authority once he got a taste of it,” Rolf taunted. “And if you're smart, you'll stick close to me after you join us. You've somehow flattened your breasts, but your throat and mouth still look damned womanish.”

He swung up on Sangre and cantered toward his men. Deborah poured out the coffee water, then hastily bundled up her pack and tightened Chica's cinch. She was mounting, awkward from the length of the Bowie against her thigh, when Conrad and Sleipner came into sight.

. Pausing at sight of the gang, Conrad's head turned toward Deborah. She waved and rode to meet him, trailed by Rolf.
Make him believe you,
she told herself.
For his life, he must believe you.

“Conrad!” She tried to sound happy, but her voice cracked. She swallowed, close enough now to see his frown. “Conrad, such luck! This is Dane's brother, Rolf. He's going to take me to him.”

“Is he, indeed?” Scanning Rolf, Conrad nodded, then turned again toward Deborah. He flinched, then made a sound in his throat before his eyes, catching Rolf's, changed to winter ice.

“I can't believe any man would hit Deborah, but some
thing
has. Since you've apparently become a brigand, Mr. Hunter, what do you ask for our lives?”

“Deborah's safe.” Rolf stared at the older man, gave a slow nod. “She wants to go with me. Do us all a favor and head back from where you came from.” He leaned forward suddenly, spurred by some flickering recollection. “Where
do
you come from,
mein Herr?
Are you the
Graf
of Friedental who's taken to stealing niggers?”

“I've stolen nothing.” Conrad's thoughts must have flashed to his sister, Rebe and the runaways, and the villagers, but his face was as impassive as carved stone. “But if you have questions about Friedental, I'm the one to ask.”

Rolf laughed venemously. “I don't have any questions,
Graf.
One of the men I pay for information—it's taken some doing to dodge my determined brother—told me all about your nigger nest. We were headed there to get those slaves back and teach the Prussians to stick to their plowing.”

Deborah shrank. “But—you said—”

“That we weren't out for blood in Lawrence. We're not. My lads don't know where we are headed, really. I never tell them anything I don't have to a second earlier than I have to. Prevents a lot of misunderstandings.”

“So.” Conrad was musing aloud. “Your men don't know about Friedental?”

“No. I figured if we ran into something lucky on the way, we could save that for later.” Rolf chuckled. “Farmers are sitting ducks. Always there.”

“Especially when they're pacifists and forbidden by their religion to fight,” thrust Deborah.

Rolf shrugged. “They should've thought of that before they let niggers roost with them.” He cocked his head at Conrad. “But you,
Graf,
bear the ritual saber scar. How are you with Bowies?”

“Rolf!” cried Deborah, bringing Chica forward.

“It would be interesting to find out,” Conrad mused. “I'll gratify your curiosity if you'll agree, win or lose, to leave Friedental alone.”

“You'll lose,” said Rolf. “Why should I bargain?”

Conrad smiled. On his tall gray horse, he looked very much the nobleman descended from generations of men used to weapons and command. “I thought that as an Englishman, you might have racial memories of single combat when two men spared their armies.”

“Ah! So it comes to chivalry!”

“I've always thought it the only saving grace veiling spurs and swords. Having met your brother, I hoped for it in you.”

Rolf stiffened. After a moment he slapped his knee. “Done, then! A tournament with Bowies! I'll tell my men that in the unlikely chance you carve me up, you're to go unharmed and they're to head back to Missouri.”

“And Deborah?”

Rolf cast her a tigerish glance of possession. “I won't lose. But if I do, she can go with you. I don't want her to belong to anyone but me, and I'm sure you're too honorable to seduce her. My men would wear her to the backbone in a week.” He laughed at the fury in Conrad's face and inclined his head mockingly to Deborah. “Credit that to me,” he said, “though tonight I mean to have what I was too soft a fool to take before.”

“Rolf!” she pleaded, riding forward. “Fight me! I can use a Bowie!”

“Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “But I've another use for you.”

He rode toward his men and announced the duel in a swaggering way that made them whoop and form a wide ring, some dismounting, others keeping to their saddles. He walked briskly about, inspecting eagerly proffered knives, then accepted one of cutlass dimensions and continued the search for its match.

Deborah bit back pleas to Conrad not to fight. He was bound to, not only for Friedental, but because he now knew Rolf's intent toward her. Pressing Chica close to him, she said fiercely, “Keep yourself covered! Try for the guts, “the soft spots beneath his ribs! For God's sake, kill him if you can!”

“For your sake.” Conrad dropped a hand on her shoulder, as if bracing a youngster, but his touch was a lover's. “Don't fear too much, my darling. For sport, we used to spar with daggers.”

“If I hadn't come—”

He shook his head. “Then this mob would've struck Friedental. No, Deborah, live or die, as I may, the village is safe this time. But you—I have to win because of you.”

Rolf raised two blades that flashed blindingly in the sun. They looked eighteen inches long. Deborah knew so well the broad-ribbed blade, that curving point, honed to razor-edge sharpness on both sides.

“I love you.” She fought to be steady. “Conrad, I love you.”

A light flared in his gray eyes; they searched her, knowing what she meant. “I know you do,” he said. “And I love you—with all my heart and strength, with my life and death.” He sapped from the saddle. “Will you hold Sleipner for me?”

She dismounted, too, and, leading the horses, followed him.

xx

Conrad must have been a peerless swordsman, for years later and with a strange weapon, he moved with grace and decision. Rolf had held the blades together, proving the lengths equal, and offered a choice. There his gallantry ended.

He gave Conrad no time to get the feel or balance of his knife, but pressed his attack at once, slicing for Conrad's torso while defending his own vitals.

Had Conrad not been cool, content to parry, the fight would have ended within seconds. As he sensed his opponent's unshakability, Rolf dropped back, feinting now, trying to draw Conrad's blade.

Conrad kept his knife on guard, but he didn't push. Deborah could guess his mind. The longer he had to accustom himself to the weapon, the better he could use it, the more his old skills would revive. He'd take no chances he didn't have to.

“Get 'im, Charlie!” one of the men yelled. “Quit your fancy dancin'!”

“Let the Proosian have it to the hilt!” another urged. “Spill his guts!”

“Goddamn!” jeered the bearded man who'd first ridden up to Deborah. “If this is how gentlemen fight, I'm glad I'm not one!”

Rolf renewed his assault. Deborah felt Conrad's motions, moving her body with them in an agony of suspense. She'd never dreamed he could last this long. If Rolf would just grow restless, raise his knife, lunge too far—

Parry and cut.

Parry. Cut.

Beautiful. Deadly.

Deborah gasped. Conrad's left arm came up like a shield and caught Rolf's blade. While it was embedded, held by a deliberate twist of Conrad's arm that must have been excruciating, Conrad slashed.

There was the sound of incaught breath from rapt spectators. Releasing his knife, springing clear of Conrad's stroke, Rolf reached over his shoulder and brought out Deborah's Bowie. In the split second before Conrad could recover, Rolf ripped his throat.

Blood gushed, a bright fountain. Conrad sank to his knees, Rolf's other blade jutting from his forearm, then fell heavily, the knife slipping from his loosening hand.

Dropping the reins of the horses, Deborah ran to him, falling on her knees, trying to raise him. His head lolled. Blood spilled over her. His eyes were wide in surprise. Half-decapitated, he was already dead.

Rolf's shadow fell across them. Maddened, Deborah reached for Conrad's knife. Rolf kicked it aside.

“Up!” he said, panting from the battle, wiping off the blade. He caught Deborah's wrist and dragged her to her feet. “Go to the river. Get the blood off you.”

Deborah snatched for the knife embedded in Conrad's arm. Rolf spun her away. “Listen!” His eyes were like a great cat's. “Shall I take these lads to Friedental?”

“You—you promised—”

“What's a promise?”

Deborah's head whirled. Her knees wanted to bend. She would have crumpled except for Rolf's brutal hands, shaking her to half-awareness, tossing her into the saddle.

“Behave, and he gets a decent burial.” Grudgingly, he added, “A brave man, your
Graf
.”

“You'd be dead if you hadn't cheated!”

“One can't cheat in a Bowie fight,” Rolf said with a harsh laugh. “And he used a cute little trick of his own.”

“At least send his body to town. Let his sister know!”

“You can write her a letter when we're back in Missouri. I admired his spirit, if not his common sense.” He detailed several men to dig a grave down in the ravine. “Chunk some stones on it,” he ordered.

“Man like that shouldn't git chewed up by varmints,” agreed one of the diggers.

Rolf closed Deborah's nerveless fingers over the reins. “Ride!” he commanded. And he called over his shoulder, “Bring the gray along. It's a fine horse.”

They passed a few farmhouses, but no one came out. Bands of horsemen too often meant trouble. If they were sighted by any travelers, those prudent souls detoured, leaving them the way along the river, which, at the border would empty into the Missouri. Conrad's blood dried, in places gluing Deborah's clothing to her skin.

She rode as if in a nightmare, numbly thinking this couldn't be real: Conrad's head nearly sliced from his shoulders; Conrad's blood sticky on her hands. She'd wake up.

In a little while, Sara would call her, or Ansjie. She'd be at the smithy or Friedental. Not here. Not slightly behind Rolf, encircled by his unholy crew, still absorbed in discussing the fight they'd just seen.