Desire's Sirocco (18 page)

“What do you hope to gain from this, woman?” the Prince finally asked.

“A son,” Neith replied.

Sekhem said nothing for a long moment then, “And that is all?”

“I want a son to champion me when my years advance; a male to whom I can grant the abilities given to me.”

“And overthrow your rule, Sekhem!” Lord Khnum shouted. “Be warned, Your Grace. This Wench intends to replace you!”

“Let her try,” Sekhem sneered, his gaze locked on Neith. “I welcome the challenge.”

Neith bowed her head. “A challenge I have no doubt I would lose,” she said demurely. Her lovely features were schooled into a look of humility. “I would never challenge you for the leadership of our people, Your Grace. Such a thought has never entered my mind.”

“Liar!” Khnum accused. He stood up so quickly, his chair crashed to the floor. He lifted a bony finger and pointed it at Neith. “She means to see us all withered to dust! She seeks to seize the throne for herself!”

Clucking her tongue as though at an unruly child, Neith clasped her hands at her waist. “When have I done anything but be of help to the warriors of Gaoth since my rebirth?” she asked. She looked at each of the men in turn. “Have I once asked anything of any of you that I was not willing to do myself?” At their shaking heads, she asked if they had ever heard rumors of her daring to usurp Prince Sekhem’s rightful place. Again, the men shook their heads in denial.

“Should you ever try,” Sekhem said, once more steepling his fingers under his chin, “it will be the last thing you do before your head is separated from your body or else you find your flesh roasting upon a slowly turning spit in yon fire pit.”

Shivering at the image such a torment would bring Neith bowed her head. “I will take your warning to heart, Your Grace.”

Strained silence met the female warrior’s words. The men stared at her, waiting for their Prince’s decision. When it came, their eyes shifted to him.

“Go,” Sekhem granted. “Take your handsome warrior and bring him here. I am anxious to see you put starch in his cloth ere he be introduced to the parasite.”

Nervous chuckles accentuated the regal command.

Lord Khnum shook his head of wiry white hair furiously. “I do not sanction you allowing an outsider to become one of us.”

Prince Sekhem stared at the elderly man. “Well, I sanction it for then we would have a Brother of the Conclave as hostage. Their Grand Master would dare not attack us for fear we would slit the man’s throat and drain him dry.”

Neith relaxed. Surreptitiously, she ran her sweating palms down the skirt of the gown she wore only to appease the males. She itched to pull on the men’s britches that were her normal attire, saddle her stallion, ride out to intercept Dagan Kiel and bring him back to her lair.

“Go capture your handsome warrior, Neith.” Sekhem waved his hand, dismissing her, then lifted his goblet to a nearby slave who jumped to refill the Prince’s vessel.

Neith bowed to her Prince and inclined her head to the others before exiting the room. Her back to the men, no one but a shivering slave saw the malicious grin that stretched the warrioress’ scarlet lips.

“This is a mistake, Your Grace,” Lord Khnum warned. “She is planning a coup. I’ve no doubt of that.”

“Nor do I,” Sekhem agreed as those assembled turned surprised attention his way. He took a sip of the thick liquid inside his goblet then tilted the amber vessel until he had drained the last drop. He then hurled the goblet across the room, the heavy gold striking a hapless slave who fell unconscious to the floor.

Growls spread around the table as salivating tongues thrust out to lick eager lips.

“Feast, my friends,” Sekhem said as he lifted his napkin and wiped at his red-stained lips. “Enjoy.”

The men shot to their feet and fell upon the unconscious slave. The slurping sounds that followed caused the other slaves to stand where they were, shuddering as with the ague.

Sekhem reclined in his chair, and watched his warriors draining the slave and smiled. Soon, he would have a royal slave of his own to exhaust.

As soon as Neith—her days already numbered—brought Dagan Kiel to Gaoth Keep.

Chapter Eleven

Dagan took the proffered bread and cheese from Ushabti, his trusted Lieutenant, and ate, chewing thoughtfully as Ushabti poured wine for Dagan to drink. The tent kept out the cold wind howling outside and the brazier before which he sat warmed his bare toes.

“We’ve all heard the tales,” Ushabti said. “I never believed them until today.”

“Neither did I,” Dagan said, thanking Ushabti for the wine. He took a sip of the warm brew then set it aside. “The thought makes me ill.”

“I had to down a flagon of beef’s blood upon my initiation into the warrior society,” Ushabti said as he took a seat across from Dagan. “As it was explained to me, it was to put iron in my sword.”

“I was made to drink that shit, too,” Dagan acknowledged. “It put no iron in my sword.”

Such was the relationship between the two men that Ushabti could laugh at the statement. “Don’t you wish it could have?” he teased.

Dagan clucked his tongue. “Not until I met Jameela,” he answered.

Ushabti’s brow furrowed. “You have never missed not being able to pleasure a woman?” he inquired.

“Aye, well there’s pleasuring and then there’s pleasuring,” Dagan remarked. “Apparently that beef’s blood I was forced to down put iron in my tongue.” He wagged his brows then joined Ushabti in laughter.

“I have always envied you being the Master Trainer,” Ushabti said then shrugged. “Up to a point, that is.”

“Well, my point doesn’t get up,” Dagan chuckled. “So there’s no reason for you to have envied me, my friend.”

A warning call from one of the sentries brought both men immediately to their feet, hands going to the swords lying on Dagan’s cot. Bootless, they rushed out into the gathering dusk, looking in the direction from which the call had come.

“Riders,” the sentry who had sounded the alarm said as he ran up to Dagan. “At least three score.”

“We have four times that many,” Lord Fadil scoffed. “We will ground them into the dirt!”

The sentry ignored the noble and kept his eyes riveted on Lord Dagan. “They know we are here, milord. I would stake my life on it.”

“And you very well may do just that,” Ushabti mumbled.

“They appeared out of nowhere, milord, as the sun set,” the sentry said with a shudder. “And they are not armed.” At Dagan’s blink, the man shook his head. “Not a weapon amongst any of them.”

“Well, see?” Fadil chuckled. “They not only don’t know we’re here, they are probably out for a leisurely ride to…”

“To what?” Dagan demanded. “Drain another herd of cattle?” He clenched his teeth and spoke through the constriction. “If the tales are true of these warriors, they need no weapon to engage an enemy. They have the strength of ten men in their hands and the smell of our blood in their nostrils!”

Lord Fadil’s face paled but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge what might be headed their way. “I will put my trust in this,” he said, holding aloft the sword he held. “It has never let me down.”

Dagan snorted and turned his back. He looked at his men. “Aim for the neck, men. Lop the head from their shoulders. Merely running them through might not kill them.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Fadil scoffed but was cut off in mid-complaint as Dagan grabbed him by the shirtfront and brought him forward.

“I don’t care what you do, Fadil, but if you fall victim to them, I will personally behead you. Is that clear?”

Tearing himself free, Fadil would have responded had not the sound of hooves come echoing toward them. As it was, as those around him joined in the battle with the Ordonese warriors bearing down on them, the cowardly lord took flight, hiding behind one of the tents. He never saw the Ordonese warrior until he felt the agonizing dual stings that pierced his neck and got a glimpse of the shaggy hair brushing his cheek as his life force was drained.

The battle had been one-sided from the onset. The riders who leapt from their brutish stallions were taller and heavier than the warriors of the Conclave. Swords were easily knocked aside or snatched out of the hands of the weaker soldiers. So quickly did the riders move, they were but a blur, a rippling shadow that flowed behind Dagan’s warriors and fell upon them with ravaging viciousness. Necks were ripped open by long, sharp fangs that buried themselves well past a warrior’s flesh and sank into pulsing veins. As his men fell beneath the onslaught of the bloodthirsty riders, Dagan knew the outcome would not be in his favor. His main objective was not to defend himself—for it seemed the riders were ignoring him—but to lop off the heads of his own men when the riders had drained them else they become one of the Undead.

Lady Neith sat astride her prancing stallion, easily keeping the brute in check. Her eyes never strayed from Dagan Kiel as he struck out with his sword, taking the heads of her men as well as those of his own. He was covered in blood and the smell was like an aphrodisiac whispering to her. Her nostrils quivered, her womb contracted in anticipation of being the first female to know the staff of the handsome warrior. She was mesmerized by his warring abilities, admiring of his own savagery as he fought. His brawny body and striking good looks brought moisture between her thighs. The distant, faint emotion of the human she had once been squeezed at her black heart when Lord Dagan’s lieutenant and friend was set upon by her own second in charge. She watched as Dagan’s eyes flooded with tears and he leapt to lop off the head of his beloved friend even as he roared in grief, the backswing of his arm removing the head of Neith’s lieutenant.

There were five of Neith’s warriors left. They slowly circled Lord Dagan, jumping easily out of his reach as he thrust his bloody sword at them. So quickly did they move, he often found himself staring at empty space where a blink of an eye earlier a warrior had stood. He was panting with the exertion of the fight, weakened by both the wielding of his weighty sword as well as the sorrow that was quickly settling upon his broad shoulders.

“Watch him,” Neith sent into the minds of her warriors. “He knows he has lost and he will attempt to take his own life. Do not allow him the chance!”

As though he had heard her ethereal words, Dagan took his sword in both hands, holding it at shoulder height, and began to pitch forward, his intention to fall to the ground, his throat upon the blade’s edge.

“No!” Neith screamed.

The movement of her warriors was a blur even to her keen sight as they propelled themselves toward Lord Dagan. One snatched the sword from the warrior’s hands, nearly slicing through Dagan’s palm, and another thrust a meaty shoulder under the falling man and swept him up as two others grabbed the surprised warrior’s arms.

Neith breathed a sigh of relief as she dismounted, keeping her attention latched on Dagan Kiel. After a brief moment of stunned amazement, he yelled in frustration and began struggling with those who held him.

“
They have the strength of ten men in their hands,
”
Dagan heard his own words to his men and was like a madman in his attempt to break free. In a distant part of his brain, he knew the fight was lost, the outcome settled but he fought on, his teeth bared. It was not until the woman came into his line of vision that he ceased to struggle. Once her mesmerizing gaze met his, he knew he was lost.

“Good eve, Lord Dagan,” she said in a sultry voice. Her crimson eyes were glowing, her ruby lips moist as she ran a forked tongue over the lushness.

Dagan shuddered, his knees weakening at the sight. He hung his head, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop what was coming.

“Lay him down,” Neith ordered her men. “Don’t let his compliance fool you.”

The riders lowered their unresisting captive to the ground and bent over him, one on each wrist, one on each ankle and the fifth squatting over him to anchor his head.

With glazed eyes that still bore the telltale hint of tears, Dagan stared straight up at the high-riding moon, lost already in his own mind.

Neith knelt down beside him, studying the handsome face that was splattered with blood and wet with sweat. She put a hand on his chest and reveled in the feel of his racing heart.

“I will make you One with me,” she whispered and as she lowered her face toward his as though she would kiss him, the warrior above him turned Dagan’s head to one side.

The sting of her fangs piercing his jugular vein and her lips drawing his life’s blood into her mouth closed Dagan’s eyes. His last conscious thought was of Jameela, the woman he loved.

Chapter Twelve

Jameela sat bolt upright and screamed. Staring wide-eyed into the darkness of the room, she did not feel her husband reaching out to her nor did she hear his calming words.

“’Twas but a dream, Sweeting,” Hagan said as he clumsily pushed himself up in the bed. His useless legs seemed more of a hindrance than they had ever been to him before and he cursed his lameness.

“I’ve lost him!” Jameela cried, burying her face in her hands.

A shaft of fear traveled through Hagan Kiel. “It was a dream,” he said again. “Dagan is fine. I would know if it was otherwise.”