Desire's Sirocco (24 page)

“If you stay here, you will die as Lord Khnum died,” he warned. “Book or no Book.”

She was well aware of Prince Sekhem’s hatred and his desire to see her head removed from her body. Her only choice was to go with the warrior but she wasn’t so sure that would be an easy feat to accomplish.

“Go get my godsdamned clothes and we will quit this evil place. We must be at the border ere the last brick is mortared into place else we’ll not be able to cross over,” he said. “I have no desire to live my life, such as it is now, here.”

Neith lifted her chin. “I still want you. I have claimed you and a portion of me is inside you. I have made you a whole man and I want the whole man!”

For the first time, she saw him smile.

“Well, bitch, you can have me. In a fashion, at least.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to,” he replied, easily blocking her probe.

* * * * *

Jameela shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight. The workers around her were toiling tirelessly, spades to earth and block upon block. Behind her, the artisans were melting bars of silver and as the top layer of wall was mortared in place, rushed to pour a thick stream upon the stone.

“This has depleted much of our treasury,” Lord Qasim grumbled. With each spreading of the silver, he winced as though it were being splashed on his flesh.

“Which is worth more, Qasim? Silver bars stacked in the treasury or my brother’s life?” the Grand Master inquired.

Sitting in his rolling chair, sheltered beneath an awning held by four stalwart slaves, Hagan Kiel was sipping a glass of lemon water with one hand while he patted the head of his favorite greyhound with the other.

Lord Qasim sighed deeply. “You know I hold Lord Dagan’s life almost as priceless as I hold yours, Your Grace, but…” He shook his head and looked down at the ground.

“They are only half a mile from us,” Jameela said, drawing the men’s attention.

“They?” Qasim questioned.

Jameela’s mouth tightened. “Aye. He has that woman with him.”

It was the Grand Master’s turn to wince. “The Ordonese warrioress you told me about?”

“The one and the same,” Jameela declared, her eyes narrowed.

“Why would he bring one of those demons with him?” Qasim asked.

Jameela “listened” but the answer was not forthcoming. She stamped her foot and cursed. “She’d best keep her hands to herself, Dagan Kiel!” she shouted.

Qasim and the Grand Master looked at one another.

“Be careful what you say, wench!” the Grand Master hissed, looking behind him.

Several members of the Tribunal were scattered about. They did not deign to lift a hand to help dig the canal nor lay a block in place or even plant a bulb of garlic but rather watched with an air of boredom and disdain.

“As though the Master’s Lady-wife has reason to worry about any woman laying hands to Lord Dagan,” one Tribunalist was heard to joke.

The Grand Master turned and glared at the offending Tribunalist whose sheepish look and red-stained cheeks caused those around him to keep other comments to themselves.

“Did she… Was he…” Qasim swallowed hard, his mouth twisted as though something vile lurked in his throat.

“She made him into one like herself,” Jameela answered the Minister of Justice’s concern. “But he says I am not to worry. He is coming back a better man than when he left.”

“You really can read his thoughts, wench?” the Grand Master questioned.

Jameela nodded. “Some of them but he hides others. There is a secret he does not want to share with me or you.”

Hagan Kiel threw his shoulders back. “By the Prophet he’d better think twice about hiding anything from me,” he snapped in his most authoritative voice. “There is a special dungeon cell with his name on it!”

Casting her husband a wounded look, Jameela felt the tears gathering. “Aye,” she said softly, “that there is, Your Grace, and one to which he has never…” She stopped, cocking her head to one side, frowning, and then she opened her eyes wide.

“What?” the Grand Master demanded.

“He knows about the cell because he put that notion in my mind,” she answered. “He says not even he knew why until now but that it will be needed every…” She seemed to be listening intently.

“Every?” her husband echoed.

“Three months,” she continued. “As he understands it.”

Then her lips pursed and her gaze grew stormy.

“And?” the Grand Master prodded.

“
She
will need a cell of her own,” Jameela snapped, turning away. “Aye, well, she godsdamned will have a cell of her own, as far from his as can be found!”

“For when they turn into raging beasts with bloodlust wild in their eyes,” Qasim said with a shudder.

“Riders!” called out a sentry from the break in the inside wall of the dry canal.

The workers stopped their labors and looked toward the area where the sentry was pointing. All along the wall for as far as the eye could see, men, women and children were ranged with picks and hoes and shovels in hand. Unseen at the farthest reaches of the dry hole dug five feet deep in the Ahkharuan soil, engineers stood at the floodgates, ready to lift the heavy wood and metal barriers so sea water could fill the canal.

“How many riders?” Qasim yelled.

“Two in the lead but a troop of fifty or so in close pursuit!” came the answer.

Jameela turned to a brace of archers who stood paused beside a flaming caldron. “Now!” she shouted.

The archers took up their bows and dipped their flannel-wrapped arrow points soaked in creosote into the caldron. A burst of flame flared and the arrows were loosed, one to the east and one to the west. Their arrows would alert other archers stationed along the walls to send their own signals toward the opposite ends of the canal where the engineers stood ready to loose the running waters.

Jameela bit her lip as she hurried toward the women and small children who were planting the last of the garlic bulbs on the Ordonese side of the border. “Hurry,” she said.

The last few bulbs covered, the women and children of Sahar Colony scrambled over the three-foot wide makeshift bridge that linked the two countries. Where the wood lay upon the ground, no garlic had been planted on either side of the border and would not be until Dagan was safely across. Their counterparts stood with their plantings in hand on the Ahkharuan side and had to move out the way so the others could pass.

“As soon as he is across, stand in the opening,” Jameela instructed the four women and two children. “Do not be concerned. The Ordonese will not run you down with the garlic in your hands.”

Hagan Kiel ordered Manu to push him closer to the openings in the double wall. The space was wide enough for the horses to jump across in single file. He looked to the left then the right and saw the dirt in the canal darkening. “The waters are coming,” he said then strained to find his brother speeding toward them.

Thundering hooves echoed across the barren land that separated Ordon and Akhkharu. As the beasts crested the hill, everyone could see Lord Dagan in the lead, riding bent low over his mount’s head, cutting the wind resistance as the black stallion raced toward the double walls. Another horse was speeding a neck behind Dagan’s.

“Hurry, Dagan,” Jameela whispered and was rewarded with a mental touch against her cheek.

Dagan used his reins to spur the big stallion faster. He could sense Neith close behind him but gave scant thought to the woman. His heart was thundering in his chest and with a vision that had improved one thousand per cent, he could see Jameela as clearly as though she stood right in front of him.

“
Move Hagan out of the way
,” he sent to his lady.

Jameela flinched. “Your Grace! You are in his path. Move back!”

Manu jerked on the handles of the rolling chair and quickly dragged his master out of harm’s way. Even as he did, the big brute of a stallion came flying over the makeshift bridge, its hooves not even touching the wood.

Dagan glanced down at the water flowing quickly toward the center of the wooden planks from East and West. A part of him issued a silent command for Neith to hurry while another part of him hoped the warrioress would be caught on the other side, trapped there. Had she not been in possession of the Book, he would have ordered Jameela to tell her people to bar the woman’s path.

“
You had better not
!” a violent push against his mind warned and Dagan grinned.

Jameela’s eyes grew wide as the black stallion bore down on her. She gasped even as her lover’s arm swooped down for her and dragged her to the back of the beast. She threw her arms around Dagan’s waist and pressed her cheek to his back, the stallion never breaking its thunderous stride.

The waters were converging as Neith cleared the wooden planks. She felt a vast sickness reach up to grip her and had to fight the instinct to pitch herself off her mount and stay clear of the running waters.

Hagan looked behind him and saw his twin racing back toward Sahar Colony. He heard Lord Qasim giving orders to the women to finishing planting the garlic.

“Quickly, now!” Qasim shouted, keeping his eyes on the advancing troop galloping toward the barrier.

The women planted the last of the garlic on the Ordonese side then ran over the planks as the masons scurried over to lay the last blocks in place and a metal smith stood ready to pour a stream of silver atop.

Dagan paused at the top of a rise and dragged on his mount’s reins, turning the beast so he and Jameela could see what was happening. The metal smith was the last over the bridge—barely clearing it before the plank was drawn back, the swirling waters beneath it lapping greedily at the banks.

“I pray the blocks will hold,” Jameela said.

“They will,” Dagan assured her. He smiled as he watched women and children stooping down to plant garlic on the Akhkharulian side of the border.

Neith sawed on the reins, her stallion coming to a skidding stop beside Dagan’s. She swept her eyes contemptuously over Jameela then turned her attention to the man she considered her mate. “Sekhem is cursing a blue streak, Beloved,” she said.

Dagan glanced at her then away. He was watching the Ordonese troops ranging well out of the way of the garlic-studded barrier. Prince Sekhem’s fist was raised in the air, his shouts as clear as a bell to Dagan’s enhanced hearing.

“One more word,” Dagan said softly, his words aimed at Sekhem, “and there will be no help for you from my people. Turn around and go back to Gaoth and I will see your needs are met.”

“
You will rue the day you defied me, Dagan Kiel
!” the Ordonese prince snarled.

“Such is life,” Dagan responded.

“You had better hope the garlic thrives and the wall stands,” Neith warned. “Else Sekhem will be here in a thrice to take your head.”

Jameela tightened her hold around Dagan’s waist and was relieved when he covered her hands with one of his. He gave her hand a tight squeeze then gave Neith a stern look.

“Go back to where my people are and ask for the Grand Master,” he commanded her.

Neith lifted her chin. “I will not! Where you go, I go!”

“I think not,” Dagan said firmly. “Go, else I will have my people come after you.”

Narrowing her eyes, Neith clenched her teeth as she spoke. “Do you forget I have the Book?”

“Go find the Grand Master,” Dagan repeated. “You’ll know why when you meet him.” Without giving the woman another second of his time, Dagan turned the horse toward the far hills and dug his knees into the stallion.

Neith was furious as the Akhkharulian warrior galloped away, the insipid woman draped around him like a thorny vine. For a moment, she had it in her mind to follow them but the womanly part of her—curious to know what Dagan meant—turned her toward the crowd gathered at the border. As she urged her mount forward, she could see Sekhem’s troop already riding hell bent for leather away from the stone barrier and back toward Gaoth keep.

“Your Grace,” Manu said, nudging his chin toward the advancing rider.

Hagan frowned for he could see it was the Ordonese woman. His hands clenched on the arms of the rolling chair and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Manu to get him the hell out of there lest the bitch make demands upon him. But as she drew nearer and he could see the blazing beauty of her pale face, he surprised himself by bidding his manservant to wait.

The closer she came to the crowd, the more uneasy Neith felt, but there was a pulling she did not understand though she did not understand what it could be. The pulling seemed to be coming from the heart of the mob. When a tall woman and her brats moved out of the way, Neith sucked in a breath for she could make out clearly the man at the center of the rabble and she felt her heartbeat quicken.

Hagan found himself staring at the beauty whose horse trotted toward him. There was nothing about her that did not please him. Had he been able to stand, he would have risen and given a stately bow so taken with her appearance was he.

He is lame
, Neith thought as she took in the rolling chair. Never mind, an additional thought flitted through her mind, that he was a carbon copy of Lord Dagan.