Through the Veil (14 page)

Medical supplies, weapons, food necessities, material for clothes, all the things needed for fighting an endless war . . . did a pair of decent shoes really count when an abundance of boots lay around?

He left the bed and rummaged through the medkit for some antiseptic and skin sealant. After he cleaned the raw patches of skin, he applied the sealant, gently running his hands over her narrow feet, looking for any other mark.

A few more blisters on her toes and along the ankle, but none were as ugly as the ones on her heels. After he cleaned the rest of them up, he put the medical supplies aside and gently rolled her over. He eyed her from head to toe, studying the battered condition of her gear. Mostly just dirt and wear. Eira’s granddaughter, Elina, had left behind most of her clothing and the women were of a similar size, so at least Lee’s clothes fit.

And she had more than one set of clothes. Thank the saints for that. What she was wearing was filthy. Beyond filthy. Caked with dirt, soaked with sweat. He did a mental tally, thinking through the work rotation for the nonfighters. He was pretty sure one of the women near his bunker was on rotation with the cleaning staff. The fighters all took their turn through the work rotation, but the last thing Lee needed was more work heaped on her. Eira wasn’t done with her yet.

Once Eira gave her a chance to breathe, Lee could pick up the rest of the grunt work they all had to do, but until then, he’d pull rank and get her a little help. Decision made, he reached for the seal of her jacket. The edges peeled apart and he cradled her against his chest like a doll as he tugged the jacket off. The sleeveless top she wore molded to her sleek curves like a second skin, the hem of it ending just at her waist, inches above where the waistband of her pants started.

He ran his fingers over the narrow strip of skin and watched as the muscles in her belly rippled. So soft. He remembered how Lee had looked standing in that field, her hair falling in a riot of curls around her shoulders. She had been all big blue eyes, soft curves and golden hair, wearing those slinky, silky garments that outlined each and every curve.

Looking at her had hit him on so many levels. A fist in the heart, actually seeing her and knowing she wasn’t going to disappear with the sunrise. An uppercut that left his head reeling as he tried to figure out what this could mean for him, for his world. And then there was the more basic reaction—the one that had his cock standing at attention, bringing to the surface all the urges he had been forced to bury for so long.

Getting her naked, getting her beneath him, all warm and open and waiting for him. Desperate to feel the heat and softness of her sex as he pushed inside. She would be hot and soft. He knew it without even touching her.

Soft—Kalen couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced anything soft in his life. War had a way of hardening things. For a minute, he was jealous. Jealous of Lee and the world she’d left behind. Life would be hard there as well, in some ways. He wasn’t fool enough to think that the magick-blind world was without its difficulties. But a man there would have more time to slow down and enjoy a warm, soft woman.

There were women in the resistance. Even among his fighters. But Kalen was in a difficult position. It wasn’t a wise idea to fuck a woman if he knew he might be sending her out to die the next day. Or, with the nonfighters, it was just too damned messy. The few lovers he’d had ended up thinking that being in his bed automatically equaled special treatment.

The men Lee knew in her world weren’t trying to live in a war zone. They could have sex one night and go about their lives the day after without fearing that they’d find their lover in a bloodbath. In one form or another. Soft didn’t belong in Kalen’s world. And Lee wouldn’t stay soft. He couldn’t help the regret that filled him as he thought about that.

Unable to resist, he pressed a hand flat against her belly. She sighed in her sleep and Kalen watched as the smooth, pale flesh undulated under his hand. Silky soft. Soooo soft . . . His lids drooped as he ran his hand from her belly down over her hip, until it rested on the curve of her thigh. There was firm, supple muscle under his hand. Thoughts of the war, thoughts of securing supplies or soldiers—all of them fell away and he found himself lost in a fantasy. A fantasy where he found himself wondering how those long, slender legs would look wrapped around his waist. How her body would feel under his, how her hair would feel wrapped around his hands while he kissed her.

He wanted to feel her mouth again. Wanted to taste her again and again, but just a kiss wasn’t going to do it. Kalen groaned and flexed his hand against her belly. He traced a finger around the tight, neat little circle of her navel and then lower, staring at the covered curves below her waist.

She’s asleep,
he reminded himself. Sound asleep, totally unaware, and he was sitting there, staring at her and practically pawing her. It took a monumental effort to drag his gaze away as he loosened the thick belt that cinched her pants tight. He stripped the baggy material off and kept his eyes locked on the ceiling.

It wasn’t that big a help. Even though he stared at the ceiling, his peripheral vision showed him the lacy triangle of the undergarment she wore, the smooth flare of her hips, the shadowed cleft between her thighs. He wanted to push her thighs apart and lie between them. Press his face against her. Taste her there—push her to orgasm and listen to her scream, then do it all over again.

Instead, he just finished stripping her pants away. “Being a bloody gentleman will be the death of me,” he grumbled. He tossed the pants into a pile of dirty clothes and then flipped a light, worn blanket over her.

She was still dirty, with smudges on her face and her hair in a tangle on the pillow. And beautiful. So damned beautiful. Lee was just going to have to sleep dirty. There was no way in hell he could do anything else. Better that she sleep dirty than to have him fall on her like a beast in rut as his control snapped. It was dangerously close already.

His cock throbbed in the tight confines of the skin-skimming shorts he wore under his combat pants, and his muscles were tensed and ready. His hands felt too empty, his skin felt too tight, and he was dying for another taste of her. A bigger taste, a deeper one.

No, he wasn’t going to do another thing while she lay sleeping like that. Aching and frustrated, he turned away from her. He grabbed his bedroll and threw it on the floor. He could ignore the sleeping woman. He had to.

Dawn would be here all too soon. And you never knew when an attack would come. Rest while you can, eat when you can, always be ready.

It had become a way of life.

He didn’t have the luxury of curling up beside a soft, warm woman and holding her close. Didn’t have the luxury of cuddling her against him . . . pushing her thighs apart and rocking against the warmth he knew was waiting there.

“You’re into self-inflicted torture,” he muttered, driving a hand through his hair as he kicked off his boots and shucked his shirt. Dropping down onto the bedroll, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

Tomorrow wasn’t going to be any easier for her.

Or for him.

FIVE

Doddering, stupid, arrogant fool—

There were other words that could be used to describe High Lord Taise. Crazy. Paranoid. Canny. Lucky.

But Raichar Taise had been serving his uncle for the past fifty years, and he had watched the man’s descent into madness. Maybe he had sped him down the path a time or two. Planted false evidence to make the High Lord believe his advisors were out to get him. An ambush or two. Paranoid people were so ridiculously easy to manipulate. Char had his own agenda, but right now, it suited him to go along with the old fool’s delusions, and add to them, on occasion.

Taking over a world, what had the man been thinking? It had been decades since Taise had upped the aggression against the other world. What had pushed his uncle over, Char didn’t know. No longer was he content just to take the females needed for the warriors and Sirvani coming of age—no, he didn’t want just enough, he wanted an excess.

Wanted them all. Perhaps Taise’s inability to produce a son of his own had been what pushed the old man over into the realm of insanity. And Taise truly was insane.

Char had known it from the very beginning. A lucid man would have seen the effects of the continued raids on Ishtan. Considering that they needed the offworld females to breed, a rational man would have shown more caution. Char knew well enough why the other Warlords had yet to question the High Lord. It simply wasn’t done, but then again, none of them had been living with Taise’s madness. From their safe distance, Taise’s mad decisions may well have seemed to be calculated risks.

Certainly the Sirvani that were bound to the High Lord weren’t going to do anything. Bound to the High Lord through blood and oath, their very lives would be at risk should they ever say anything against him. That bond also likely colored how they saw things—they would see things as their ruler saw them, unless they were powerful enough to resist the bond taking them over in such a way.

Taise’s insanity they would see as sheer genius, just as Taise saw it. His foolish, arrogant risks would be seen as confident and thorough planning. If this campaign wasn’t so bloody stupid, so bloody dangerous, even Char could have ignored much of it.

But it was stupidity. It had gone beyond the realm of arrogance into madness decades ago. And time was running out for them. Char had known it for a while, and it was only a matter of time before others began to see it as well.

Arrogance was a trait common among the Warlords, but their arrogance wouldn’t continue to blind them. It was a waiting game and one he was truly tired of. How much longer before the other Warlords realized that Shonar Taise’s sly war tactics were actually the machinations of a lunatic?

Char had his own plans, and if he wasn’t cautious, the lunatic could ruin them.

If the old man would just die—

Char cut that train of thought off before it could go any further. Taise’s psy abilities were all but gone, thanks to age and madness, but he was surrounded by loyal men. And more, men who were like Char, loyal only to themselves, who wouldn’t hesitate to use Char’s thoughts against him.

“What of the last contingent we sent through the Veil? How much ground have they gained?” Taise would have said something else, but a deep, wracking cough robbed him of his breath.

It was a deep, phlegmy sound, and altogether disgusting. When he looked up at his second in command, Taise had bits of yellow-brown mucus in his grizzled, matted beard. Char hid his revulsion and at the same time found himself somewhat cheered. That cough sounded worse today. It seemed to slowly worsen on a daily basis, and Taise would allow no healer near him. Could be pneumonia. Or the lungrot. Taise had a taste for the disease-causing shaf. Shaf addiction had killed more than its fair share in Anqar.

Perhaps fate would smile on Char and eliminate the old fool before Char had to act.

“Char? Damn you, boy, I asked you a question.”

Char hadn’t been a boy for many decades. At eighty-five years old, Char was in his prime. The Warlords were a long-lived race. The commoners in Anqar lived to perhaps a hundred, but Warlords usually saw three or four centuries, or more. Taise had been ancient for as long as Char could remember. The High Lord’s exact age was unknown. Taise wouldn’t give it up, and he had a nasty habit of killing his rivals, or anybody in the vicinity when he was on a tirade. Eventually most of the people who could have made an educated guess were either cold in the ground or had long since left the High Lord’s lands. By now, many of them were probably dead. Power was life in Anqar, and the weaker people died earlier in life, either by another person’s hand or because their bodies simply wore out on them.

Taise was a powerful bastard, but even his power had limits. Char had watched him carefully over the past few years and he knew the High Lord’s strength was dwindling. Of course, his mind, though crazed, still functioned. Char could all but hear his uncle gritting his teeth. He looked at Taise and answered, “We’ve brought back eighteen small families. Thirty-eight females near or at breeding age.”

“Thirty-eight females?” Taise snapped. “We sent a hundred and fifty men. We should have brought back three times that.”

“There were—circumstances.” Taise hadn’t planned on elaborating or explaining how a couple of plasma charges had brought down the side of a mountain, killing sixty-three of his men—and twenty-two families that they had grabbed on their sojourn. But Taise obviously wasn’t going to let it go. Just another sign of his madness.

A hundred fifty men was nothing to the High Lord. Even the families meant little. The men and boys would be castrated and put into use at High Keep. Women and girls became body slaves, mated to as many as five warriors. The man that impregnated her could keep her. But they had thousands of body slaves living in High Keep or in the surrounding warrior camps.

In truth, if the raids weren’t a way of life for them, they could have stopped the raids a hundred years ago, two hundred. Perhaps even longer. They had enough breedable offworld females, but very few chose to even consider that it was time to slow down, or completely cease the offworld raids.