VirtualWarrior (23 page)

“So you don’t go through this process?”

“Oh, aye. We do, but we have our own ritual here in the
Wood. Any consummation of importance is not a private thing. In Tolemac and
Selaw, all who are concerned in the choosing of the moment attend, and
representatives from each chiefdom if they hold an interest in the alliance.
The chamber may be as crowded as this hall is at this moment.”

Lien shook his head. “No.”

“I would imagine Samoht’s was just as well attended as this,
Ardra’s half as much. Her lifemate was not of Samoht’s stature. Samoht would
have representatives from all eight chiefdoms. Sometimes lots are drawn because
the desire to attend is so great.”

There was no way Lien could imagine maintaining an erection
in front of a crowd like this. “You’re telling tales.”

“Not I.” Cidre stroked the shape of her goblet’s stem, up
and down. It was a languid, sensuous gesture. It left him cold. “The deed is
done, and the woman is separated from her mate, and all other males, until it
is determined whether she has conceived. If she has, she is considered a
well-chosen mate, and the child lucky, the father lauded for his virility.”

“And if the woman doesn’t? Do they go through this public
bedding again?”

Cidre smiled. “Nay. The couple is left in peace to take
their own time with the matter. We are not quite so cruel. But the fates have
not smiled on the match if such be the case.”

The young girl on Ralen’s lap poured wine for him. Cidre
watched them. “She is one of the mating dancers.”

“What?” Lien could not help looking at the carved figures
behind him.

“Mating dancers. During the ceremony, should the male find
the matter,” she licked her lips, “shall we say intimidating, he is encouraged
by the dancers.”

Encouraged.

Cidre leaned forward. Her robe slid open a bit, and he could
see clear down to her waist.

“Where’s your consort?” he asked.

She shifted, and the robe slid a bit more to reveal a
swollen, dusky nipple. “Venrali is unwell. I had hoped he would join us, but he
did not feel up to the noise.”

“Isn’t a consort a mate?” Lien tried not to stare.

She moved, and the robe slid back into place.

“Nay,” she said. “A consort is not a mate, although he goes
through a mating ceremony of sorts. He is a specially chosen man who services
the goddess in order that a daughter will be born and the wisdom of ages passed
on. To be my consort is a great honor.”

“I’m sure it is.” And the poor old soul was about to get the
boot for another man. An unwilling one, if that was why Cidre had stolen the
Vial of Seduction.

Samoht shouted for quiet and left his seat. He held his cup
high and wandered down the table. As he passed his men, the Red Rose Warriors
stood up in a little mini-wave motion, and Lien realized they were sprinkled
throughout the hall.

“I wish to propose a few tests of skill, Cidre,” Samoht said
as he reached the very foot of the long table and faced the goddess.

The men straightened up, and murmurs rippled down the
tables.

“Men and their games,” she said sotto voce.

“I challenge anyone who will take me up on the offer of a
test of blades.”

One of Samoht’s warriors climbed away from the table and
went to the open area between the long table and the double doors.

“I will accept the challenge,” the man said. He pulled off
his tunic and stood there, sweating, bare-chested, his hand on his hilt. He had
three silver-hued rings on his right arm.

Ralen leaned near Lien and informed him, “If the man bests
Samoht, he will become a lieutenant without having to earn the right in
battle.”

“I see.” Samoht also pulled off his tunic. Though Samoht had
a lean appearance dressed, he was well muscled. He had to be strong to wield
the heavy sword he wore. Anger sizzled through Lien again when he thought of
Samoht holding Ardra down.

The two men met in a clash of swords. It looked deadly.

The hall hushed, everyone rising, gathering about the two.

The crowd formed an oval a tad too close to the action for
Lien’s taste. He shoved spectators with his stick until he stood next to Ardra.

She glanced over her shoulder. Worry etched her brow. “He
has taken too much wine,” she whispered to him. “He only challenges when he is
sotted.”

“Then he won’t do that well, will he?”

“He triumphs no matter what condition he is in.”

The two men sparred back and forth for a bit, then Samoht
slowly drove the challenger back until he fought right up against the crowd,
which never budged.

Bets flew as coins were strewn on the floor—a problem for an
unwary boot, but the two fighters seemed not to notice the bounty at their
feet.

True to Ardra’s word, Samoht lunged forward in a fluid motion
and toppled the challenger into the spectators. He held the tip of his sword to
the vanquished man’s throat, then drew back, snatched up his goblet, brought to
him by one of his warriors in anticipation of his success, and drank.

Everyone clapped and cheered. The warrior on the floor was
helped up. He bowed and shook his head.

Lien looked at Samoht’s arms. He wore three silver arm rings
on his right arm and two gold on his left. Not an ounce of fat showed on his
body, but Lien saw with satisfaction that his own six-pack was more defined
than old Sam’s.

Samoht drained his goblet and called for more wine. He held
out his cup and scanned the crowd.

“Now it is his turn to choose an opponent,” Ardra said. “It
is the winner’s right.”

“How long will this go on?” Lien asked.

“Until Cidre calls an end to it or until everyone is asleep
with drink.”

“Lien.” Samoht called his name, and the crowd before him
parted. “I challenge you.”

Ardra gasped.

Well, well. So the sheriff wants a showdown.
“I’m a
pilgrim,” Lien called out. “We do not like to fight.”

Cidre strolled with an almost dancelike motion to where he
stood. “You cannot refuse.”

“I have vowed I will not pick up a sword or dagger ever
again.”

“Oh, a sacred vow,” Samoht shouted and raised his cup. “Let
us drink to the sacred vow.” Everyone followed suit.

“I do not like his manner,” Ardra said.

Samoht walked toward where Lien stood with Ardra, sheathing
his long sword as he came. “I will allow you to choose the weapon, pilgrim.”

“You cannot challenge a pilgrim.” Cidre took Lien’s arm. His
rash flared hot.

He disentangled himself as Samoht said, “As long as he is
garbed as a warrior, he is a warrior.”

The five pilgrims gathered around him and chattered protests
at Samoht and Cidre.

Samoht shrugged, a crooked smile on his handsome face. It
masked a sneer. “Am I right?” he asked. He spread his hands out to the crowd.

“Fine.” Lien shoved the pilgrims aside. “I’ll take your
challenge.”

Ardra opened her mouth, then closed it.

“What weapon, pilgrim?” Samoht asked. He planted his hands
on his hips. He was pretty tanked.

“Sticks.” Lien lifted his long stick a couple of inches and
then let the tip drop with a rap on the floor.

“Sticks?” Samoht threw back his head and roared with
laughter. His warriors joined in, but Cidre and those near Lien did not. They
glanced about, sure there was some trick to come.

“Fine. If you don’t think you’re capable.” Lien shrugged.

Samoht swallowed his laughter. “Not capable? Bring me a
stick,” he snapped and began to divest himself of his sword belt.

One of the Red Rose Warriors strode to Nilrem and tore the
stick from the old man’s hand. He sputtered a protest, but no one paid him any
heed.

Cidre stepped into the oval of onlookers. “We must have some
rules.”

“The same ones for any challenge,” Samoht said.

But the goddess shook her head. “Nay. These are sticks, not
swords. Swords can cause death.”

Samoht grinned and held the stick as Lien did, upright, one
hand loosely around it near the top. “Then no rules. Anything goes.”

“Agreed. Anything goes,” Cidre said and smiled. “And no
tunics, Lien.”

“Women are always trying to get me out of my clothes,” he
said. Ollach and Ralen’s men laughed. Cidre curtseyed to him. Ardra frowned.

Lien handed his stick to Cidre to keep her busy in case she
decided to touch him. He didn’t need the distraction of his rash.

Samoht wandered about the oval of spectators, riling the
crowd. The five pilgrims cried out vociferously in Lien’s behalf, but they were
pretty much alone in championing him.

Lien dropped his belt and drew his tunic over his head.
Ardra came forward and took it from him, folding it precisely and speaking near
his ear. “I have seen him fight. Often. He likes a quick first strike and a low
one.”

“Thank you, Ardra. You can be my fight manager if I survive.”

“May the gods smile on you,” she said, then stepped back.
Her knuckles were white as she squeezed his tunic in her hands. Briefly she
touched the tunic to her lips, then lowered it.

He felt his heart begin to knock in his chest. Her serious
manner reminded him this wasn’t a game.

Samoht was standing hip-shot, one hand clasped about his
stick, one hand around a goblet of wine.

The crowd was manic, a bit like the ringside crowd on the
pro-wrestling network. Bets were flying, coins spilling on the floor by
Samoht’s feet. A couple of gamblers scattered some coins near Lien’s feet, but
damned few. Only those from the high table were standing in silence.

Lien figured he might as well give everyone their money’s
worth. Then he smiled, the pro-wrestling thought sparking an idea. He’d pretend
he was in the ring.

He did as Samoht did. He wandered around his end of the
oval, using the stick like a weight bar to give his shoulders a stretch,
working out the kinks in his back and arms from sitting too long.

After that, he rested the stick behind his neck and held the
ends loosely, so his arms were spread. A murmur ran through the crowd. He heard
whispers about his tattoo and the roses. Somehow, he’d forgotten the roses
around his neck. But as Samoht stared at him, Lien saw his gaze drop to the
chain over and over again.

“My stick’s bigger than yours,” he called out to Samoht.

The crowd howled, and the councilor frowned.

“We shall see,” he growled.

Lien brought his stick down and held it in one hand, the tip
on the ground. As he hoped, Samoht did the same.

Lien smiled. “We shall see.”

Cidre called that she, too, would like to see whose stick
was bigger. Lien inclined his head to the goddess, lifting his stick.

He heard the word snake whispered. In its wake, a gold coin
spun near his boots and rang on the wooden floor.

Samoht might top him by an inch or so, but Lien realized
that he had a longer reach.

Samoht handed off his wine cup. Lien forced himself to
remain loose. He wanted a piece of Samoht so bad he could feel the need flood
his mouth.

Samoht stood with one foot forward. He stomped the ground
with the end of his stick. Everyone’s attention moved to the councilor. Lien
shifted his stick so he held it loosely in both hands, horizontally in front of
him.

Whatever wine haze fogged Samoht’s mind cleared. Lien saw
the change on his face. Samoht’s gaze dropped again to the glass roses.
Something flickered on the councilor’s face. Confusion? It was time.

Lien clamped his fists on his stick and lunged forward. He
thrust his stick between Samoht’s legs and tossed him on his ass. Samoht’s
stick spun out of his hand and rattled across the floor.

Lien straddled Samoht and held the stick across his throat.

The crowd fell silent. Samoht kicked at him with his legs
and twisted, growling, fists on the stick.

They were frozen, Samoht pressing up on the stick and Lien
down. The stick shook. Lien held it in place, sweat pouring off him, ready to
crush the councilor’s throat, consequences be damned. Samoht gasped and choked.
The long chain with the glass roses dangled inches from Samoht’s face.

Cidre walked forward.

“The winner,” she said, and placed her hand on Lien’s
shoulder.

Lien climbed off the councilor and away from Cidre’s hand.
Samoht rolled onto his side, gasping for air. The pilgrims burst into cheers.
Ollach and some of Ralen’s men joined in, but mostly the circle of spectators
stood there in silence, staring at him—or rather, at his arm. The arm he held
high in triumph.

Samoht came up fast. He snatched up his stick and whipped at
Lien—low by the knees.

The blow stung, but Samoht didn’t know his weapon. Lien did.
He whipped his stick around and poke-checked the councilor once in the stomach
and once on the shoulder as he went down, the wind knocked out of him.

Before Samoht could challenge him again, Lien bowed to Cidre
and took a victory half-circle at the far end of the oval. He fisted his right
hand around his stick and pumped it in the air. He made sure everyone saw his
tattoo. If the snake could raise some fear, then by God he would use it.

A Red Rose Warrior helped Samoht to his feet. The councilor
stood with his hands on his knees, gasping. Then he straightened and impaled
Lien with a look as sharp as glass. He smiled. “Well done, pilgrim.” He held
out his hand.

Lien approached warily. He didn’t trust the councilor. But
Samoht was a true politician. He made the most of his defeat. He wrapped a
sweaty arm around Lien’s shoulder, and overwhelmed him with his wine-scented
breath. “Come. Sit by me.”

Samoht slapped his hand on Lien’s chest and called for wine
all around. It was an excuse, Lien figured, for him to examine the roses. The
councilor hooked the chain and rubbed a thumb over the earrings. He dropped
them just as quickly as he’d snatched them up.