Warcry (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

HEATH STOPPED TO PULL HIS AXE FROM HIS SADDLEBAGS, which allowed Atira to slip into the shade of the forest for a moment to try and release her anger.

Here, the trees stood tall, concealing the sky with their bright green leaves. Without the sun, the air here was cooler. Heavier, somehow.

Atira shivered.

She was a warrior of the Plains, of the wide-open grasses. Yes, they had alders growing by the waters that reached the height of a warrior and a bit beyond—but nothing that grew as tall as these trees, towering over her head, blocking out all light and sound. Atira felt hemmed in by the trees, their stout trunks blocking her sight, and the underbrush hampered her movement.

How was a warrior to see, to know what was coming, to see what was behind? She shivered again and took a step back before she caught herself.

“Ready, milady?”

Heath’s voice startled her, and she jumped slightly as he came to stand next to her.

His blue eyes were warm and understanding, which just angered her even more.

“I am not your lady,” she bit the words off. “That is a—”

“I know, I know,” Heath said as he walked past her. “It is a Xyian way that is of the city and therefore foul and evil.” He turned his head, looking around. “Nothing good here. We need to go farther in.”

“There is wood here,” Atira said, picking up some dried branches.

“Small sticks aren’t going to cook a meal,” Heath said. “If it bothers you, go back and look for dried dung.”

“There’s none,” Atira said glumly.

“What, not interested in fresh?” Heath looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows arched over his sparkling eyes, alight with mischief. His lips curved ever so slightly.

Atira’s heart lurched, and her own lips started up as well before she caught herself and stiffened.

“I know you fear the woods.” Heath turned away and started down a path that only he could see.

“I do not fear it,” Atira said angrily as she followed him.

“Remember how I felt, when we were racing hard to catch up with the Warlord and his armies? When I rode out on the Plains for the first time?” Heath continued, ignoring her protest. “Couldn’t figure out which direction we were traveling, much less where we were. The open sky was a nightmare.”

“It was not,” Atira said. “It has a beauty all its own.”

“So you told me then.” Heath kept walking.

Atira stayed silent, remembering all too well when she’d spoken those words. They’d been naked, wrapped in blankets, sated and sweet in each other’s arms. Heath had spoken his fears, and she’d comforted him with more than just words.

Atira tried to forget, but her body remembered.

“I am not afraid,” she insisted, following Heath as he headed deeper within the tangle. “I am . . . uncomfortable.” She stopped for a moment, looking around. “The forest is so full. Everything moves in the wind, and there is no clear path.”

“There are deer tracks,” Heath chuckled. “We are following one now. And you need to have a care for widowmakers, that’s for sure.”

Atira stopped, her hand on her hilt. “What are those?”

Heath pointed up and off the side. “There. Dead branches held up by other branches. They can fall without warning and hurt anyone caught below. If they kill a man, they make a widow.”

Atira stared at him. Her command of Xyian was fairly good, but that was not a word she knew. “What’s a widow?”

Heath paused. “A widow is a woman who has lost her—” He stopped. “Maybe a better word would be
deadfall
. If it falls on you, you are dead.”

Atira glanced up, looking at the mass of tree branches and leaves above her head. “Deadfall,” she repeated, letting her frustration show. “So now, I need to fear ‘up’ as well as what is around me?”

“There,” Heath pointed. “That’s what we are looking for.”

It was a massive tree, lying on its side, its dead branches bare. Heath hefted his axe, and started to work at a thick branch. After a few blows, he leaned his weight on it, breaking it away from the tree with a sharp crack.

“It’s dry enough. You should be able to break it in threes.” Heath helped her drag the branch over to a clear area.

They worked in silence, broken only by the ringing of Heath’s axe. After a bit, birds started to sing again, becoming used to their presence. There were other sounds as well. Atira stopped, lifting her head from the work to try to identify the strange rustling noises around them.

Heath paused, breathing heavily. “Mice, probably. And squirrels.”

Atira looked around even more. Heath had the most experience hunting in this land, and he’d brought in a large sack of squirrels one night to camp. Lara and Marcus had conferred, and the camp had been treated to something called ‘squirrel stew.’ Atira would be more than willing to have that again.

The work went fast. They had a sizable pile, almost more than they could carry back to camp. If Atira was to try once again to make things plain to him, it must be now. Even with bells, there was little privacy in camp.

“I want it understood between us,” she started, cracking one last large branch. “You and I have shared bodies, Heath of Xy, but this means little to me, as this is the way of our people. You are mistaken in thinking it means more.”

The chopping stopped behind her. Good—he was listening for once.

“I am in the service of the Warlord, and you serve the Warprize,” she said. “Our paths are the same for now. But this talk of bonding needs to cease. We cannot continue to argue in camp. It upsets the Warprize, and she has more than enough of a load to bear.”

Atira turned to find herself nose to nose with Heath.

He was standing there, glowering, sweat gleaming on his brow. The breeze carried his scent to her. Strong, clean . . . male. And so very familiar.

Her mouth went dry. This close, she could feel the warmth of his body and the heat of his glare. Skies above, she wanted him still, even with his odd city ways. She swayed toward him, licking her lips.

“What we shared,” came his soft growl, “was not meaningless.”

Atira started. “I didn’t mean—”

“So it was meaningless,” his voice lowered, rough with desire, “when you were lying there at Master Healer Eln’s, bored out of your mind while your broken leg healed, and I came and read the
Epic of Xyson
for hours on end.”

“Heath,” Atira whispered, fighting her rising need.

“I taught you to read and write Xyian, and you taught me the language of the Plains,” Heath continued. “Lying there, your leg all rigged up. So beautiful. So determined to learn. To heal.”

“As the Warlord commanded,” Atira said.

“Meaningless, the first time I kissed you.” Heath lifted his hand and touched her lips. “I couldn’t get enough of your sweet mouth. We got those straps and weights all tangled, and Eln threatened to vivisect me.”

Atira smiled faintly. “I didn’t know what that word meant.”

“Eln explained it, didn’t he? In vivid detail.” Heath drew closer. Atira lifted her head, waiting . . . hoping . . .

“Then the day that Eln let you walk, I suppose it was meaningless that we
celebrated
that night, late into the night.” Heath put his hand on her hip. The heat of it burned through her leathers. “Remember? That first night?”

“Heath,” Atira breathed, letting her eyelids droop, taking in his scent. Waiting for his kiss.

Instead, Heath knelt down, his gaze never leaving hers as he lowered himself down at her feet.

Atira caught her breath.

Heath calmly started to gather firewood.

“Meaningless. All of it. Every danger, every bedding, everything we’ve shared.” Heath gathered several pieces of firewood as he spoke.

Atira frowned down at the top of his curly head. “That is not what I meant. You Xyians—”

Heath stood up abruptly and shoved the firewood at Atira. She took it, and then stood there as he started loading more on. “This isn’t about Xy, or the Plains. This is about you and me. It has been months since we shared our bodies. Months since you threw me out of your tent. Months since I asked you to bond with me.”

“I am of the Plains,” Atira snapped. “I do not choose to bond. I am free to sleep with any others that I choose. You—”

“But you haven’t,” Heath said.

“What?” Atira stared at the man.

“Months, now, since I asked you to bond with me,” Heath repeated as he took a step closer. “Since you threw me out of your tent and your life. But you haven’t shared with anyone else in all that time, Atira.”

“I . . .” Atira raised her arms higher, as if the firewood could offer protection from the heat of those eyes.

“Have you?” Heath demanded.

“I—” Irritated at her own stuttering, Atira blurted out the truth. “No.”

Heath pressed closer, forcing her to step back. “You can protest all you want, Atira of the Bear, but you and I know the truth. I love you. I want you, in all ways. Your obligations to the tribe are done. You are free to bond, free to choose a life with me. And that is what I want, Atira. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“No.”

“You are afraid . . .” Heath said, his eyes flashing.

“No,” Atira denied.

“Uncomfortable then.” Heath started to smile. “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” He moved close enough that the bark on the firewood brushed his chest. “Don’t I?”

Atira pressed her lips tight together, to keep from blurting out her fear. Of him. Of her feelings.

Heath smirked. “I scare you, my fierce warrior. I terrify you.”

Atira drew in a breath to deny his words, but Heath leaned in, his lips close to hers.

“Coward,” he whispered.

With a snarl Atira dropped the firewood and went for her dagger.

Heath danced back, laughing, taunting her . . .

“Heyla, you two.”

They both jerked their heads around to see Prest coming toward them through the wood.

“You are wanted.”

“What is it?” Heath asked, still keeping a wary eye on Atira.

“A messenger has come,” Prest said. “He carries news of your ‘father.’”

CHAPTER 4

ATIRA FUMED AS SHE FOLLOWED PREST AND HEATH out of the woods, clutching her load of firewood and trying to avoid all the obstacles of the cursed trees. Roots to trip over, branches to fall on you. She wanted nothing to do with trees, with Xy, and with one city-dweller in particular.

How dare he call her a coward? She should have gutted him where he stood. No token in his hands, that smirk on his lips. Heath was making her crazy; he just would not listen to her.

It didn’t help that Heath seemed to glide over the deerpath ahead of her, moving confidently even though his arms were full. Atira cursed the earth as she stumbled yet again.

Clearly, his wits had been taken by the winds. She should just ignore him, just forget him. Invite another to her tent and wash her hands of him.

So why couldn’t she take her gaze off him as he walked in front of her, his leather armor tight over his—

“Wait a bit, Prest,” Heath said.

Ahead, Prest paused at the edge of the trees, looking back over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised in a question. He also carried firewood, since there was no sense wasting empty hands.

“Let’s get out of these trees,” Atira urged, casting around for threats from above.

Heath gave her an amused look, then moved up to stand next to Prest. “I just want a look at the messenger before he gets a look at us.” Heath paused just at the edge of the brush.

“Why?” Atira asked, coming to stand behind him.

“Scouting the enemy,” Heath said.

Prest stiffened at the same time Atira did.

Heath gave them both exasperated looks before turning back to peer through the leaves. “Just because they are from Xy doesn’t mean they support Lara.”

“They made no threat,” Prest rumbled.

“Not all threats are with swords,” Heath said softly. “Look at the sundering of your Council of Elders.”

Atira nodded, understanding. Sometimes words were deadlier than blades.

“Xylara is the consecrated Queen of Xy,” Heath continued. “Her word is the law of the land. But that doesn’t mean the Lords will all support her, or offer no threat, even with Keir as Overlord.” Heath tilted his head, as if to see better. “Interesting . . . Who kept them out of the tent?”

“Marcus,” Prest said.

“Good,” Heath said. “Give her a minute or two to wake up before she talks to them.”

Atira craned her neck, looking through the branches, trying to see for herself.

There were three Xyians standing some distance from the tent. Two of them were dismounted, holding the reins of their horses. They each wore a cloth of green over their armor and appeared to be warriors.

The one that remained mounted wore clothing that seemed to glitter. There was no sign of armor that she could see, although the man had a sword at his side. His clothing was trimmed in the same color, the deep green of a pine tree with sparkles of gold.

“What’s interesting?” Atira demanded.

“Prest, can you get some others to carry this wood?” Heath set down his load of firewood. He brushed off the dirt and bark from his leathers as he rose.

Prest nodded, adding his load to Heath’s.

“Why?” Atira demanded.

“Because to Xyian nobility, appearances are everything,” Heath said, starting to take the wood from her arms. “And that messenger is Lanfer, Lord Enali’s youngest son. A man of importance in Water’s Fall and as friendly as an ehat in rut.”

Atira let him take the firewood. “Why is that interesting?”

“Because that means that the messenger is not a member of the Castle Guard, or one of Lord Marshall Warren’s men,” Heath said. “Which probably means that the message is not from my father. It’s probably from the Council.”

Heath reached out as if to brush dirt from her chest. Atira knocked his hand aside. “So? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Heath admitted. “But it’s something that we need to keep in mind.”

“The Warprize will know this?” Prest asked.

“I’m not sure.” Heath shrugged. “Lara and I were raised together, but once she decided to become a healer, she spent more time with her teachers than in the castle. She’s never really been a part of court life, like I have.”

“Ah,” Atira said. “She’s not of the tribe’s tents.”

“Xy is not all one big tribe.” Heath gave her a sharp look. “And you need to remember that Xyians do not have tokens.”

Atira rolled her eyes. “‘Xyians do not have tokens,’” she said mockingly. “Xyians may use their fists if provoked, but only fists. Xyians give warning before their swords are drawn.” She snorted. “We are to treat them as children. We are not to take insult at their words.”

Heath flashed her a grin. “Oh, you can be insulted. Just don’t draw your sword and kill them with a stroke. Like Keir did when Lord Durst insulted Lara.”

“The man did not die,” Atira said.

“Close enough,” Heath said. “But even the Warlord acknowledged that he had made a mistake.”

“True,” Prest said, then started toward the camp. Heath gestured Atira on and followed behind.

They had the Xyians’ attention the moment they emerged from the trees. Atira focused on the mounted man—about Heath’s age, was her estimate, although it was hard to tell with Xyians.

His upper garment was padded and worked with threads that sparkled in the sun. The effect was pretty, but Atira was certain that her dagger could rip right through the fabric. His hair was short and as blond as her own. She couldn’t see his eye color from here, but she could see his glare. And it was focused on Heath.

“Lanfer,” Heath greeted the man as they walked closer.

“Heath.” Lanfer dismounted, handing the reins to one of his warriors. He tugged at his clothing as he gave Atira a glance, looking down his nose. “Still chasing your Plains whore?”

Atira jerked to a stop in surprise.

Heath took two steps past her and punched Lanfer right in the face.