Warlord (11 page)

“Yes, my lord,” said Sabalak, bowing as he backed out of the tent to make the necessary preparations. The command in Arystan’s tone was not lost on him.

Arystan turned back to Sara, looking down at her, his eyes burning. “So, woman . . . we will continue this . . . later.” His eyes flicked to the rings on the pole above her. “I will not bind you while I am gone. But you will be here when I return.” His eyes narrowed.

“Do not disobey me or you will die, I assure you.” He stared at her a final moment longer, and then quickly dressed in the skins and armor from the stone bench. He strapped his short sword to his waist, slung a large scabbard over his back and left without giving Sara another glance.

Arystan paused outside his tent and caught a camp servant roughly by the arm. “Y-y-yes, my lord?” the man faltered.

“The woman in my tent. I charge you personally to attend her, within reason. She is not to be harmed or touched, in any way. That includes binding. To do so will mean your death. She is also not to leave my tent. If she does, that will also mean your death.” He gave the man a hard look. “A long, slow and painful death.”

The man paled and stammered his assent as Arystan disappeared into the darkness.

The woman in the red-and-white flowered bikini began to undulate on the sand. Whew, she thought, it was supposed to be hot in the islands, but this was far, far beyond her expectations. A delicious sensation swirled around her body, as if she was engulfed in a languid, decidedly sexual, whirlwind.

She raised up on her elbows, looking around the beach while fanning herself with her tourist map. There didn’t seem to be any breeze. Well, it should only be a moment before her husband returned with the coconut drinks from the stand they had passed on their way to the shore. That ought to help her feel cooler.

She suddenly felt again so . . . erotic. Was it the thought of her husband now that they were vacationing together in a romantic setting? Or perhaps the lifeguards. She cut her eyes over to the tower where two fit, dark men reclined in beach chairs, casually scanning the ocean. Mmmm. Yes, they certainly could rescue her any day. Her thoughts drifted to the bellhop at the hotel this morning. She was certain he must work only part-time, his afternoons taken up by surfing, thus explaining the deep tan and toned body she noted under his tightly fitting uniform. She lifted up a bit, her eyes sweeping over the men with surfboards in her vicinity. Maybe he was here now, somewhere . . . .

The woman suddenly began to shudder. She felt an irresistible urge to touch herself, to thrust her fingers into the bottom of her bikini and rub at her clit. She knew it was swollen, white-hot, she could even feel it pulsating against the fabric of her suit. But she resisted, her senses steeped enough in reality to remind her that she was on a public beach. Instead, she writhed under the sensations, lifting her hips, grinding her shoulders into the sand, digging her toes into the soft beach.

“Oh my god, mon,” said one of the lifeguards. “Dat woman. On the beach. She’s having a seizure, mon.”

“Grab da bag. Go!”

The woman began to make small mewling sounds as her hips began to buck faster and faster, a keening building in her throat. She tried to fight it back, but the beach began to recede and her bubble of ecstasy grew higher in intensity until it was nearly ready to burst. She stretched her arms out above her head, her fingers alternately opening and closing, grains of sand sliding over her palms, as she began to openly wail.

“Run, mon. Run!” The two lifeguards reached the woman and threw their bag down beside her, frantically rummaging through it.

“Aaaaaaaaah,” she shrieked, trying to hold onto the sand, finding it insubstantial, her hips rising even higher in tangent with her voice. And then she collapsed, panting, spent, falling flat to her back, releasing her clenched fingers, her cries falling to silence, her floral-encased breasts rising and falling deeply.

“Is da seizure over? What shall we give her, mon?” asked one of the lifeguards to the other.

“Good grief, what’s going on here?” demanded a middle-aged man in long, yellow swimming trunks, bright red flip-flops, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. He held a coconut with a straw in each hand and looked stunned, staring at the dark-skinned lifeguards kneeling over his wife.

The two men looked up at him. “Who are you?” one asked, sweeping back his long, matted coils of hair.

“That’s my wife. What’s wrong with her?”

“We don’ know mon. Does she have seizures?”

“Seizures? What? What on earth are you talking about?” he spluttered.

The woman’s eyes fluttered open, taking in her husband standing above her, holding the coconuts. “Honey?” she asked softly. “I’ve changed my mind. Can you bring me a hot dog instead?”

* * * * *

“I don’t know what you things are all worked up about.”

“You can’t abuse your power . . . our power . . . thisssss way. There are lawssss.

Rulessss,” said six voices in an echoing unison. The mists could speak separately, but also together if united in thought or purpose. They were.

“Odd,” said the mist, blacker than the others, coiling indolently into the shape of a serpent, “no one mentioned any ‘laws’ or ‘rules’ when you recruited me.”

“You are supposed to know. Automatically.” The words reverberated in the empty cosmic space.

The seventh mist made no response, suddenly uncoiling and breaking apart into a billion specks of black floating through a tangerine expanse.

Violent pulses of light flared and pinwheels of color stopped and then started again, as the surroundings reflected the fickle impulses and emotions of the mists.

“When we ‘recruited’ you, we senssssed great promise. You were strong, courageous, willing to speak to the spirits, ruthless even. Some ruthlessness is necessary. We are not pushoversssss. But you are not supposed to not bring with you your mortal baggage.

When you become one of us, your consciousness merges with wisdom. You become someone – something elssssse.”

“Look. You can’t tell me you mists don’t have ‘needs.’ I’ve seen the way you watch the mortals compete. I don’t see what harm one woman on the beach –”

“It is not the woman in the sandsssss.” The darkness ebbed and flowed, bluish light swirling and pulsating fiercely. “It is the mortal who survived the testing. You invaded her. Suppressed her memoriessss. You are trying to control her. Once chosen, the mortals are to be trained as protectors, not ussssed for your own endssssss,” they hissed unpleasantly.

The universe curled in on itself and exploded outward again.

“I intended to train her . . . until I had her and then . . . she was so contrary. And that sprit and fire and contrariness was all mine! Mine to use to my own advantage. Fuck the rest of you. You pulled me into this without asking me. I’ve been here for nearly two millennia and accomplished nothing, as far as I can tell. I want my body back. I want my power back. And I will have both. I will be even more powerful than I could have ever imagined.”

The stars spasmed like a shimmering curtain, pinpoints of light winking in and out. The six mists seemed very upset.

“You shifted the mortal within the timeline. You cannot do that. There are consequencessssss.” The word rippled in space, wound around the stars, twisting and dipping through sparkles of radiance, seemingly not wanting to die away. The mists spoke over it. “Consequencessss to interfering with the timeline. You are meddling. It is forbidden. The mortal world must remain restricted to linear time, even if we are not.

You will upset the harmony, the balancccccceeee,” they hissed.

“Can you stop me?” The black shape swooped and darted, almost roguishly among the colorful patches of light, completely at ease.

There was a long silence.

“Nooooo. We cannot stop you. Unlessssss you fail. Then, we can.”

“I will be certain then, that I succeed,” it responded.

* * * * *

The flush from her skin began to dissipate but she was still warm. Her thighs felt sticky, the lubrication from her arousal now drying. She wished she had some water both for drinking and washing. She became aware that the bindings around her breasts were becoming uncomfortably tight. She wrestled with the leather for a few moments before the straps loosened and fell from her. She stood in the torchlight, naked from the waist up, massaging her aching breasts, moaning with pleasure from the release of the strictures.

“Ahem.”

Sara jumped at the sound, turning rather quickly.

A thin, dark man with a weasel-shaped face stood in the tent entrance, his eyes flicking around nervously.

Sara thought to cover herself, but the man wasn’t even looking at her; in fact, it almost seemed as if he was purposefully avoiding it. She really had nothing with which to cover herself anyway, except perhaps one of the furs from the bed. Sara decided it likely mattered little to the men in the camp whether she was dressed or not. She dropped her arms and turned fully to face the man.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Is there . . . anything I can bring you? Food, perhaps?” he muttered. She sensed a note of great reluctance in his offer, as if he hoped she would decline. His rat-like eyes were still scanning the room, taking in everything but her.

She considered this. “I’m not hungry, thank you. But I am thirsty. Could you bring water?” She wasn’t sure how she had earned the privilege of food or drink. This wasn’t the way Rainura had described it, but she wasn’t going to decline the man’s offer; she really was very thirsty.

“Certainly,” said the man, making to leave.

“Wait,” Sara called. He poked his head back through the flap. “Er . . . perhaps also a washbasin – and a cloth?”

She didn’t really think this request would be granted, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

Particularly, if she was nice about it. She wondered something else, but thought she would wait until he returned to find out.

“Certainly,” he said again, grimacing as he disappeared and secured the flap behind him.

Minutes later he returned with what she had asked, setting the things on the table, not speaking as she thanked him. She decided to test her theory.

“May I leave the tent? Go back to the enclosure?”

He drew back from her as if burned, his eyes slitted. “No,” he said quickly. His eyes flicked to the walls where Sara was sure armed soldiers patrolled. “You are under guard.

You will be killed if you try to leave. Do not try,” he added nastily, doing his best to sound very convincing.

He stared at her a long moment and then hastily exited the yurt. He knew that more than Sara’s life was at stake if she slipped away. It was also his own.

That confirmed what Sara had suspected, but she was not really surprised. She drank the water gratefully, removed the rest of her clothing and washed herself. She was shocked to find that the water in the small basin was actually warm.

She felt tired now. Sara wondered how long it took to ambush a regiment of horses. It had sounded like a good opportunity: the cover of darkness, a narrow valley, a mountain pass, the element of surprise. Something about the strategy she found interesting, stimulating even. It seemed as if she had some familiarity in the past with such things.

How could that be possible?

The need for sleep drove thoughts of strategic warfare from her tired mind. Sara looked around for somewhere to rest. The floor? The only other option was Arystan’s own bed.

Dare she? She walked over to it. She had never slept in a fur bed before, at least she didn’t think so. It looked quite comfortable. She experimentally tested it. It was firm, but not hard. Perfect for . . . . She caught herself, trying not to think about what she could be doing with Arystan right now, especially since she was about to crawl under his covers completely naked.

The torches seemed to be lowering. She didn’t know whether someone came in to maintain them or whether they were just allowed to sputter and die out each night, but the lower level of light suited her drowsiness. Without another thought, Sara slipped into the golds, reds, and browns of the furs, all impossibly soft, caressing her flesh, soothing her, and promptly fell asleep.

Sara awoke. She was facing the wall of the tent and felt nothing covering her. It was warm and she had apparently kicked off all of the fur coverings in Arystan’s bed while she slept. She quickly recalled where she was. She heard low voices outside the yurt and then heard someone enter.

She watched a dark shadow flicker briefly across the stretched skin wall next to the bed.

There was a small silence and then someone sat down heavily at the table. She slowly rolled over. The torches were even lower now, and some had gone out, but there was enough light by which to see across the room.

Arystan sat at the table, disrobing and removing his armor. His cloak lay over the bench next to him. He unfastened the bronzed bands which encircled his corded upper arms and set them down, beginning to work on his plated vest. His black hair was matted on one side, a dark stain of blood visible at the hairline. Blood streaked his face and neck.

Sara sat up, making no effort to cover herself, watching him. He met her gaze, his fingers working the fasteners loose down the front of his armor, saying nothing about the fact that she was in his bed. Sara hesitated and then slid from the bed, walking softly around the table to where Arystan sat. His black eyes followed her, burning with intensity as she moved the cloak aside and straddled the smooth bench beside him.