Warrior's Lady
Authors: Amanda Ashley
Warrior’s Lady
Amanda Ashley
(Originally published as Madeline Baker)
Dedication
To Bronwyn Wolfe, Candis Terry, and Heather Cullman—
Three new friends who share my love for writing,
The Last of the Mohicans
and
The
Phantom of the Opera
.
Thanks for your friendship and laughter.
CONTENTS
Spread-eagled on the iron-bound table, he tugged against the thick leather straps that bound his wrists and ankles, writhing helplessly in an agony of blood and bruised flesh.
Weeping, cursing, he fell back, his eyes closing beneath the heavy black hood that covered his head and neck like a shroud. The material, created by an ancient Fen wizard, seemed to breathe with a life of its own, allowing air to circulate while completely shutting out the light.
Where was she?
He clenched his fists against the pain splintering through him, praying that he would bleed to death before she came, praying that she would hurry. He could feel the blood dripping from his wounds. Worse than the pain was the weakness, the weariness that engulfed him after defying the Gamesmen for hours at a time.
He yearned toward the mists of darkness that swirled just out of reach, knowing that death was the only escape from the hell in which he lived, knowing that, as much as he desired it, death would not find him this day. His tormentors were skilled at the Games, carefully inflicting wounds that were at times exquisitely painful but never fatal.
Once he had tried to starve himself, but the giants who guarded the dungeon had forced the bitter yellow gruel down his throat by means of a thin hollow tube. It had been a most disagreeable experience, one he had no wish to repeat.
On those days when he was left alone in his cell, imprisoned in the darkness of his cell rather than the eternal darkness of the hood, he longed for the Maje’s presence, the sound of her voice. He ached for the touch of her hands, wondering what it would be like to feel her touch, not in healing, but in love.
He was on the brink of oblivion when he heard the door open and she was there. He could feel her presence beside him, the empathy radiating from her in golden waves of tranquility that were almost tangible.
He felt the warmth of her hands moving toward him and he shook his head violently from side to side. “Don’t.” His voice was weak, uneven, muffled by the hood.
“I must.” Her voice was low and soft.
“No.” He opened his eyes, wishing he could see her face just once. “Let me die,” he begged. But it was a foolish hope, for his wounds, while painful, were not life-threatening. Still, there was always a possibility that he might bleed to death if she withheld her gift.
“I cannot.”
“Please…” He forced the word through clenched teeth, hating the weakness that made him plead, the misery and exhaustion that stripped him of his courage, his pride.
“I cannot,” she said again, and he seemed to wither before her, as if he’d lost all hope.
And perhaps he had, she thought sadly, but she could not let him die. She was a Maje, a healer. She could not see him suffer and refuse to help.
Slowly she laid her hands over the bloody wounds in his chest.
The heat suffused him immediately. Wanting only to die, he tried to fight it, to turn it back, but he was defenseless against the strength of her touch. He felt the healing power flow from her hands, heard the harsh rasp of her breath as she absorbed his pain into her own body, amazed that she would willingly do such a thing. And then he remembered she was a prisoner, as he was, compelled to obey or suffer the consequences.
The heat of her touch increased, seeping down through layers of skin and muscle and tissue, filling him with a strange lassitude. His eyes closed. His body relaxed as she placed her hands on his naked flesh, moving slowly, deliberately, from the most serious injury to the least.
Her warmth and vitality flowed into him, healing, revitalizing, and then the pain was gone and he was whole again.
Whole—to spend another night chained in the darkness, alone.
Whole—to face them again in the morning. He was their toy, an amusement to help wile away the long hours of the dark Hovis winter.
The ancient Games of Skill, originally intended to test the mettle of warriors, had been corrupted, until the Games were no longer a contest of strength and courage, man to man, but a sadistic ritual to see how much a condemned man could endure without breaking. The Games had been outlawed in every province until the Minister of War and his cronies had decided to reestablish them in the Pavilion, which was located in an abandoned walled city located a league and a half from the king’s palace at Heth.
How long had he been here? How long since he’d seen the sun, a friendly face, heard anything but the song of the lash and the sound of his own screams? A month? A year? It seemed a lifetime. The only bright spot in his dismal existence was the fact that they didn’t play the Games every day.
And yet it wasn’t the pain of the Games that made him long for the escape of death, it was the loss of his freedom, the constant darkness of the hood, the awful fear that he was gradually losing his identity.
Time and again he repeated his name as he endured the long lonely hours.
He summoned the image of his ancestral home to mind, mentally walking down each long corridor, through each room. He imagined he was riding his warhorse across the sun-kissed fields. He recalled the smell of freshly turned earth, the light and heat of a summer day, so different from the constant darkness of the dungeon…
He felt her presence withdraw, felt the coldness that always encompassed him when she left the chamber, leaving him there, alone, in the darkness.
He was trembling with pain and fatigue when next she went to him.
He wasn’t on the table this time, but manacled to the cold stone wall, his arms and legs stretched to the limits of endurance, naked, as always, save for the scant scrap of black cloth carelessly knotted around his loins.
She felt her heart constrict as her gaze moved over him. Even in the darkness, she could see him clearly: his head completely covered by the hood, his lean muscular body covered with burns and welts. Bad as they looked, none of the wounds were fatal, but the Gamesmen were skilled at inflicting pain.
It went against everything she believed in to heal this man, knowing he would have to endure more of the same on the morrow. In any other circumstance, she would have died rather than allow her powers to be used for such a purpose, but her death would not bring an end to his suffering. Indeed it would only prolong it, for without her gift, he would be left to heal on his own, his body forced to suffer its aches and pains for days instead of hours.
She felt his distress even before she touched him. It was not the pain of the flesh that tormented him the most; rather it was the loss of his freedom, the sense of helplessness, of utter hopelessness, that festered in his soul.
She wished she could free him, but she was a prisoner in the Pavilion just as he was, compelled to obey or face the consequences. And she didn’t have the courage to defy her captors, to face the awful tortures of which the Gamesmen were masters.
She moved toward him, trying not to care that he was suffering, trying not to think of the pain that would come to her when she placed her hands upon him.
His head jerked up as he sensed her presence. She was here. He blinked back the tears of relief that welled in his eyes, hating himself for his weakness, for craving her touch. But tonight the pain was worse than usual. Tonight they had been unusually creative. Wielding their finely honed knives with infinite skill and care, they had carved pictures on his chest and legs and arms—a warhorse here, a two-headed red snake there, the sharp blades of the Gamesmen piercing his flesh with restraint so that they did little more than break the skin. One had drawn a fair representation of a fire-breathing dragon across his right thigh and then pressed a glowing chunk of coal against his skin, burning the outer layer of flesh so that smoke seemed to billow from the dragon’s mouth.
It had been the searing of his skin, the smell of his own singed flesh, that had provoked his first anguished scream, the threat of being burned again that had made him cry for mercy.
It was what they had been waiting for, the screams, the pleading, that made the Games worthwhile. He had heard one of the Gamesmen howl with victory as he collected his winnings from the other two.
They delighted in his cries. A new Game Piece was drawn at each session to see what response would signal the end of the Game, and then they wagered to see who could first produce the required response, betting large sums of lucre to see who could force him to cry out first, who could make him scream the loudest, the longest. Who could make him beg for mercy. He never knew what reaction they were looking for, which response would bring an end to the Game.
In the beginning, he had screamed at the first cut or the first stroke of the lash, hoping to bring a quick end to the torment, but they had soon cured him of that.
In punishment, they had flogged him unmercifully, then left him to hang by his bound wrists while the blood and the sweat poured from his body. The minutes had gone by, slowly stretching into hours, each hour seeming longer than the last. Pain had wracked him from neck to heel. He had shivered uncontrollably as his tortured muscles screamed for relief.
Hooded, he had waited in the dark, wondering if they would come back, or if they intended to leave him there to die. And while he waited, he recalled every gruesome tale he had ever heard about what went on in the Pavilion.
Even now he hated himself for his weakness, for submitting to their will, for not dying when he had the chance and thereby putting an end to the misery in which he lived.
But, in the beginning, he hadn’t fully realized what kind of life awaited him at their hands. In the beginning, he had wanted only to live, to put an end to the agony that burned through every inch of his flesh. Desperate to end the pain, he would have promised them anything. Only when they had obtained his oath to play the Games their way, his promise to stifle his cries until he could no longer endure whatever torture they saw fit to inflict on him, had they let the Maje come to him…
And now she was here again. Relief washed through him as he felt her nearness, and then her hands were touching him, drawing out the pain, restoring his mutilated flesh. He heard her gasp, felt her hands tremble as his suffering became hers.
He regretted causing her pain.
He hated her for healing him.
He loved her for healing him.
Weary and confused, he closed his eyes, surrendering to her touch, his thoughts wandering toward home. He could see it all so clearly: the rolling green hills, the towering Iswan trees with their brilliant gold-and-green leaves, the black and white Gentlesheep grazing on the flowering hillsides, his warhorse, Gabault, racing across the pasture, the sun shining down on the delicate stained glass windows of Greyebridge Castle…
“It is beautiful.”
Her voice drew him back to the present. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to the eternal darkness inside the stifling black hood. “What?”
“It is beautiful. Thy home.”
“You’ve been there?” he asked, and then wondered how she could possibly know where he had been born.
“No.”
She gazed at him in astonishment, aware for the first time that she could read his thoughts. It was a talent given to others of her kind, to be able to probe the minds of other people, but she had never been able to discern the thoughts of any but those of her own race. Until now.
“
I
saw it in thy mind,” she said, still amazed at her ability to do so. “Rolling hills and a castle of gray stone.”
He grunted softly, his heart wrenching with the knowledge that he would never see Greyebridge Castle again.
“Maje,” he implored. “Let me die. Can you not see that I yearn for death? Please, let me die.”
She wept silent tears at the bitter anguish in his voice. “I cannot. To do as thee asks would cost me my life, and though it is not worth much, I am in no hurry to lose it.”
“Forgive me.”
For a moment only, she laid her hand over his cloth-covered cheek, wondering what he looked like beneath the hood, wondering if he was dark or fair, old or young, handsome or plain.
For a moment, she thought of lifting the hood so she could see his face, but to do so would only make it harder to remain detached. For now, he was only an entity burdened with pain that she could heal. But if she knew him, his hopes and dreams, the shape of his mouth, the color of his eyes, he would no longer be just a faceless body, but a man, a life.
He let out a sigh as he felt the warmth of her touch through the heavy cloth, felt his throat constrict with unshed tears at her gentleness. Except for those times when she came to heal him, he had not experienced kindness since he had been declared a rebel and sent to the Pavilion. It left him feeling weak and hungry for more.
“She…” He did not know her name; always, in his mind, he called her she.
At the sound of his voice, her hand fell away from his cloth-covered cheek and she took a step back. “I must go. I pray they will soon tire of thee and give thee rest.”
He shuddered convulsively, not wanting to think about the three who had been there that afternoon, who would come again in a day or two.
Thai, who was so skilled with the longboar knife.
Siid, who loved to play with fire.
Gar, who preferred the long whip made of braided chain and hemp.
Of the nine warriors who came to take a turn at him, these three were the ones he feared most, the ones who stayed the longest, and played the hardest.
“She!” He called for her but she was already gone, leaving him alone in the long narrow chamber that was always colder and darker without her presence.
Early morning was his only respite from the chains that bound his hands and feet.
Shortly after dawn, one of the Giants who worked at the Pavilion entered his cell and removed the shackles. For two hours, he was left alone, free of any restraint, to eat the tasteless slop that passed for food, to relieve himself in the crude chamber pot in the corner, to prowl the dismal confines of his dark prison, wondering which of the Games his captors would choose to play that day.
Now, sitting on the cold stone floor, he wondered if the King had returned to Heth, if anyone but Rorke knew of his imprisonment in the Pavilion.
Jarrett swore under his breath. His whole trial had been a farce. It was unlawful for a warrior of Jarrett’s station to be tried by any but the King, but Tyrell had been away from the palace, visiting his allies to ascertain their loyalty in case of war with Aldane.
Alone and by night, Jarrett had been taken to the Great Hall to be judged by Lord Rorke, who was not only the King’s son-in-law but the Minister of War as well. Rorke, who had once been his friend.
Jarrett swore under his breath as the memories pressed in on him. Bound and gagged, he had been given no opportunity to speak in his own behalf. Instead, Rorke had found him guilty of treason, decreeing that he would be sent to the Pavilion, to be a pawn in the ancient Games for as long as he lived.
Rorke himself had delivered Jarrett to the Pavilion, where all who took part in the Games had sworn a blood oath never to reveal his whereabouts, just as they had sworn never to reveal that the Games were again being played.
Rorke had lamented the fact that he would have to delay his own participation in the Games, but in the King’s absence, Rorke’s duties as Minister of War had to take precedence over his own pleasure. He had business to attend to in Heth and then in Cornith. But he would be back, he had promised with a malicious grin, just as soon as possible.
Jarrett stared at the floor, wondering if Tyrell had returned to Heth, wondering if war had been declared, wondering what Rorke hoped to gain by keeping him imprisoned in the Pavilion. He thought of his mother, wondering what she thought of his sudden disappearance. Did she think him dead?
Questions, he thought. So many questions, and he had no answers for any of them.
They came at the usual time, the three he feared above the others. Siid picked up the hood, twirling it between his fat, stubby fingers, while Thai and Gar dragged him to the wall, reaching for the heavy iron shackles, talking about him as if he could not understand their words, as if he were an inanimate object lacking the powers of thought and speech.
He felt the anger rising within him, the fear. Once, he had been a warrior without equal. Men had respected him, deferring to his wisdom and judgment. Women had openly admired him, vying for his attention. Here he was treated like an animal. Nay, less than an animal, for no self-respecting man would abuse a dog or a horse as he had been abused.
With a cry of despair, he jerked from their grasp, darting behind the heavy metal table, his eyes wild as he sought a weapon, his blood singing with the need to be free.
“No more!” He shrieked the words. “No more!”
His tormentors looked startled, as if a favorite pet had suddenly turned vicious.
And then they looked pleased. He had not defied them for so long, they had thought him completely cowed.
“Ah,” Gar said with a malicious grin. “It would seem that our noble Jarrett desires to play a new Game.”
“Then let us oblige him,” Siid remarked. He moved to stand in front of the thick wooden door, drawing his heavy sword as he did so.
Gar and Thai grinned at each other and then started toward the table, one going to the left, the other to the right.
With a deep-throated growl of resignation, Jarrett realized he was trapped between them. There was nowhere to go, no way to avoid the Gamesmen who were advancing toward him, their swords drawn and ready.
Thai drew first blood, opening a shallow, six-inch gash along Jarrett’s left thigh.
Gar matched it by piercing Jarrett’s right thigh.
Thai lifted one bushy white brow, then, with a sharp thrust, he plunged the tip of his blade into Jarrett’s left shoulder.
Gar did likewise on the right, and then, taking the lead, he raked the point of his blade down the length of Jarrett’s right arm.
For the next hour, they played their game, Thai targeting the left side of Jarrett’s body, Gar the right.
Jarrett watched their faces, sickened by the cruel delight that glowed in their red-rimmed eyes as they tormented him, never inflicting a wound that could be fatal or crippling. They did not want him helpless or unconscious. They wanted to challenge his stamina, to drive him to the very brink, to see if they could provoke him into fighting back even though he knew he could not win.
By midday, the smell of blood and sweat was strong in the room. Shortly thereafter, one of the Giants arrived with a tray of food. Jarrett was left to lie on the rough-hewn wooden floor while his captors sat down to eat Second Meal.
