Paladin's Strength Page 8

  An eerie scream rose toward the back of the wagon. It was a man’s voice—not a scream of pain but a strange wailing cry that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The beast did not like it. The beast did not like being attacked either, and for a moment, Clara felt her control slipping, the world going dim, her sense of self turning inside her skull…

  St. Ursa, no!

  Her vision cleared. There were more bandits. Of course there were.

  She’d been in one or two battles and they were always the same: moments of clarity interspersed with moments of dimness and screaming and loud noises. The world seemed to jump and skitter around her. She reacted to things before her conscious mind had even realized that something was going on. Something smashed into her left arm and it went numb to the elbow, so she hit it with her sledge and she didn’t die so that presumably meant she had won. She stepped back and something turned underfoot and it was the arm of one of the mercenaries, one whose name she had forgotten but who had cooked potatoes over the fire and it looked like he was dead and she wanted to feel that, to recognize that a man she had known was dead, but then someone was in front of her and they were trying to kill her so she killed him instead and then it was later and she had gotten shoved back toward the wagon and the mules were plunging and trying to retreat and Istvhan chopped into a bandit in front of her like a man splitting firewood and his back was exposed and another bandit went for the opening and Clara smashed his head open and blood sprayed across them both and then she heard that crisp crossbow noise and looked up and the attacker she hadn’t seen fell against her with a bolt in his neck and she staggered backward, lowering him to the ground as if he were merely wounded, even though he was the enemy.

  Were they winning? It seemed like they must be winning. She could hear Galen’s warcry somewhere off to her left. Brindle dropped his crossbow and grabbed for the reins on the mules, trying to keep them from bolting. The battle was right up against the mules and she tried to force her next opponent farther away, swinging her sledge in heavy arcs. He jumped back once, twice, and then blood came out of his mouth and he fell and Thorn’s sword was red as she pulled it free.

  For an instant, no one was attacking Clara. She listened. The wagon had stopped rocking. Brindle was making soothing sounds to the mules. Galen was no longer making his strange war cry. Was he dead?

  Something slammed into her then, driving the air from her lungs. She tried to swing the hammer, but her assailant had her arm pinned. Shit. The beast roared in her head. Her free hand met armor, and then she was being pushed back against the side of the wagon and she smelled ginger and sweat and Istvhan’s mouth locked over hers.

  …oh.

  Oh, I see.

  It was the last thing she expected, and even less did she expect her body’s immediate response. A pulse beat in her head and between her legs. Her blood roared as if the beast was waking inside her, and she fought it back—not now, not for this!

  His mouth was very hot. The wagonboard hit at just the right height that he was bending Clara back over it, one mailed arm across her back to hold her body against his. She dropped the hammer and clutched the edges of his tabard.

  If I knew fighting bandits would get me this, I’d do it more often.

  The kiss deepened. She felt the edge of his teeth against her lips. There was no gentleness to it, only fierceness and need, but that was fine, that was entirely correct. This was a battlefield and they were warriors. Istvhan kissed her as if they were locked in combat and Clara returned it with ferocity of her own. She slid her hand up the back of his neck, which was damp with sweat or blood, and wondered how fast he could get out of his armor.

  And then, as suddenly as it had happened, his eyes went wide and he stepped back, pulling his hands away as if he had been burned. “Domina,” he rasped. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. He dropped to one knee, his hand covering his heart. His pose was that of a knight offering fealty, but his face looked like a man who had seen his own death. “Domina, forgive me. It will not happen again.”

  “Well, damn,” said Clara.

  Possibly that was the only response that could have broken the tension. Istvhan’s stricken look was still there, but overshadowed with wry amusement. He bit his lower lip.

  “Get up,” said Clara.

  “I should not have done that,” he said, rising to his feet. “I am usually slightly less of an ass.”

  Clara did not know quite what to say. Part of her wanted to shuck his armor off and ride him right there on the road and never mind anything else. The rather more sensible part told her that would be a very foolish thing to do, particularly with everything else going on. Not now. Not one more complication.

  Besides, men may think they want an animal in their beds, but very few actually want a beast.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Battles. Yes.” She was still breathing hard. She wasn’t quite sure it was from the fighting. “Everything gets a little…err…wild afterward. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It does not matter. Battle or no.”

  She waited for him to say that she was a nun, but he didn’t. Instead he gave her another, anguished look, bowed deeply, and retreated as if devils were chasing him.

  Istvhan had never been so mortified in his life.

  He had done a lot of reasonably mortifying things in his youth, but this was really beyond the pale. He’d practically assaulted a nun. That she’d taken it good-naturedly and even seemed to rather enjoy the kiss was absolutely no excuse.

  Istvhan was a very large man. He towered over even the other former paladins of the order. He could loom over someone while sitting down. Plenty of women found that attractive, but he knew, all too well, how easily attraction could turn to alarm. And so he went to great pains to be a courteous, polite lover. When he flirted, he made absolutely sure that the other party was just as interested as he was. He did not ever want to see fear in a woman’s eyes.

  And he had just thrown all these rules out the window and manhandled a nun.

  Saint’s blood. I should be doing vigil on my knees on hard ground for this.

  Why had he done it? Under the mortification was a good bit of bafflement. It was simply not the sort of thing that he did.

  What was I thinking?

  Clearly he hadn’t been thinking. His faith in his inherent goodness had broken when his god died, but still, Istvhan had thought that not being a terrible human being was at least an ingrained habit by now.

  He’d heard movement and he’d come around the side of the wagon, ready to kill, and instead she’d been standing there with blood on her hands and her hair coming loose from its braids and a dead man at her feet and the Saint of Steel help him, he’d suddenly been more aroused than he’d ever been in his life.

  Saint’s balls, it’s a good thing I’m wearing armor or…

  Well. He’d have stopped. If she’d said anything, he would have stopped himself. He had to believe that.

  Clara hadn’t seemed terribly offended. That was something, anyway. Could I have picked up that she was interested, somehow? Subtle signs?

  His lips twisted. Ah, yes, how convenient that would be. Gets you off the hook for being an utter shit. How nice. Realistically, she’s traveling with mercenaries who are loyal to me and she may think it’s safer to play along instead of provoking me. Women made such calculations all the time. It was simply nauseating to think that one was having to make such a calculation about him.

  Was it the battle rage? The black tide that afflicted all the former servants of the Saint of Steel? That was a chilling thought. The battle tide made the saint’s paladins into killing machines. It did not drive them to assaulting women. That was a different sort of darkness.

  Although the Saint would have stopped us, obviously, the same way He stopped us from killing the innocent. Now we are without a guide, so perhaps…

  He searched his memory of the fight and could find n
othing that would lead him to believe that the battle tide had risen at all. He had been calm. He had kept his head the entire time. There were no gaps in his memory, or at least, no more than normally occurred when fighting for his life.

  And at the end of the day, you simply did not go berserk without noticing. It wasn’t a subtle thing. You felt it happening. You fought against it tooth and nail or you embraced it, but it definitely didn’t sneak up on you.

  But he’d still kissed the nun. Hell, if Istvhan was honest, there had been a moment there when he would have been happy to do more than kissing. He had forgotten the others, forgotten their surroundings, forgotten that she was a nun and not for the likes of him. Instead he’d had her in his arms and when he started to push her backward, she’d resisted, just for a moment. Until she’d chosen to yield. Weight and power, not small, not fragile, soft flesh and hard muscle, strength meeting strength.

  He was half hard just from the memory. He fought it back. Saint’s bones, what is wrong with me? It doesn’t matter if she decided she liked it, you don’t just slam into a woman without asking!

  Vigil, he decided grimly. Vigil on my knees. I’ll take back-to-back watches tonight, and maybe the cold and the pain in my kneecaps will beat some manners back into me.

  It was an easy enough thing to decide to do. They were very short on troops now. Two of his men were dead and of those remaining, only Thorn and Andrel were unhurt. Which makes any thoughts you’re having about Domina Clara doubly perverse. People are dead.

  She’d tasted of sage and salt and blood. The first two, he knew, came from the mixture she used on her teeth. The blood had been from a cracked lip or maybe it had been the enemy’s blood or maybe his teeth had done it when he slammed into her but it hadn’t stopped him and she pulled him closer and Saint’s black and bloody tongue, he was still thinking about it and he wanted more, he wanted to find her and pull her down beside him on the road if that was what it took and—

  Galen screamed.

  Clara heard that strange, uneasy wail start up again and felt her chest tighten. There was a knot of lust and confusion there, atop the adrenaline and the fear. The beast growled inside her head but she grabbed for the sledge and lurched toward the back of the wagons.

  It was Galen. There were four dead men around him, and he was pulling his sword out of the fourth. A straggler, perhaps, or one who had been knocked briefly senseless and then gotten up and attacked again.

  He was certainly dead now. Galen had made sure of that. A cut over the redhead’s eye sheeted blood down his face, a shade darker than his hair. The mule tied in the back had retreated to the full length of its rope and was hauling frantically on the bridle. Galen turned in place, the war cry slowly fading—and then saw Clara.

  He drew himself up and screamed, lifting his sword. His eyes were still green but veiled, as if he could not quite see her.

  Something in his scream called the beast closer to the surface. Sudden. Shocking. Clara heard herself roar a response, the beast’s voice in her throat, and then Galen swung his sword up and moved toward her, swift and deadly, and she dropped her head between her shoulders, ready to crush this small man who dared to challenge—

  Istvhan stepped between the two of them and shouted “Enough!” in a voice like a drill sergeant.

  Galen jerked backward as if he’d been struck. He dropped his sword and put his hands over his face.

  “Domina Clara,” said Istvhan, not taking his eyes off Galen, “are you injured?” His voice was calm and cool and penetrating. It did not occur to her not to answer.

  It took her a moment to find her voice. Istvhan’s shout had been like a bucket of cold water. Saint’s mercy, was I threatening Galen? What is wrong with me?

  “I’m fine,” she said. Her tongue felt thick. “Fine. Tend his wounds.”

  He shot her one brief look over his shoulder and then she felt him dismiss her mentally and turn his attention to his second-in-command. His voice gentled but its authority was absolute. “Galen. Do you know who I am?”

  “Brother,” rasped Galen. His throat sounded raw. And no wonder if that sound was coming from it. Is he some kind of berserker? She’d heard about them, of course. There were legends out of the west of men who went into a battle-fugue, and of course, there were the Saints of Steel, although they had all died along with their god.

  Istvhan sheathed his sword, stepped forward, and put his arm around Galen’s shoulders. “All right?” he said.

  “You did well,” said Istvhan, still in that soothing, authoritative voice, leading him out of the range of the panicky mule. “It’s over.”

  Galen’s shoulders shook. After a moment he said “You stopped me.”

  “You stopped yourself.” Istvhan shot Clara a glance she couldn’t read and dropped his voice. Clara stepped back, giving them room. She would have liked to hear the rest of the conversation, but her curiosity was nothing compared to the sound of Galen’s pain.

  Ten

  There were three wounded, which was very good considering how badly they’d been outnumbered. Marli had woken again but couldn’t remember the last day and kept trying to get up. They loaded everyone in the wagon, including Galen, who sat with his head down and his wrists draped over his knees. Clara itched to wipe the blood from his face but he so clearly did not want to be touched that he might as well have been carrying a sign.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked Istvhan softly.

  He gave her a strange, hostile look. His voice was flat and emotionless. “He’ll live.”

  “We need to clean up everyone’s wounds…” She made a helpless gesture toward the wagon, knowing they could not stop to light a fire.

  “I know, but we can’t rest here,” said Istvhan. “More may come. Did the rabbits betray us?”

  “The warrenmind? No, of course not. They told us that there were humans here, and as far as they’re concerned, that was the end of it. No, this was humans. Probably someone gossiped in the market. And the thought of one last prize, so late in the season…” She trailed off delicately.

  Istvhan grunted. There was a long, shallow cut along his forearm. He’d wrapped the edge of his cloak around it, but there was a dark stain starting to show through the fabric. “We’ve got to get away from here. We’re sitting ducks. Do you think they’ll be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I should have expected it,” said Istvhan. “I knew there were too many people watching us. But it went on so long and nothing happened…”

  Clara sighed. “I felt it too. But I kept thinking that I was being paranoid.”

  He made a sharp angry gesture. “Later. We can yell at ourselves once we’re out of range.”

  “Can we get out of range? With the mules?”

  “Mules are good at what mules are good at,” said Brindle, who was settling the mule that had panicked earlier. Possibly that was a no. The gnole got onto the wagon seat, glanced around, then slapped the reins and got the team up to a brisk walk. Marli groaned from inside the wagon as the rough road rattled her head.

  “Domina,” said Istvhan, again in that calm, flat voice, “would you be so kind as to join me in the lead? I wish two sets of eyes scouting, and Galen will be indisposed for some time.”

  “Of course.”

  They took point. Clara had kept the sledge. It was in an ugly state, but she was not quite willing to let it go.

  Istvhan set a rapid pace that got them well ahead of the wagon. The road ahead was full of twists and places where men could easily hide. It made sense to have an advance scout. I believe that. But he is not looking at me like another pair of eyes. He is looking at me like a problem.

  He did not speak for some minutes as they walked. Clara’s unease grew. Finally he said “Did you shout at Galen as a joke?”

  “A joke? No! No, I…” You what? Roared at him because the beast felt challenged and you smelled blood? Care to explain that?

  “You what?” said Istvhan quietly, and Clar
a finally identified what was lurking under the calm.

  It was rage.

  Istvhan was furious. The black tide swirled around his feet, which it never did. Of all the broken paladins, he was the one who never lost his head. His berserker fits were rare and easily controlled. When the god died, while his brothers turned into mindless killing machines, he had quietly fainted and woken days later in the Temple of the Rat.

  But it roiled around him now, the tide climbing higher. The woman beside him had challenged Galen while he was lost in the battle madness. Roared at him, with a voice that he could hardly believe had come from a human throat. And Galen, who would have gotten loose from the tide on his own, had slid back under and charged her.

  If Istvhan had not been there, if he had arrived even a moment later…

  And why were you so far away? Why did you not check on him immediately? Because you’d kissed her and were off flagellating yourself for it, and you nearly let them both die because you were too afraid to face her.

  “Galen is a berserker. You could have died, Domina. And your death would have broken a man who already spends his nights in hell.”

  His voice did not shake. He was calm. He was always calm. He would be calm the day that the black tide finally took him, wrenched him off his feet, and he died with a sword in his hand.

  She increased the space between them. Was it fear? Could she tell that he was angry?

  “I did not taunt him,” she said. Her voice was also slow and measured, and he had the sudden sense that she was also angry, that the two of them were standing on a terrible brink and the only thing keeping them from falling was this strange, performative calm. “I did not know he was a berserker. I am sorry if I caused him distress. It had nothing to do with him.”

  He finally turned his head and looked at her.

  She met his eyes squarely. Hers were a shade lighter than his, amber instead of earth. Her stance was deliberately relaxed, the mirror of his. She was still carrying the sledgehammer in one hand, the head dangling beside her leg.