The Lost Reavers Page 10

  For a moment the fox sat on the narrow beam of metal, looking over its shoulder at him, and then it leaped off and was gone.

  Hugh rubbed the palm of his hand into his eye until he saw stars, then turned to survey the wreckage of his room. The air was thick with the smell of sex, sheets tossed everywhere, pillows discarded across the floor, half the bathwater spilled onto the rugs, the furniture moved about in a state of general disorder. Zarja’s discarded clothing, he realized, had disappeared.

  Exhaustion fell upon him. He sat on the edge of the bed. What had he done? What had he agreed to? The import of his decision loomed before him, too vast for him to understand, the implications too complex for him to fathom in his state.

  With effort he crawled onto the mattress, shoved a pillow under his head, and sank into sweet and numbing oblivion.

  Chapter Five

  Hugh awoke to the sound of knocking. Rolling over, he glanced at the open doors that led out to the verandah. Just past dawn. Putting his hand to his temple, he blinked blearily. He must have slept - what - three or so hours?

  It was enough.

  “Enter!” he called as he rose from the bed, wrapping a sheet around his waist.

  The door opened to reveal Anastasia, dressed in a crisp new uniform of the same cut, her hair worn in an immaculate crown braid, her eyes widening as she took in the chaos that had swept through the chambers.

  “I…”

  It was almost amusing to watch her wrestle with how to best address the situation. Her disciplus training required discretion and reserve; the sight of Hugh and the shambles of his bedroom seemed a direct assault upon those instincts. “It’s past dawn, my lord.” She was temporizing, still taking in the room. Her eyes returned to him, traveled up and down his figure once and then locked onto his shoulder. “Your injury?”

  Hugh looked down at where the bandages had been torn off at some point the night before while wrestling with Zarja. The skin beneath showed only a faint, puckered scar.

  “Doing well,” he said, rotating the arm. “Your skills are exemplary.”

  “But…” Anastasia took a few steps toward him then drew up short. “You’re already healed? How - even with my care it should have taken you weeks - ?”

  “Lots of rest, plenty of sleep, and a healthy diet,” said Hugh, casting around the tousled rugs and discarded pillows for his clothing. He plucked up a tunic. “Nothing like it.”

  “You were apparently up all night,” she said, voice almost helpless with confusion. “You drink nothing but wine, and were injured yesterday. To have healed already - did - ah.” Relief flowered in her expression. “A healing draught. No wonder you wanted to reach the lodge so quickly. Of course. Or the services of an in-house medicus?”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Hugh, casting around for his pants. “Just so. Everybody ready to leave?”

  Anastasia glowered at him, sensing immediately how he was brushing her off. “We are. I’ll await you in the courtyard. I’m afraid you’ll have to miss breakfast if you want to be on the road by sunrise.”

  “We’ve wine in the cart, don’t we?” He grinned at her. “In which case, I’ll be all right.”

  Anastasia just stood there, her handsome, elegant features furrowed with confusion and frustration.

  “Anastasia?” asked Hugh.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to get dressed.”

  “Oh. Oh! Of course. I was just - this doesn’t quite - I mean, yes. My apologies.” She half turned, checked herself. “What am I apologizing for?” Gave a quick shake of her head and moved to the door. “Never mind. I’ll see you below. Yes.”

  And let herself out.

  Hugh grinned again. He enjoyed seeing her flustered. Something, he was sure, that very rarely happened to her.

  In short order he was dressed. It was only when he took up his blade that he stopped. He distinctly remembered tossing it aside last night when Zarja had…

  The very memory caused him to stir. He took up his sword. He’d never normally treat a weapon in so cavalier a memory. To have just tossed it down spoke volumes as to the state he’d been in.

  Elena was Zarja. A lisica. One of the forest people, a cousin of the fae, beholden, in times long past, to the Thavma themselves.

  And he’d consented to her joining their expedition north.

  Another memory: how she’d pinned him to the floor with surprising strength, one clawed foot across his neck, somehow rubbing her sex across his face as she’d reached back to work his shaft up and down, her gasps and taste mingling to -

  Hugh looked about, found a wine bottle, uncorked it and drained it. A mild sense of euphoria washed through him, the wine made more potent by his latent tiredness and lack of sleep.

  He set the bottle down with a loud clink on the table.

  The evidence of last night’s marathon session was all about him. He couldn’t pretend it’d been a dream. Which meant Zarja would soon present herself below.

  His one last chance to turn her away. To honor the spirits of the Lost Reavers that traveled with him still. He didn’t want to think how Black Evec would react to all this.

  Fucking Fortuna.

  Five minutes later he stepped out under the great portico. The cart had already been brought up, Bullnip harnessed, Blue saddled and waiting for him. Old Miran was lamenting as to the suddenness of his departure, how he was missing out on the ever-so-simple repast that awaited him in the formal dining hall, and how unadvised it was to be traveling north into such dangerous territory without sufficient guards, but Hugh barely paid him heed.

  Morwyn was there, dressed in her traveling leathers, watching him with hooded eyes. Anastasia was climbing up onto the cart’s headboard, studiously avoiding his gaze. Where - there.

  Elena stepped into view from behind one of the portico’s columns. The guards by the front door stiffened, hands moving to pommels, but Hugh raised a hand.

  “It’s fine, I know her.”

  “The girl from Stasiek,” said Anastasia, surprised. “She followed us here?”

  “Honorable lords and ladies,” said Elena, moving forward and bowing her head nervously. “Please excuse my daring. I know I trespass, but I had to press Lord Hugh one last time for the honor of serving him on the road.”

  Old Miran’s face screwed up in supreme displeasure, looking for all the world as if he’d been forced to drink a full cup of vinegar. “How brazen! What temerity! Give the word, my lord, and I’ll have her escorted off the property immediately.”

  Hugh studied Elena. It was her, the girl he’d known this past year from the inn, right down to the way she was pulling her hair before her scarred cheeks. Impossible to reconcile her with Zarja. What sublime acting. She looked up at him, eyes their regular cornflower blue, and curtseyed.

  Everyone turned to him, awaiting his decision.

  “She’s determined, I’ll give her that much,” said Morwyn, voice dry. “Though why she wants to serve you is beyond me.”

  Elena glanced up at him through her locks of blonde hair.

  “She can come,” he heard himself say, and thought he heard a roar of disapproval from some unseen host.

  Old Miran sniffed. “We have several servants who would be more than willing to take her place, my lord, with years of loyalty to your house, not to mention the fact that you should have a dozen guards at least to protect you in case of attack -”

  “Thank you, old friend, but no.” Suddenly he found himself needing at least some semblance of justification for his decision. “She proved a friend and loyal servant during my time at the Rusałka Inn. I know her value and welcome her service.”

  “Very well, very well, though I don’t know what your father would have thought…” muttered Old Miran, turning away to look out over the distant trees.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Elena, a bright smile crossing her features, pulling at her twin scars. “You won’t regret it. I’ll work very, very hard. You’ll see.”

  Morwyn sno
rted.

  “Well,” said Anastasia with a smile, “I for one welcome a little assistance about camp. It won’t all be hunting lodges from here on out. I am Lord Stasiek’s disciplus, Anastasia. A pleasure to meet you, Elena.”

  Elena returned Anastasia’s smile. “No, my lady, the pleasure is all mine. If I can help you in any small way, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Morwyn climbed aboard the cart and settled into her hollow. “Wake me up when it’s time for lunch.”

  “Goodbye, Miran,” said Hugh, turning back to the steward. “Thank you.”

  “My reward lies in serving you, my lord, and I need no thanks.” Old Miran sketched an antiquated bow, hands fluttering out to the sides in a manner that reminded Hugh of the courtly scenes he’d witnessed as a child. “I pray you return to us soon, and may the Fate Maker ensure your travels are safe.”

  Hugh mounted Blue, patted his money pouch, sword guard, gave the great sprawling edifice one last look, and then dug his heels into Blue’s flanks. “Let’s get moving.”

  They rode through the morning without incident, Anastasia and Elena chatting quietly on the cart’s headboard, Morwyn ostensibly sleeping in the back. Hugh appreciated the solitude; riding up front, he allowed his thoughts to wander, and for the first time found himself marveling at his situation: traveling north in the company of three wildly different and equally powerful women, all of them beautiful, all of them beholden to him for seven or more months.

  Fortuna was truly amusing herself at his expense.

  The imperial highway speared straight through the farmlands that surrounded Stasiek; endless fields of silvery wheat interspersed with orchards, or furrowed plots of vegetables. Farmhands and other laborers would straighten from their work to watch them pass, a few raising hands in greeting. They rode past countless small hamlets, their borders demarcated by the small stone obelisks of the Fate Maker.

  The sunlight was crisp and clear, the scents of the countryside stimulating, so that when they reached a small stone bridge that arched over a picturesque stream, complete with grassy banks and hunched over willow trees, Hugh decided to stop there for lunch instead of pressing on for an inn.

  Elena immediately leaped down and set to rummaging in the back of the cart for goods, while Anastasia carefully walked to the water’s edge to peer under the bridge and study the current.

  Morwyn startled him as he checked Blue’s hooves, having approached without sound or warning.

  “You’re fucking her, aren’t you.”

  “I - what?” He turned to glare at Morwyn. “Who?”

  “Who.” The captain almost sneered. “The serving girl, of course.”

  Hugh narrowed his eyes.

  Morwyn’s stare was forthright, utterly unabashed, her red lips pulled into a thin line. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” said Morwyn. “But I’ve one request. If you’re going to fuck like that again, please put your tent a good half-mile from our camp.”

  Hugh felt his cheeks burn. “Excuse you?”

  Morwyn arched a black eyebrow. “I made the mistake of requesting a room close to yours. I am supposed to be guarding you on this trip. When the screaming started, I came running, half-dressed, blade in hand. Only to stop outside your door, feeling the fool, when I realized what kind of screaming it was. And you two were loud. I had to bury my head under a pillow to get any sleep. Though,” a pensive flicker passed through her eyes, “I have to admit to being impressed for just how long you two went at it. And that you’re up and walking and talking this morning with so little sleep.”

  Hugh gave her a caustic smile. “Thank you, Captain, for your concern.” What else could he say? Her forthright stare left no room for any excuses or lies. “If I decide to fuck her that hard again, I’ll tell you to take a long, long walk first.”

  Morwyn’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, and to his surprise he saw the corner of her lips quirk up just a fraction. “Appreciated. Now, I thought we could get some training in while your little serving girl prepares lunch. What say you?”

  Shit.

  Without the help of the Lost Reavers he’d be hard-pressed to hold his own. And he’d not summon them frivolously. No, to maintain what respect he’d earned back in Stasiek he’d have to keep her in awe of him. Familiarity, after all, bred contempt.

  “You’ll have to find another sparring partner if you want to improve,” he said. “But if you insist, I could show you some patterns you could use to drill with against a tree.”

  Both of her eyebrows shot up. Perhaps that had been a little too harsh. “A tree?” she asked. “You think yourself that far beyond my skills?”

  Hugh crossed his arms and stared down at her. By Fortuna’s tits she was hauntingly beautiful. And the angrier she got, the more compelling her beauty became. But it was impossible to see her as a courtesan, as anything other than what she was: a terrifying killer.

  And… he’d just told her to go spar with a tree.

  “I can’t deny you defeated me in your room. I’ve… I’ve never been so handled before.” A flush arose on her cheeks, her brows lowering, a band of muscle appearing briefly over the joint of her jaw. “But there will be a rematch, Hugh. I don’t know what happened back there, but I refuse to believe you can duplicate that… that skill. Watch your back.”

  “I thought that was your job,” he said.

  She began to walk away. “It was,” she tossed over her shoulder, “until I realized doing so was tantamount to working security at a whore house.”

  Elena, who was busy setting a tarp over the grass, a small box of provisions already hauled out and opened, paused to stare.

  Hugh grimaced and turned back to Blue. Maybe traveling with three beautiful, powerful women wasn’t going to be as enjoyable as he’d thought.

  Lunch was a quiet affair. Morwyn sat apart, staring out over the farmland, taking no pleasure from her food as she chewed mechanically. Elena, pretending to be intimidated by the company, stayed quiet, while Anastasia lay out on the blanket with a book, turning pages of what looked like complex formulas as she ate. Hugh took advantage of the silence to focus on eating; in short order he cleared away four or five plates worth of food.

  A jovial group are we, thought Hugh wryly as he got up to fetch another bottle of wine. Already the energy in his body was building up to uncomfortable levels; he felt uneasy, jumpy, his muscles aching in their need for release and strenuous effort. Perhaps he’d run ahead of the group, jog a dozen miles down the road and then run back. Or excuse himself for a moment as the others gathered their belongings to find a boulder to throw around, or -

  Morwyn rose to her feet, drew her blade and strode toward him.

  Hugh froze. Draw his own blade? Her gaze was flat, her entire body radiating purpose. Had she been contemplating attacking him all through lunch? Just as he was about to speak, she changed her angle of approach and strode past him to a young willow. Its trunk was as thick as Hugh’s thigh, and it rose perhaps some twenty yards before blossoming out in all directions with its delicate yellow-green branches.

  Anastasia sat up. Elena set down the dirty wooden bowls she’d collected.

  Morwyn stood glaring at the tree. Was she really going to spar with it, work her way through some kind of training rhythm?

  Slowly, with careful precision, the captain pulled her blade back. Her whole body was so focused it seemed to almost vibrate, the tension in the air turning the scene from that of a bucolic one to a moment fraught with peril. Hugh felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stir. For a long moment Morwyn stood thus, a yard from the tree, blade still, and then she let out a harrowing cry and burst forward, swinging as she passed the willow, blade cleaving through the eight inches of wood with an explosive CRACK!

  She froze on the far side, sword extended directly before her, body trembling, and the tree groaned, twisted about slowly on the severed stump, and Hugh saw that the cut was clean and parallel to the ground. For a moment he thought the willow might simply balance and remai
n in place, and then it toppled over, slowly at first but quickly gathering speed, to crash down full length upon the bank, its crown splashing into the stream.

  “By the Fate Maker,” whispered Anastasia. “Did… did that just…”

  Morwyn stood up straight and stared at her blade, then spun it around and slid it into the sheath over her shoulder to turn and glare at Hugh. “Is that what you meant, my lord?”

  “I…” Shit. How was he supposed to respond to that? “That was incredible. I’ve never seen such focused power.”

  To his surprise, his words only angered her further. “For all that you were a Lost Reaver, there’s much that you don’t know about the world. Or me. So do us both a favor and watch your tongue moving forward.”

  And with that she strode past him, leaning down to snatch up a bottle of wine from the blanket, and climbed into the back of the cart, crossing one leg over the other as she took a long swig of wine and returned to glaring out over the countryside.

  “Incredible,” said Anastasia. “Her blade should have bent, or - perhaps it’s been worked on by a disciplus?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hugh. “I’m just glad I wasn’t that tree.”

  Elena snorted, then immediately covered her mouth and looked embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “Let’s get moving before we reduce this spot to a further shamble,” said Hugh. And an idea struck him. “And I’ll not let that tree go to waste. Can you tie Blue to the cart?”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Anastasia, rising to her feet and taking up her book.

  “You’ll see.” Hugh fetched the wood ax that was clasped to the side of the cart and moved to the fallen willow. Found the right spot, perhaps six or seven yards up the trunk from Morwyn’s cut and set to hewing it apart. It took him perhaps six swings of the ax, but with each one, no matter how satisfying it felt to bury the edge deep into the wood, he was reminded of Morwyn’s single blow.

  How had she done that? There were blades enhanced by chirography that could do similar feats - Annaro’s own blade could do that and much more - but Morwyn’s sword lacked the sigils. Did she have latent magic powers? Had the Fate Maker gleaners failed to notice her talent when she was a child? Or was her martial ability simply that refined?