Page 30 of Prize of the Warlord
The ground breaks with a cracking shudder, and I’m thrown forward onto my stomach. There’s a roar behind me—a sucking force of wind and something else, something magical and compelling, drawing everything into the molten maw of the Bloodsalt.
I’m skimming backward, toward the magnetic force of it—but the Warlord drives his great sword into the crust of the ground like an anchor, grips it one-handed, and clutches my wrist with his other hand.
For one shearing, agonized moment, I fear my arm will be ripped off as the implosion tries to pull me down with it.
And then the horrible tearing force is gone. A rumble passes through the clay, the snap of cracks sealing, gaps closing.
Silence drops over us like a sheet of black ice. We lie panting on the surface of the Bloodsalt, and when I glance over my shoulder there’s no geyser, and no chasm. Everything is whole again. Healed as if it was never there—except for the dull brick-red scars across the surface and the splattered lumps of cooling red clay.
The Warlord releases my wrist and lets his forehead fall against the cold white salt. His shoulders slump with relief.
But I can’t breathe. My lungs won’t accept the air—it sticks in my throat, refusing to go where it’s needed. I cough, sharp and desperate, but I can’t inhale more than the tiniest sips of freezing air, and the cold only makes everything worse. I roll onto my back, eyes wide, fingers clawing the salt. Tiny wheezes are the only sound I can make to signal my distress.
“Mouse?” The Warlord crawls to me, hauls me into his lap. He knows I’m not faking it this time. He cradles me against his chest, pressing one big warm hand above my breasts. The heat eases my lungs a little.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “Breathe with me, treasure. Please.”
“Air—too—cold,” I manage. He nods, understanding, and turns me toward him, into the warmth of his body and breath. “Breathe with your belly,” he says. “That helped my brother sometimes. From here.” He touches the center of my stomach, just beneath my breastbone, where my ribs arch outward.
With my cheek pressed to his bare chest I breathe with him, drinking slow inhales of the warmer air that lies against his skin. I breathe through my nose, carefully, while my hands grip his with the spastic strength of someone clawing her way out of a yawning grave.
At last, at last, I’m able to haul in a deep, satisfying breath, all the way to the bottom of my lungs. I still have to breathe carefully, but the deadly fog is clearing from my brain. And as it clears, I remember what the Warlord called me.
Not rat, or mouse, or weakling.
Treasure.
34
The Warlord carries me the rest of the way across the Bloodsalt plain, to the forested hills beyond. These trees are familiar—evergreens with brushy branches and prickly cones. In the shadow of their boughs the company of warriors waits anxiously. Zeha is holding the Warlord’s horse by the bridle.
“We were going to come after you,” she says, white-faced. “But I thought you would want me to take our people to safety.”
“Yes.” He nods to her. “You did right. And we survived.”
He doesn’t explain how he jumped off the horse, or that I saved him, or that he saved me by helping me through my breathing struggle. He simply puts me back on his horse and mounts again.
Kaja prowls out of the undergrowth, a striped shadow of snow and ebony, her eyes luminous. If she sensed her master’s peril, she shows no sign of it—merely takes her usual place by the side of his mount.
“A little further into the trees,” the Warlord says. “And then we camp.”
The wind picks up as we travel, and by the time we halt and the warriors set up the tents, snow is scouring between the trees, sifting down through the scant canopy of evergreen boughs. The Warlord helps with camp, leaving me alone on his stallion’s back. I can’t do anything but huddle in my cloak and try to keep my chest and throat as warm as possible while breathing through my nose. The wind seems to slice right through my leathers and furs, straight to my skin and deeper, right down to my bones and into the marrow. I can’t feel my toes or my nose, but my fingers blaze with the pain of the cold.
Through the rising storm, Zeha calls, “She isn’t used to this—you need to get her warm! Take her in the first tent and make a fire!”
A moment later the Warlord’s figure appears through the swirling snow. He scoops me off the horse and bundles me into the first tent they erected. I curl up on the ground, shivering, half-unconscious. Vaguely I’m aware of him starting a small fire, piling skins and blankets nearby as a bed. This tent is far smaller than the first one I shared with him—it’s a hastily constructed shelter, barely big enough for us both.
When the Warlord comes to me, I’m shaking so hard I can’t speak. He tugs my boots off, cupping my toes and wincing at how icy they are.
“You have no endurance for the cold, mouse,” he mutters. “You need warmth, and quickly.”
He pulls off my snow-laden outer layers—and then he drags my shirt over my head and throws it aside. I try to protest, but I’m too dizzy, too sleepy. My pants are pulled off next, leaving me entirely naked—and then he’s tucking me into the bed he made.
I’m shaking so hard I can’t speak. I can barely concentrate on my breathing anymore. It would be easier to stop breathing, to slip into the seamless dark and drift forever…
The blankets lift, and a blast of cold air washes over me for a second before it’s replaced by the great heated bulk of the Warlord’s body. Hisnakedbody. He’s wearing some sort of loincloth but otherwise he’s bare, the warm planes of his chest and stomach pressed fully against me. With a sigh that’s nearly a sob, I cuddle closer to that expanse of heated muscle. His chest is lightly garnished with curly blond hair, and it brushes my cheek as I nestle into him. My frozen toes press against his legs.
Slowly his heat saturates me, body and soul.
