Page 12 of Prize of the Warlord
The creatures whirl, their lean bodies heaving as they howl their displeasure at his appearance. Their heads whip back toward me, nostrils flaring—they like my scent better than his. But they can’t ignore him, for he charges them with the giant sword, bellowing again.
With shrieks of thwarted craving, they fling themselves at him. Dodging the swing of the massive blade, they rake his arms and shoulders with their tusks. Their claws scrabble at the bracers on his wrists and the breastplate over the center of his bare chest. One of them seizes the pauldron on his right shoulder and gnaws into it, trying to reach his flesh.
He roars and struggles, gripping one by the leg and flinging it aside. But then he goes down on one knee, while the other two demons swarm over his body and snap at his face.
I don’t care if he is my enemy. I will not cower while this man fights three monsters alone.
Frantically I hunt through the forest debris in the hollow where I’m hiding. My fingers close on a thick branch. I shove my way out through the roots, and I deliver a solid blow to the head of a monster.
At least, that’s what I try to do. But as I’m swinging the stick, the knot of fighting bodies jerks suddenly aside, and I end up hitting the Warlord in the jaw.
“Oh gods,” I gasp. “I’m so sorry.”
He snarls at me, and with a guttural roar shoves his sword up through the belly of one of the creatures. It lurches, vomiting purple slime, and he jerks out of the way as the liquid splatters his arm with an acidic hiss. With his skin still steaming, he yanks the sword out of the creature’s belly and swings it into the neck of a second monster.
But then the third is on his back, jaws wide, angled for the nape of his neck.
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With a thin scream, I charge forward again, and this time I manage to strike the monster before it can bite the Warlord’s neck. The creature spins around, wailing, and leaps on me, bearing me down to the ground. Hot claws sear into my flesh. I shove the stick between the monster’s snapping jaws and push as hard as I can, while it strains to gnaw through the wood, to get nearer to me. There’s a sickening crack, and the beast’s lower jaw loosens suddenly, hanging limp and broken.
Howling, it leaps off me and scrambles up the side of the ravine. Its agonized keening fades into the forest.
Shakily I rise on my elbows. The Warlord stands in a shaft of moonlight, dark red blood gleaming on his sword. He’s battered and bloodied, and his arm smokes where the acid vomit struck him. His hair shines white, tossed lightly by the night breeze.
I have never seen anything so violently beautiful. A wondering softness expands in my heart as I stare at the silvered warrior who saved my life.
And then he stalks over to me and drags me upright by my hair.
I squeak a protest. “Stop grabbing my hair, you tyrannical fiend!”
“Pardon, Your Highness,” he seethes. “Anywhere else you’d like me to grab you instead?”
My pulse quickens, but I manage to gasp, “What were those things?”
“Jäkel. Flesh-eaters, spirit-swallowers. You were supposed to be wearing the bones.” He runs thick fingers through my hair, and his hand tangles in it. “Gods, why couldn’t you behave? Now I’ll have to tie you up. And Jili will have to fix your braids again.”
He’s still yanking on my hair, so I reach back to help him get free. My thin fingers brush his huge ones as I manipulate my tangled locks.
“This is why the women of my people do not wear their hair loose when it is this long. Without braids, it goes all wild and knotted. I’m not used to hair like yours. Soft, like the silk of winflowers.” He speaks low, rough and reluctant. “I grab your hair because I like the way it feels.”
My fingers pause, halfway through extricating his. A twisty, thrilling sensation races through my stomach.
“Your hair is long too,” I murmur. His locks are shoulder-length, and mine reach my waist, but it really doesn’t matter what nonsensical words I’m saying. What matters is the heaviness of the air between us, the throbbing pull, the cords tightening between my chest and his.
“Yours is much softer.” His voice is still deep, but achingly gentle. The sound of it seems to enrage him the next second, and with a cruel jerk, he yanks his hand free.
Pain shoots along my scalp. “Ow! You rutting bastard.”
“Consider that the first part of your punishment.”
“What’s the second part?”
He towers over me, the mountain against the mouse, and I tremble, but I hold his angry gaze.
“I know how Iwantto punish you.” His voice is living stone and the dark of lakes, deep and cold. “Like I would punish any other prisoner of war—strip you naked and beat you until that fair flesh of yours is blue and purple, like the night sky between the stars. But you are no captured warrior, and you are too weak to bear it.”
The way he speaks of the beating—it’s blunt and harsh, but there is poetry in it, too. “You want to beat me?” I whisper.
