Page 23 of Prize of the Warlord
The Warlord gives me a stern look, not amused by my attempt to distract him. “You tricked me, mouse.”
“I’m not sorry.”
“Honor is for warriors,” he says. “But there is a law that trumps any code of honor, and that is survival. You did what you had to do. But you also spoiled your last chance of besting me, because I won’t fall for that ruse again. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
The image of his great body slumped in blood-stained snow rises in my mind. I imagine his handsome face, perpetually still, and his green eyes empty.
“You’re weak,” he continues, sliding his arm away from my back and collecting the dagger from my limp hand. “A little mewling soft thing who can lie, but not kill. Your trick gets you nowhere unless you’re willing to follow through.”
“I prefer you alive,” I mutter.
He’s standing now, while I’m still sitting on the grass. The height of him dwarfs me, engulfs me in blue shadow.
“Why?” he asks quietly. “You know what I’ve done to your people, what I plan to do.”
“When you were just ‘warlords and raiders,’ it was easier to hate you,” I say quietly. “Easier to condemn and despise. But you have faces now, and families. You have pain and a past. I see you, and I see myself through your eyes. So no—I cannot wish you dead. And I certainly can’t kill you myself.”
He doesn’t move or speak. After a long moment I look up at him—but before I can read the emotion surging in his eyes, a rumbling growl and a flash of striped fur catches my attention. Kaja pads into the clearing, accompanied by Zeha. On a leather bracer wrapping her left wrist, Zeha carries a beautiful hawk, snow-white flecked with red and black feathers.
“There you are,” Zeha says. “We’ve received a reply from the girl’s father. They took our messenger prisoner, as we expected, but they allowed him to send back my snow-hawk with this.” She holds out a small tube with tiny leather straps attached to it.
A message from my father. Which means he’s making arrangements to pay my ransom, and soon I’ll be home again, back in my comfortable room with my things and my own privy where there’s a lovely big washtub. My body trembles with mingled eagerness and weariness.
26
The Warlord takes the tube and tries to extract the message, but it’s jammed inside and it won’t fall out, even when he shakes it violently.
I stand, brushing snow from my rear. “Let me.”
With a grunt, he turns over the tube to me. I wriggle two fingertips inside and tug out the tiny scrap of paper. “I assume you can read?” I say primly. “Or shall I read it for you?”
“Of course I can read,” he snarls, snatching the paper. He steps beside Zeha and holds it so she can see the message too. He might be the leader in name, but it’s clear he considers her a close partner.
“Well?” I say, when they don’t speak. “When can I go home?”
The Warlord’s green eyes meet mine over the edge of the paper. “You can’t.”
My legs quiver. “What?”
“Your parents and Prince Havil have rejected my price, and they make no counter-offer. Which means they are leaving you in my hands.” He crumples the message and turns to Zeha. “They may send search parties over the mountains to look for her. We should pack up camp and return home. Once we’ve withdrawn far enough, we can count on the wilderness and thejäkelto take care of our enemies for us.”
“And what will we do with her?” his sister asks.
“We’ll wait,” he says. “When they realize they can’t find her and I’m not giving her back, they may be willing to bargain. And if not, I will do what we discussed.”
“Cronan.” Zeha lays a hand on his arm. Even with the furs and leather she wears, I can tell that her muscles are far bigger than mine; yet even a strong frame like hers looks small beside the Warlord. “I can’t let you do that.”
Is he talking about killing me? Does Zeha want to spare my life?
“You only get one life-bond,” she continues, low. “I won’t let you sacrifice that joy by tying yourself to the daughter of our enemy.”
“Life-bond?” I quaver. “What are you talking about?”
The Warlord glances at me, his expression unreadable. “If your father and the prince refuse to bargain with me for your life, I will take you as my wife. Among our people, the life-bond is sacred, and can only be broken in the rarest of circumstances. Once the bond is knit by a Shaman of the Bloodsalt, it will link our very souls. And when you are my wife, your father will be forced to acknowledge me.”
“Such a bond is usually reserved for the deepest kind of love,” says Zeha. “Our people may pair with whomever they wish, share a bed, have children—but they do not life-bond until they can hear each other’s thought-voices through the ether.”
“The ether?” I ask, but the Warlord says sharply, “Enough. I will give the order to pack up camp. Zeha, the girl rides with you.”
