Page 29 of Prize of the Warlord
A rumble passes through his chest. He’s hard against my rear, the length of him clearly tangible despite our clothing. He changes tactics, plunging his hand into the neckline of my shirt. As he massages my bare breast, a wild heat flares at my core, and I arch into the touch.
“I hate that you make me feel like this,” I whisper.
He makes a sound—a huff of angry frustration, and he pinches my nipple. I gasp and twist against him, stunned by the spike of pleasure between my legs. Prince Havil and I never got past a bit of kissing and fondling. He certainly never touched me like this.
“What are you thinking right now?” I say hoarsely.
“I’m not thinking.”
“Everyone thinks, all the time.”
“Not me. Sometimes I only feel. And then I do stupid things, like this.” Under my shirt, he spreads his warm, large hand across my chest.
But the next second he yanks his hand out of my clothes and grips the reins, straightening so abruptly that I’m jostled upright. “What is it?” I exclaim.
“People born here, people like me—we can sense the unrest of the land,” he says. “The Bloodsalt is about to break. Hang on. We must ride faster.”
He bends forward, his great body and massive arms encircling me as the horse picks up the pace. But his horse is weary—I can feel it. The long journey and our combined weight is too much.
The others are so far ahead I cannot see them. They are safe, but the Warlord and I—we are not.
A loud snap behind us startles me, and I jerk in the Warlord’s arms. He only leans farther forward and speaks to the horse in his native tongue, a crooning tone edged with panic. The stallion thunders desperately faster across the Bloodsalt.
Tears whip from my eyes as the night breeze scrapes over my face like an icy blade.
Another cracking noise from behind, and then gurgling, roaring explosion. Clumps of wet scarlet rain down on the white salt around us, and crimson cracks begin to snake across the land, splitting crooked like lightning, widening.
“You have to leave me,” I whisper. “I’m dead weight. Leave me and ride.”
People are always setting me aside while they move on. I’m used to being left behind.
“Your weight isn’t enough to make a difference,” he snarls. “Mine is. Tell my sister she’s responsible for the bargain now. She’ll take care of you, and arrange the ransom with your people. You’re our hope for a better future.”
He’s throwing himself off the horse before I can stop him, dragging his huge heavy sword from its sheath as he leaps free.
The stallion slows, whinnying desperately, but the Warlord smacks him and shouts, and the beast catapults ahead, free of his master’s weight. The horse and I race the ever-growing, ever-spreading cracks in the ground, a blood-red net of death.
I clutch the reins, screaming. A look over my shoulder shows the Warlord’s massive figure, dwarfed by a cataclysmic tower of bubbling red—a fountain of blood soaring high, high into the night, uplit by some molten pit below. The salt and the clay are caving inward, crumbling into some unknowably deep chasm in the crust of the world. In a moment the Warlord will disappear into its widening maw.
“No!” I shriek, and I haul backward on the reins with all my strength. The horse shrills in pain and skids to a halt—just long enough for me to scramble off, and then the stallion bolts, fleeing alone across the Bloodsalt.
33
My boots skid in the powdery clumps of salt, and my knees wobble from the drink the Warlord gave me, but an emotion stronger than fear propels me and I run back, toward the glowing geyser. The Warlord is running too, pounding toward me, bellowing something I can’t hear—then the ground splits beneath him and he drops—almost disappears, but he grips the broken crust of the earth. His sword spins away across the salt. He’s struggling on the edge, while more lines snake outward from the spot. He’ll go down any minute—disappear forever.
I could leave him, be rid of him.
The thought skates through my mind and I reject it instantly. I skid to a stop at the edge of the broken place where he’s hanging, choking on my own fear as I face the monstrosity of the explosion. The rush of the spewing molten clay fills my ears, and the grinding of the earth nearly deafens me.
The Warlord’s cloak rips free from his shoulders and flies into the depths, a dark doomed bird fluttering against the red glare. I grip the belt that runs across the Warlord’s chest and I pull with all my might, shrieking and sobbing.
Whatever strength I have is just enough to help him clamber back up.
“You idiot!” he yells above the conflagration. “Run!” He snatches up his sword, then grips my collar and practically throws me ahead of him.
“You’re welcome!” I yell. I force the fog of the drink aside and I focus on running, running faster than I ever have in my life.
But I’ve never trained or exercised. My body can’t magically become the instrument of escape that I need. I can feel it failing—my lungs spasming from the cold and exertion, my throat tightening, refusing to draw in air.
