Warrior Prime, page 18
part #1 of Ink Mage Legacy Series
Zayda turned to Peyne. “Did she just tell me to be quiet?”
Peyne paused in midchew. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“We are following her blindly into who knows where,” Zayda reminded him. “I have every right to ask questions.”
“She met us outside the Beggar’s Gate just like she said she would,” Peyne said. “I think we can trust her.”
Zayda leaned toward him, pitched her voice low. “I wonder if it’s her pretty red hair and white skin you find so trustworthy.”
“Why, that’s . . . how could you think—” sputtered Peyne.
“Not very quiet,” Maurizan said from across the campfire.
Peyne pulled his own blanket up to his chin. “She’s right. We all need rest. I’ll expect your apology in the morning.” He turned his back to her.
“Apology?”
“Shush!”
If Peyne listened carefully, he felt certain he could hear Zayda’s teeth grind.
They were off again at the first light of dawn, following Maurizan due west. The day was an endless slog, the dromadan doggedly putting one gigantic foot in front of the other, dune after dune rising ahead of them and then dwindling behind.
If Peyne never saw another grain of sand as long as he lived, it would be fine by him.
And then, as the sun set, the desert aglow with the final burnt orange of fading daylight, Maurizan took a sudden left turn for no apparent reason. Their path curved around an enormous dune, lower and lower until they were all the way on the other side.
A rocky ravine opened up before them.
Peyne did a double take. The ravine had been unexpected and completely different from the surrounding geography. Maurizan led them inside, and they fell into shadow. Peyne looked up. The waning sunlight had diminished to what could fall between a twenty-foot-wide crack overhead. Peyne tried to imagine how the ravine must appear from above. Looking across the sand from a distance, it might be impossible to spot. Peyne suspected that travelers came to this place on purpose or not at all.
They traveled into the hidden ravine silently. Wind whistled past them. There was something eerie and claustrophobic about the place compared to the open desert. Every step of the dromadan, every stray pebble echoed strangely. For the first time, Peyne wondered if blindly placing their faith in Maurizan had been a good idea.
“I don’t like it here,” Peyne whispered to Zayda.
“Really?” Zayda whispered back. “Do you mean to say your white princess might not have our best interests at heart?”
“I feel that sarcasm is antiproductive at this time.”
Zayda scowled at him. “You know I’m right. We’ve been near death and back again together, and yet this woman comes out of nowhere, and you swoon all over—”
“Now, that’s not fair,” Peyne insisted. “I’ve not shown any preference for—”
“Liar!” Zayda’s whisper was like a sword blade leaving its scabbard.
“Hey! Now there’s no reason to be rude, so just take your attitude and stick it up—”
“Stop.” A deep voice, echoing along the ravine.
Zayda pulled back on the reins, and the dromadan lumbered to a halt.
Maurizan twisted in her saddle to look back at them. “Say nothing. I’ll handle this.”
“What’s going on?” Peyne demanded.
“I said be quiet.”
Peyne opened his mouth, shut it again. He glanced sideways at Zayda. Her expression said, See? Your devious redhead has led us into a trap.
Peyne shrugged back at her. Get off my back. This isn’t my fault.
A man walked out from behind a boulder, stood in the center of the ravine’s path, hands on hips. He was dressed head to toe in black, face covered, only dark eyes peering out at them.
“You know better than this, Maurizan.” He spoke good Helvan with a heavy accent.
“This is important, Jaff,” Maurizan said.
The man Maurizan called Jaff pulled aside the black scarf, revealing a handsome but scowling face. A full black moustache, no beard. Peyne thought he looked vaguely familiar.
“Get down from those animals,” Jaff ordered.
Peyne cleared his throat, sat up straight in the saddle. “I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Peyne Erlich, and it might make a difference for you to know that I’m a duly appointed envoy of his majesty’s—”
Jaff pointed at Peyne. “You. Foreigner. Shut your mouth or I’ll carve your tongue from your head.”
Peyne rolled his eyes. “You and what army, friend?”
Zayda gently laid a hand on his arm. “Uh . . .” She pointed upward.
Peyne looked up.
Dozens lined the cliffs overhead. Black-clad ghosts, many with bows, arrows trained on him. Others held torches. The sun had completely fled the world now, and the torchlight made their shadows long and distorted.
They’re dressed just like the marauders who attacked the Pride of Klaar, Peyne thought. I suddenly have a very bad feeling.
“I’ll tell you one last time,” Jaff said. “Dismount. I’m using your ugly language, so I presume you understand me. Or are you just stupid?”
“Do what he says,” Maurizan told them.
All three climbed down from their dromadan. Men in black oozed from the shadows to surround them.
“Told you,” Zayda whispered from the side of her mouth.
“Not now,” Peyne whispered back.
“Their weapons,” Jaff said.
The men in black moved in fast, relieving Zayda and Peyne of all arms. Maurizan they left alone.
Jaff stepped up to Zayda. When he reached for her, Peyne tensed. Everyone must have sensed it, for suddenly there were a half-dozen sword points an inch from Peyne’s body. He made himself relax, held up a hand to indicate no worries here.
The men in black didn’t lower their swords.
Jaff pulled aside Zayda’s scarf, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the collar. “She comes with us. Kill the foreigner.”
“Excuse me?” Peyne said, voice a bit more high-pitched than he would have liked.
Maurizan’s hand fell to the hilt of a dagger. “I come in good faith, Jaff.”
“You know our rules,” Jaff shot back. “This place is secret. You knew you were bringing this man to die. That’s on you.”
“Jaff.” A warning tone in Maurizan’s voice.
“If you’re going to murder me,” Peyne said, “may I at least ask a question?”
A predatory grin from Jaff. “By all means.”
“How is it that Maurizan is allowed here, but I’m not?” Peyne asked. “She’s a foreigner, too, isn’t she?”
“My agreement with Maurizan is none of your concern,” Jaff said.
“Tell him.” Maurizan’s gaze was hard, unwavering.
Jaff held the gaze for a moment before turning back to Peyne. “I said if she could beat me in single combat, I would spare her.” He chuckled. “I didn’t know about the tattoos when I made the offer.”
“I accept your terms,” Peyne said.
Jaff frowned. “What terms?”
“Single combat.”
Jaff sighed, shaking his head. “Listen to me, soft man from Helva. You are already going to die. Don’t add humiliation to your fate.”
Peyne squared his shoulders. “Are we not men, sir? Is a man not permitted to die on his feet with a sword in his hand?”
Something not unlike respect crossed Jaff’s face. “I’m glad to see you have some spine, foreigner.”
“Thanks. I answer to Peyne actually, rather than foreigner.”
“The duel will be to first blood only,” Jaff explained. “If I bleed first, your life is spared. I draw your blood first, and it’s the headman’s axe.”
“Why not just run me through during the duel?”
“Because we are not barbarians. The duel is to first blood,” Jaff said. “You are in agreement?”
“Of course,” Peyne said. “As soon as the wine comes, we can begin.”
Jaff blinked. “As soon as the what comes?”
Zayda gave him a sideways glance and whispered, “Are you out of your mind?”
“We are going to toast, aren’t we?” Peyne asked. “I thought you Fyrians were the civilized ones.”
“With Maurizan there was no toast,” Jaff said.
Peyne shrugged. “I can hardly be responsible for what gypsies do.”
“You are stalling.”
“Are you afraid it will make your hand unsteady?” Peyne’s expression filled with concern. “If you don’t hold your wine so well, I won’t insist that—”
“I hold my wine well enough,” Jaff snapped.
A low murmur ran through the crowd of black-clad men, and Peyne realized they were snickering.
“Check his back for the Prime.” The hint of a mocking smile tugged at the corners of Maurizan’s mouth. “If that will make you feel safer.”
The snickering grew louder.
“Enough,” Jaff shouted. “Bring the jug.”
A few seconds later, another man appeared with an earthen jug and two cups. He handed one cup to Jaff and the other to Peyne, filled both.
“Go on and make your toast then,” Jaff said impatiently.
Peyne lifted his cup. “To the good people of Helva and King Gant. I fight for their honor.” He tossed back the cup of wine.
Jaff tossed his back too, winced.
Peyne held his cup out to the man with the jug. “Fill it for the next toast please.”
“What next toast?” Jaff demanded.
“I’ve toasted to Helva,” Peyne said. “Don’t you want to toast to Fyria? I’d just assumed—”
“Yes, yes, fine.” Jaff held out his cup. When it was refilled he held it up. “To Fyria.”
Peyne took a very small sip from his cup.
“What are you doing?” Anger flashed in Jaff’s eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You guzzled your entire cup when saluting Helva, but only a sip when we drank to Fyria!” Jaff raged. “Do you think I will suffer such an insult?”
“I just didn’t want to take unfair advantage,” Peyne said. “If you can’t handle your wine—”
“Insolent ass,” Jaff shouted. “I will toast again, and you will drain your cup or so help me I will slit your throat on the spot.”
“Very well.”
Jaff raised his cup high. “To Fyria! The greatest nation in the entire world!”
They both drained their cups.
“This wine is actually quite nice,” Peyne said. “I’m surprised.”
“And why should that be?” Jaff asked. “Do you think Fyrian wine inferior?”
“I apologize,” Peyne said. “Let us drink to my apology.”
They drank.
Peyne motioned for the man to fill the cups again. “To the superior product of Fyrian vineyards.”
They drank again.
This time Jaff motioned for the men to fill the cups. “To you, sir. You have good manners for a barbarian.”
They emptied their cups.
Peyne contrived to come up with three more toasts. The men looking on had begun to stir and mutter to one another. Peyne doubted he could keep this up much longer, and anyway, the wine jug was empty.
“Bring the weapons!” Jaff announced loudly.
One of Jaff’s lieutenants stepped forward, Peyne’s rapier in one hand and Jaff’s scimitar in the other. The lieutenant spoke in hushed urgent tones, but Jaff waved the man away with a growl, rebuffing his underling with harsh words.
Peyne didn’t know a word of Fyrian but could guess the basics of the conversation. The lieutenant was suggesting that perhaps Jaff was not in the best condition to fight a duel. Jaff was almost certainly telling the man to mind his own business and that no soft foreigner was about to get the better of him.
Each man took his weapon, and they stepped back from each other several paces. Jaff looked more surefooted than Peyne had been hoping he would. The onlookers with torches formed a wide circle. Peyne spared a quick glance at Zayda and Maurizan.
Maurizan caught him looking and offered him an apologetic shrug.
Thanks a lot for bringing me here. If I get out of this alive, I expect a proper apology.
She was definitely a good-looking woman. Peyne admitted Zayda hadn’t been completely off base about Peyne’s overwillingness to trust her. But, Dumo help me, she’s not worth dying for.
His eyes shifted to the Fyrian woman. Zayda’s expression was a mix of alarm and anger. She was worried for his well-being, but if he got out of this alive, she would probably kill him.
“Begin!” Jaff lunged.
Peyne’s attention was jerked back to the duel. The scimitar was usually more of a swiping weapon, but Jaff was fully extended, aiming a thrust at Peyne’s midsection. Peyne sidestepped and tripped over his own feet.
Peyne had years of experience doing things while drunk. In fact, he considered himself a better swordsman with a few drinks in him, less tentative, not as anxious, the boost in confidence a slight compensation for his mediocre fencing skills. Most people tried to overcompensate for their sloppy moves when inebriated, attempting to bring an errant step or sword thrust back into line. That was wrong and almost never worked.
The key was to go with it.
Instead of trying to right himself, Peyne let himself fall.
Which saved him from Jaff’s vicious backhanded swing with the scimitar. Jaff seemed to have momentarily forgotten the duel was to first blood. The blade whistled over Peyne’s head. Jaff’s judgment was off, and he swung too hard, stumbling after the swing. Peyne hit the ground and let his momentum take him into a roll, swinging randomly when he came out of it.
The wild swipe with the blade halted Jaff in midadvance. He had to jump back to prevent getting sliced across the shins, but he landed awkwardly and went down.
Both men were on hands and knees, trying to bring their swords to bear. A low muffled noise circled the crowd, and Peyne realized the men were laughing. Good. Better than screaming for blood.
Again, Peyne’s instincts served him. He didn’t bother trying to stand at all, but crawled forward as fast as he could, stabbing at Jaff’s knees and shouting, “First blood! First blood!”
Jaff’s men laughed openly now and loudly.
Jaff flushed red, infuriated.
“You mock me?” Spittle flew from Jaff’s mouth as he shouted. He kept backing up to avoid Peyne’s wild sword thrusts at his knees.
Peyne lunged forward, grabbed the man’s left ankle as Jaff backpedaled. Peyne yanked hard.
Jaff’s arms windmilled wildly, and he stumbled, hitting the ground hard. He spat a string of curses in Fyrian and struggled to rise. Peyne didn’t let him, tossing his own sword aside and jumping on top of Jaff.
A war raged for control of Jaff’s facial expression . . . anger, confusion, embarrassment. He tried to bring his scimitar to bear, but Peyne grabbed his wrists, leaned all his weight into holding the man down.
Peyne ducked his head toward Jaff’s, and for a moment, Jaff looked horrified as if Peyne intended to kiss him.
But Peyne veered to the right.
And bit Jaff’s earlobe.
Hard.
Jaff screamed, more rage than pain, thrashing and twisting and finally knocking Peyne back.
Peyne propped himself up on one elbow and spat on his hand. He held it up for all to see, blood and saliva dripping down his fingers. He grinned, teeth stained red.
“First blood.”
Jaff staggered to his feet, face distorted with a sort of savage insanity. He raised his scimitar over his head, gripping it two-handed, and advanced on Peyne, murder in his eyes, an animal growl echoing off the walls of the ravine.
Jaff’s men leapt on him, pulling him back, wrapping his arms to keep him from swinging his blade. Peyne hoped this meant he’d won the duel and Jaff’s men were preventing him from committing some dishonorable breach of etiquette.
But Peyne worried he’d made a lifelong enemy. Humiliated and enraged, Jaff would clearly not be easily mollified.
It probably didn’t help that Peyne couldn’t stop laughing.
They hiked along the bottom of the ravine, Jaff’s men both behind and ahead of them, lighting the way with torches. They’d taken the reins of Zayda’s dromadan and had led the animal away . . . to be fed and watered, she hoped.
She glanced over her shoulder. Peyne’s hands were tied in front of him, and one of Jaff’s men led him by a rope. He wasn’t laughing anymore.
Zayda hurried her pace to catch up with Jaff. The man was drinking water from a skin. One of his men had put some kind of powder in the water, concocting some brew to mitigate the effects of the wine. Jaff looked a bit haggard, but at least he was walking straight.
“Why did you tie him up?” Zayda asked. “He won the duel.”
“I promised to spare his life,” Jaff said. “Nothing else.”
“You’re being a sore loser,” Zayda told him.
“He’s impudent and crass,” Jaff said. “He’s lucky I don’t drag him behind a dromadan. He made a mockery of an honorable duel.”
“Peyne doesn’t think like that,” Zayda said. “He was just trying to find a way to save his own skin without anyone getting hurt. He’s not your enemy.”
“My ear does hurt, thank you very much. And I’ll decide for myself who my enemies are.”
“You’re with the insurgents, aren’t you?”
Jaff hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
“Then Peyne is on your side,” Zayda said.
“No Helvan is on our side,” Jaff told her. “We oppose the sultan and his blind ambition. But we are still Fyrian. We are patriots.”
Maurizan moved up to walk on the other side of him. “If you don’t need an ally, then at least think of your own reputation. Will you be gracious in loss, or do you prefer your men to think you petulant?”
He glowered, then ordered one of his men to bring Peyne forward. The man holding Peyne’s rope dragged him up to walk next to Jaff and the two women.
Jaff abruptly drew his dagger. Peyne flinched.
Jaff cut through the bindings around Peyne’s wrists, and the ropes fell away.
