DESPERATE ALLIANCES Read online

  “I’ve never heard—”

  “What of the moondance?”

  “But that’s performed by villagers on the seasonal cusps,” Imoshen objected. “I thought it was one of their customs dating from before our time.”

  “Many of their customs overlap ours. Imoshen the First deliberately melded our practices with theirs. In the T’Elegos I read of T’En dances performed naked—”

  “I must read the T’Elegos!-”

  He caught her eager hands, placing her palms on his chest, where she felt the steady beating of his heart. “Heal me tonight under the twin moons.” His voice resonated through her. Her heart beat in time with his. “Heal me and I will share the knowledge of the T’Elegos with you.”

  She could hardly breathe. To deny him was to deny an intrinsic part of herself. Only he knew the burden of their shared birthright. He promised beauty and knowledge when her T’En blood had brought her nothing but ostracism. She longed to open to him, but... “I am sorry, Reothe.”

  His hands tightened on hers. She sensed the force of his fierce will and realized he was trying to use his gift. Suddenly he gasped, his legs giving way.

  She sank with him, cushioning his fall. As he lay naked and vulnerable in the moonlight, she leaned closer to inhale his scent, letting her hair trail the length of his body.

  Something inside her clenched, and she could not deny her desire for him.

  It seemed only right to let their bodies join and open herself to the mind-touch. This alone would assuage the hollow ache inside her. Yet she was sure she would not crave him like this if she had not succumbed to his trickery. He must have implanted this need to be triggered by his nearness and the timbre of his voice. Swimming on a sea of sensation, she fought to center herself, for she could not afford to restore his gifts, not when she had no defenses.

  Reothe moaned and his eyes flickered open. They were windows to his soul, containing his fierce intelligence and the pain of his loss. “I cannot live a T’En cripple, Imoshen. You must heal me.”

  Unable to speak, she pressed her face into his throat. As if in benediction he stroked her hair. Tears burned her eyes.

  “You cry for me, yet you let me suffer. How cruel is that? You leave me defenseless, surrounded by adversaries. Even I would not be so cruel to my enemy.”

  A sob escaped her. She sat upright in the moonlight, her hair around her shoulders like a satin cloak.

  “I don’t understand you, Imoshen. Your tears mock me.” A shiver racked him. “Bring the bed fur.”

  Silently, she dragged the heavy white fur off the bed. It felt luxurious against her skin. She wanted to lie naked in the moonlight with him. Instead, she knelt at his side. It was painful to watch him roll onto the fur with a stifled curse. Unable to stop herself, she stroked his long flanks.

  “Lie with me in the moonlight, Imoshen.” He gestured to his body. “Surely you do not fear me.”

  Imoshen kissed his closed eyelids, then she stretched out on the fur beside him. Gradually she felt the tension ease from him. Closing her eyes, she savored this moment. They were like two children, naked in their innocence, but it was an illusion, because she wanted him whole again and she knew she could not risk healing him.

  Imoshen stayed only until she felt Reothe’s breathing lengthen into the rhythm of sleep, then she covered him and left him lying there, wrapped in the pale fur, illuminated by the silver moonlight. She’d sworn she had not willingly betrayed Tulkhan, and she would not, but it cost her dearly to deny Reothe and the bond they shared.

  Tulkhan eased his shoulders and flexed his hands. This was the ultimate test of his mad gamble. Leaving the marsh-dwellers under guard, he signaled Kornel to come with him. They approached the port, its walls and peaked roofs silhouetted against the stars. The large moon hung low in the western sky, and the smaller moon had already set. The revelry of Harvest Feast had long faded.

  His commanders each had their assigned task. He had chosen to lead the assault himself with a band of seven men. Tulkhan hefted the grappling hook and coiled rope over his shoulder, thinking all it would take was one guard not too soused by drink to discover him.

  Kornel spat and eyed the gate towers. “The winch is in the base of the left tower.”

  Tulkhan nodded. He covered the distance to the wall at a run. Here there were signs of hastily destroyed dwellings. The poor had been taken inside the walls. Planting his feet, he swung the grappling hook. It scythed the air with a sound that was loud in the predawn quiet. Then he let it go, watching it sail dark against the star-speckled sky. A soft chink told him the grapple had hit stone. He pulled slowly until it caught and held.

  Tulkhan hauled himself up, his boots finding purchase on the wall. Any moment he could be discovered and the rope cut. In his mind’s eye he saw himself falling backward and fought a wave of vertigo. At last he hauled his weight over the parapets, sinking low.

  With a tug, he signaled the others and drew his weapon to stand guard as they made the climb. Tulkhan led his party toward the gate tower and the sound of a man snoring. Entering the tower, he could just make out his army through the narrow window. They lay like the shadows of clouds on the flat land.

  Hefting the drunkard upright, Tulkhan pressed his knife to the man’s throat. One whispered command and he led them down the narrow circular steps to the winch room, where Tulkhan set his men to raising the outer and inner gates. As soon as the outer gate was waist high, his men darted under it, entering the tunnel designed to bottleneck intruders. Silent except for the scuff of boot on stone, the rest of the attackers poured into the passage, passing through the inner gate.

  Tulkhan tightened his hold on the defender, grimacing with distaste as fear made the man sweat, bringing the stench of alcohol through his skin. “Where does King Gharavan sleep?”

  His captive grunted, speaking in the common trading tongue. “I’ll not get my throat slit for a Ghebite king. You can tell your General Tulkhan he’s welcome to use his half-brother’s skull for a soup bowl. He commandeered the Elector’s Palace.”

  “Kornel, do you know where that is?” Tulkhan asked. He nodded. The General handed the port defender into the care of his gate-holders. At his signal a group went to attack the merchant quarter as a decoy, and he headed for the Elector’s Palace with a party of thirty men. If Gharavan was captured, the mercenaries would lay down their arms, and Tulkhan believed he could reason with the remaining Ghebites, many of whom had served with him on other campaigns.

  With Kornel in the lead, they headed down the main thoroughfare, then plunged into a winding lane where the upper stories of the houses almost met overhead.

  They had gone several blocks when a mercenary patrol rounded the corner. The light of their torches flickered on the closed faces of the narrow houses. The mercenaries gaped, stunned to discover the enemy within the walls. With a roar, the nearest attacked.

  Cursing his luck, the General drew his sword. Behind the mercenaries Tulkhan saw a man run off, carrying a warning to rouse the port, but there was no chance of catching the messenger when death danced just beyond his sword tip. The clash of metal on metal sounded loud and harsh in the cobbled street. Tulkhan’s men fought silently, while the mercenaries bellowed their battle cries, and soon answering calls filtered through the twisting lanes.

  Tulkhan cursed again. Forced to fight four abreast, his men could not pass the mercenaries, who fell back, step by grudging step.

  “Separate. Cut around behind them,” Tulkhan ordered, and grabbed Kornel. “Take me to Gharavan.”

  Charging down a dark alley on Kornel’s heels, Tulkhan soon left his pursuers far behind. When they entered a more prosperous quarter, Kornel bent double to catch his breath.

  Only a handful of men remained with Tulkhan. Pealing bells and shouts of “Fire!” came from the merchants’ quarter. More cries echoed from the wharfs, heralding Peirs’s attack. Above the rooftops, the sky glowed. He had to find his half-brother before the defenders could mount a c
ohesive defense. “Kornel?”

  “I know the wharves and merchants’ quarter best.” He pointed. “But I think the Elector’s Palace is this way.”

  They cut through several lanes, then entered a square with an ornate central fountain. Kornel spun around to get his bearings. “There, that building with the spires.”

  Mercenaries poured down the steps. With a shout they bore down on Tulkhan’s much smaller party.

  “Fall back. We’ll go around.” Tulkhan ran with his men at his heels. Trust Gharavan to stay safely indoors while hired swords fought his battles.

  But when they entered a lane they ran into another band of mercenaries, who held a party of Tulkhan’s men at bay. Tulkhan charged, leaping onto the back of the nearest man and cutting him down. Driving through the melee, he forged on to unite his men. Booted feet on the paving stones echoed down the narrow lane.

  Before more port defenders could arrive, Tulkhan forced a path through to the square. They were spotted immediately and, with one frustrated glance at the Elector’s Palace, Tulkhan signaled his men to fall back again. “Take us another way, Kornel.”

  The ship’s captain led them down narrow alleyways that all looked the same. Smoke billowed from the merchants’ quarter. Tulkhan’s breath rasped in his throat. They fought as they ran, leaving the injured where they fell.

  Half blind, barely able to breathe, Tulkhan caught Kornel by the arm. “Can you get us to the gate?”

  Gray with fatigue, Kornel nodded. “We’re nearly there.”

  Rounding a bend, they found a hastily constructed barricade of household furniture manned by mercenaries. Beyond it the gates had been recaptured and closed.

  Tulkhan had no breath to curse. Soon it would be light enough for archers to send down a rain of arrows. His people were armored for speed and stealth, not for defensive battle. Bitterly, he raised the horn to sound the retreat.

  “To me!” Tulkhan cried. They had to retake the gate before his men were massacred. Charging the barricade, he grasped a massive oak table. His thighs screamed a protest as he lifted it. Men joined him. They plowed through, smashing all before them. At his side, men tripped over broken furniture; others fell defending their backs, but the way to the gate was cleared.

  Leaving others to deal with the barricade defenders, Tulkhan made for the winch room. A single local fled. Tulkhan threw his weight behind the winch mechanism. But the ponderous cogs were slow to move. The heavy gates screeched a protest as they lifted. Three of his men joined him in the winchroom.

  Their escape route secured, Tulkhan returned to the barricade. In the growing light he saw more of his men approaching, fighting as they retreated.

  The Ghebite battle cry leapt to his lips and he ran out to meet them. For a few moments it was life and death on the cobbles, under the swinging business signs of tailors and hatters. He held the gap to let the others through, then he dug his hands under the oak table.

  Seeing what he was about, several men helped him. Together they turned the tabletop and rammed it into position. As they held back the attackers, Tulkhan took stock. If he could keep the gate open long enough, he could get a force inside and make it a fight every step of the way to the Elector’s Palace.

  At that moment the angry buzz of a flying arrow decided for him. He had missed the opportunity.

  He fought a rear-guard action, holding the narrow gate passage to let the last of his men through. Oil poured from the slits above, landing on the stones between him and freedom. A flaming brand followed. Covering his face with his forearm, Tulkhan leapt through the flames.

  As the outer gate made its ponderous descent, he ducked under. Then it was a mad scramble to run beyond bow shot. From narrow slits the defenders sent whistling death.

  Even though he knew his unprotected thighs were more vulnerable, the space between Tulkhan’s shoulder blades ached with the expectation of an arrowhead. Running and dodging, Tulkhan joined Kornel in the ranks. Then he turned, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  The defenders did not make a sortie, contenting themselves with shouting abuse. Tulkhan smiled. Though the surprise attack had failed, by now the defenders would have reported the impossible to Gharavan—Tulkhan’s army was camped outside the gates of Port Sumair, ready to lay siege.

  His stomach rumbled as he turned to his commanders. “Break out the stores. I want my breakfast!”

  They grinned, catching his enthusiasm.

  Chapter Six

  The day after the Harvest Feast, Imoshen bade farewell to the Seculate. The wind carried a foretaste of the winter to come, and Imoshen shivered. Fair Isle had seen too much war. The peaceful years of her childhood now seemed halcyon and unreal. She did not want her son’s childhood shadowed by war.

  Her people had reported a great exodus on the roads south and east as the rebels headed home. There was much to be done to prepare for the winter with the prospect of war in the spring. Finally Imoshen turned and, accompanied by the officials of Northpoint, she retraced her steps to the public hall. In her heart she dreaded returning to Kalleen’s accusing eyes. For despite having permission to return to her estate, Kalleen lingered, hoping for her bond-partner’s return.

  It was mid-afternoon before the port defenders signaled they were ready to talk. Tulkhan commandeered a draft horse— the only mount sturdy enough to carry him—and rode out to meet them. He wished he had his battle-hardened destrier, but the horse was still on Fair Isle, doubtless growing fat and sleek on too much grain and not enough exercise.

  He dressed in full armor, wearing the purple and black, the colors of his Ghebite father, the old king, and the red of his mother’s house. He waited as the gates opened, allowing seven ornately dressed horsemen to ride out. Tulkhan’s hands tightened on the reins as he recognized his half-brother. It was all very well to swear Gharavan’s death, but it was another thing to meet the youth face to face. He had taught Gharavan to ride, had made his first wooden practice sword, and now he was sworn to kill him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Tulkhan did not recognize a single Vaygharian mercenary among the company. He had been hoping to strike a bargain, for it was clear to him the Low-landers were not behind Gharavan, and if the mercenaries could be persuaded to change allegiance, he might be able to cut the body from the head of the army.

  “Protector General of Fair Isle.” Tulkhan stood in the stirrups, giving himself his new title.

  The party halted and a single horseman rode out. His ornate clothing proclaimed him one of Gheeaba’s new military elite, a breed of young men who played at war while never having to bloody their hands.

  “I will speak with my half-brother or no one!” Tulkhan roared.

  The others conferred and Gharavan, with six men behind him, ventured forward. His horse sidled nervously.

  Tulkhan could smell the perfume on him from here. Their father would have risen from his grave. “Gharavan.”

  “King Gharavan to you, Protector General!” The youth made the title an insult, his thin voice carrying on the still air. “I see you tore yourself away from your Dhamfeer bitch long enough to come to meet me. Or did you bring her along to warm your bed and hold your hand?”

  Tulkhan forced his hands to unclench from the reins. “T’Imoshen holds Fair Isle. I have Port Sumair surrounded. Surrender now and I will discuss terms.”

  “How many men and ships did you lose? It is a wonder they follow you at all!” Gharavan sneered. “It would be better to take your horse and put it to the use it was bred for, plowing a furrow. Or would you rather be back in Fair Isle plowing the Dhamfeer’s—”

  “You have until dusk to surrender.” Tulkhan contained his rage. “I will take no retaliation against the people of Port Sumair, because I know they want no part in this. As for the mercenaries—”

  “They are loyal to me,” Gharavan crowed. “What does your traitorous army call themselves now—Fair Weather Men of Fair Isle?”

  The laughter of Gharavan’s sup
porters sounded forced, but it was all Tulkhan could do to stop himself leaping off his horse and dragging his half-brother from the saddle.

  “Surrender?” Gharavan laughed. “There’s food for two years in the granaries, but long before that, your Dhamfeer bitch will be bedding her rebel prince. Long before that, my auxiliary forces will have marched across the Low-lands to crush you. And when you’re mine there will be no ax for your neck. No.” Spittle flew from Gharavan’s lips as he rose in the saddle. “You will die the death of a Ghebite traitor, tied between four galloping horses, your limbs pulled from their sockets while you scream in agony!”

  Tulkhan grew cold and still inside. He lifted his eyes from Gharavan’s white knuckles to his fanatical features. His half-brother hated him with an irrational intensity Tulkhan recognized but could not comprehend. Silence stretched between them. A gull called, reminding him that the sea was not far away.

  When Tulkhan spoke, his even tone held more menace than any roar. “I thank you for telling me your contingency plans. And I thank you for killing the last love I bore the boy I knew. When I banished you from Fair Isle, I said I no longer had a half-brother. But it took until today for you to make this true. Ride away, little king, scurry back inside your gate and hide under your bed, for you have had the last easy night’s sleep you will ever know!”

  Gharavan jerked on the reins, making his horse dance in a half circle. “I call down a curse on your house and your blood. The bastard child you claim to have sired will never sit on the throne of Fair Isle, because I will take the island and execute all of your traitorous commanders, saving the Dhamfeer bitch and her half-breed cub for last. When I have finished with her she will beg me for death.”

  Tulkhan felt a muscle jump in his cheek, but he remained impassive.

  Still cursing, Gharavan and his supporters galloped back to the gate. Tulkhan watched him go, his heart hard as stone.