VIRTUAL WARRIOR Perfect Heroes #3 Ellora's Cave October 2013 ISBN: 978-1419946479 Buy eBook edition: Order print edition:

The enemy stands at the border...
Ardra needs a strong warrior to save her fortress...
Neil needs a place to lick his wounds and heal...
he wishes he'd gone to Tahoe!

Chapter 3

Ardra set off up the mountain to Nilrem. 'Twas said the old man's wisdom included healing. The wind whipped her skirt about her legs and stung her cheeks.

Ardra found the wiseman sitting outside his hut, eyes raised to the conjunction. His long gray beard reached his knees.

She thought of the man, naked in the cold, bleeding, and took a deep, steadying breath. Sense had replaced fear on her run to the wiseman. Whether the man served the high councilor or not, she owed him her life. "Nilrem. Please. You must help me."

The old man started. "Ardra, is it not? Of the Fortress of Ravens? What are you doing so far from home?"

"Aye, I am she. But, please, my reason for coming must wait. I need your help. A man is hurt . . . quite badly."

"Hurt?" The old man staggered to his feet. "How so? Fallen from a horse?"

"Nay," she shook her head and swallowed. "Beaten. By outcasts. Come."

The old man lifted a woolly brow but asked no more questions. He retrieved a satchel from his hut and gestured with his walking stick that she precede him.

Overhead, the spill of light from the rising turquoise orbs lit their way to the mountain meadow. She glanced over her shoulder every few moments to make sure the wiseman was still behind her.

She moved cautiously, ever mindful of the possible return of the outcasts. Without being told, the old man did likewise.

The man was gone.

Then she saw him, by the fire, near the candles she had never lighted. "Nilrem. He moved."

For a moment, she only stared. The man had pushed off her cloak. She had seen enough of men to know many women would appreciate him. His body was strong, his muscles honed by war or hard labor. His face was comely too, but she had known comely men before--and been betrayed by one as well.

The glass roses bit into her palm and reminded her this man was not some innocent victim. "Look," she whispered, indicating the man's painted arm, when Nilrem panted up beside her.

Nilrem handed her his staff and knelt. He paid no heed to the mark on the man's arm, but instead, ran practiced fingers over the man's brow and jaw, probed his skull. "You say outcasts did this?"

"Or rebels."

"Filthy creatures. He is more likely to die of their vermin than of his injuries." Nilrem searched his satchel. He drew out a twist of linen and a tiny flagon stoppered with wood. "I see the candles here. You were practicing the ancient way?"

Ardra nodded. "I would prefer you not tell anyone. I never completed the ritual."

She held the man's head while Nilrem waved the flagon beneath the man's nose. With a groan and cough, he opened his eyes and began to flail his arms. Nilrem, in a move surprisingly agile for one of his age, leapt to safety.

She scooted away, but when the man's energy expended itself, and he fell back with a groan, she edged closer to get a better look at his face. His eyes remained open this time. Their color tempted her near. She not seen eyes so dark before, as dark as the hair on his head.

"Who are you?" Nilrem asked. "From whence do you come?" The man said nothing, just stare wildly about.

Ardra knelt by the fire. "He spoke before. Just briefly." "Who are you? What do you want here?" she asked, putting a hand on the man's bare shoulder. His skin was as cold as the rising wind.

"He does not seem to hear us. Build up the fire, Ardra, whilst I determine his injuries." Ardra did as bid while Nilrem threw off the concealing cloak and began to examine the man in earnest.

"Are you able to sit up?" Nilrem asked, and she could not resist a peek to see if he was able. His bare back was inches from her, a strong expanse of brown skin . . . skin that knew the sun. The valley of his spine was lined with hard muscle and descended to . . . Only warriors looked so very . . . able.

"Thank you," the man said to Nilrem in a hoarse voice. The sound reverberated low in her belly. A splendid voice. Then she looked at the coiled art upon his arm. A serpent. A mark of evil to all. Shame that she stared overlong at the naked man made her shift her attention away.

Her fire, lit for ceremonial reasons and badly done at that, flamed as if she had built it with care and fed it with fatted pine cones. It was strange and somehow as unsettling as the man's sudden appearance at the conjunction. She glanced overhead. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon.

"Ardra," Nilrem held out her cloak, "I have several robes I keep for pilgrims that may be of use to this young man. Fetch one as your cloak will be little protection, I think, when the winds rise." The winds had risen already. Trees around them lifted their boughs in nightly exaltation. Nilrem followed her glance. "Aye. It will grow colder every hour. With our help I believe this man may walk and once settled, answer your questions."

Ardra ran up the mountain. The old man's hut needed a good cleaning. It smelled of spoiled apples and clothing not cleaned often enough. On a hook she found several long robes of undyed wool. She snatched one up.

In a trice, she was back with the wise man. "Here," she whispered. "Clothe him if you must, but we should take him to my men. I would feel better with their protection."

Nilrem lifted one woolly eyebrow.

"He wears a mark of evil."

"Then let us take him down the mountain, Mistress Ardra. I'll not tend him 'til you decide I should."

"Look." She held out her hand to Nilrem, the two roses sparkling in the fire light. "Why would this man bear the high councilor's personal emblem?"

"Even more reason to let him lie right here." But Nilrem made no move to let the man fall back to the ground.

Blood stained the ground where the man had lain--in several places. She saw again in her mind's eye how he had come to her defense, an unarmed man against three. "Nay. Deny him no care." With a sigh she handed Nilrem the roses.

Nilrem held out his walking stick, but it was quickly plain the man's eyes might be open, but he had no awareness of where he was. She hurried forward and with Nilrem managed to get the man to his feet. Strong he may be, and certainly the arm beneath her hand was as hard as the weapon master's hammer, yet he stared through her unseeing, moved only when prodded, took no steps on his own. They stumbled along like a three-legged mule.

Ardra screamed inside at the slow pace, but clamped it down. Suspicions aside, the man had saved her life.

"How much did I drink?" Neil sat up and rubbed his head, then groaned. His jaw hurt, his nose hurt, in fact, everything hurt. With a glance he took in the hut made of mud and sticks. Sky showed through a gaping hole in the roof. "Where's the little pig? And how fast can I move to the brick house?"

An old man snickered then bent over him. "Ah. You recover quickly. It is a good sign."

The room spun a moment. Neil swallowed his nausea. When his stomach settled, he gazed around. Beyond the skinny, mad Santa who smelled like he'd been wearing his costume since last Christmas, there were two very intimidating Tolemac warriors. He didn't need the game booklet to identify them. They wore black leather breeches, high boots, and white tunics heavily embroidered in black and gold. They could be Swedish ski champions from the last Olympics if you traded their swords for ski poles.

He'd done it. Gone into the game. Then a tendril of memory curled from beneath the pain in his head. A woman on her knees, a man tearing at her skirt--the man a walking sore. The memory slipped away. Where had the thought come from?

"Where're my shorts? And where am I?"

The old man grinned and slapped his knees. The sound hurt Neil's ears. "You are at the base of Hart Fell, and I am Nilrem, a simple wiseman."

Nilrem was in the game manual, but little used. Game warriors didn't ask for advice. They acted. A wave of pain flooded Neil's head like ten toothaches hammering at one time. He managed a glance to the roof. "Is this your place?"

"Nay," Nilrem said. "I am not so needy as to live in such a hovel. 'Tis a shepherd's hut, no longer used. And who are you?" The man had a smoker's rough voice.

Neil had thought long and hard about his name in this world. Had, in fact, thought long and hard about coming here and all the questions he would need to answer. He had entered the game to escape everything he was in Ocean City. Everything he hadn't been. Everything he'd screwed up. Without hesitation he christened himself anew. "I am Lien."

"Leeee-en? What manner of name is this?"

"An ancient one from my land. It means good fortune." He'd also learned you needed every break you could get just to survive--in any world.

Nilrem rose and studied him. The scrutiny was at odds with the amused smile twitching the old man's lips. "I am most honored to meet you, Leee-en. Now, off with that robe and let me better tend your wounds."

"There's a rule where I come from. Keep your robe on in front of an audience. And where're my clothes?"

The two guards left without argument when Nilrem requested it. Neil pulled the robe over his head. "I feel as if I've been beaten with a stick."

"You were--several. I most humbly offer my apologies for such behavior. The men who accosted you were most likely outcasts. They live through thievery. As for your belongings, this is all we could save." The old man held up his hand.

Neil stared at the glass earrings and a broken chain. His hand shook a bit as he took them from the old man's dirty palm. "This is all . . . I mean . . . are you saying everything I had is gone?" What the hell was he to do now? He stared down at the jewelry; a sick dread churned in his stomach. So much for good fortune.

Nilrem nodded. "'Tis all that remains. Those were cast off by the robbers."

He was truly screwed. "You said, 'we.' Who's we?"

"Ah, that would be Ardra. She says you saved her life."

"Ardra." He whispered her name. The woman Gwen had suggested for Tolemac Wars III. Refrigerator Girl.

So, it had been Ardra on her knees. "Is she all right?"

Nilrem brought a bowl with a gray gloppy substance in it to Neil's side. "She is shaken, but thanks to you, unharmed." The old man took up a small stick and began to spread the goo on Neil's bruises and wounds. The gray paste was cool, then in a few moments, began to feel warm, like Ben-Gay. The bandages the wiseman wrapped about his leg were bright white clean.

"Do you know Mistress Ardra?" the wiseman asked.

"I don't. It's just an unusual name."

"Leee-en isn't?"

Neil pushed the old man's hand away and stood. The room spun and turned; the bile rose in his throat. He gripped the old man's shoulder. "No. It's common as dirt where I am."

"Mistress Ardra will need to stitch you up. Two of your wounds are too deep for the herbal to heal on their own. Should they fester . . ."

"Stitch me up? Fester?" Neil said softly. One cut was on his inner arm, from his elbow to nearly his wrist. It was already swelling. The other was on his shoulder, near his collar bone.

"When you have covered yourself, I shall call her."

Neil hastily sat down and drew several of the bed furs over his lower body. He felt vulnerable without his shorts. He felt like the morning after a frat party. An all night frat party. Like the one that had moved to the tattoo parlor where he'd originally gotten the tattoo on his right arm. Everything from stepping into the game booth until he woke here in the hut was fuzzy and vague.

He remembered the attack on Ardra. Maybe. He remembered a fire. The flare of flames. An electrical odor. Pain. A burning pain--as if someone had put his head in a waffle iron.

The door opened and in stepped a woman. Ardra. Her green gown and hooded cloak were embroidered in gold and purple. She dropped into a deep curtsy directed at Nilrem. Her eyes never turned to where he sat.

"Mistress Ardra, 'tis necessary you stitch this man's wounds. I have no talent with the needle."

As he spoke, the old man tapped Neil firmly on the shoulder. Each touch vibrated down his arm into his hand.

"Stitch? I cannot--" She stepped back a pace.

"Aye. You can. Just think of it as two pieces of cloth, a simple joining. If you can render such decorations as are on your cloak, you can do this simple chore, and it would be better if your women were not involved here. Questions would be asked you might not wish answered.

Nilrem took her hand and drew her forward to stand before him and urged her onto a low stool by his bed which was no more than a pile of clean straw.

She lifted her gaze and met his.

Neil swallowed. Gwen was wrong, the game creator hadn't captured her at all. Oh, the basics, yeah, the oval face, the patrician cheekbones, the sensuous lips, but not the eyes. They were unlike any he'd ever seen--golden eyes, glowing in the firelight as brilliantly as polished amber.

Her hands were cool when she touched his arm to assess the wound. "They were merciless," she said, almost in a whisper.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked.

She leapt up. "Your-your voice. I have heard only one other speak as you do."

He didn't answer.

"Nilrem," she turned to the old man. "Whence came he?"

Neil had an answer ready. "I'm from beyond the ice fields."

"Ardra," Nilrem said sharply. "He needs tending."

Ardra hesitated but a moment, then obeyed. With a sharp intake of breath, she bent her head, and he felt as if she had dismissed him from her conscious presence. She opened her pack and drew out a fabric pouch tied with ribbon. She unwrapped the bundle and revealed needles and thread wrapped on small smooth sticks. The needles looked less than sharp. Don't be a wimp, Neil.

No, he must think of himself as Lien. He was a different man here. Lien the pauper. What a nightmare.

She swallowed and looked up at him, inspected him like a piece of furniture she had to refinish. Then she spoke and with the quiver in her voice he realized she was not distant, just very nervous. "Forgive me. You came to my aid and now, I must come to yours."

"Thank you." Lien asked.

"It is not necessary." She looked at him and instead of amber he thought of old-fashioned fall chrysanthemums.

"Why weren't those guards with you?"

"I-I was gathering firewood." The old man made a snorting sound, then rubbed his nose on his sleeve. The young woman impaled the wiseman with a haughty stare. Here was one thing the game creator had captured perfectly--she was as cold as the ice she guarded. "You helped me and I am grateful," she continued, bringing her attention back to his wound.

She clasped her hands about his forearm and pressed the edges of the wound together. He nearly levitated off the pallet. He jerked his arm away.

"This may hurt badly." She poked his wound again.

"Wait!" He covered her hand with his. "I think I want it washed first. With really hot water. And do you have any alcohol?"

Ardra and Nilrem merely glanced at each other and shook their heads.

"Alcohol? You know . . . wine? Ale? Something like that?"

"Ah. The man wishes to be drunk! A wonderful idea. He will feel little pain that way." Nilrem cackled in amusement. He was gone but a moment before returning with what looked like a wine skin from the hippie era. Lien tugged off a wooden stopper and sniffed the inside. It was wine.

Ardra pursed her mouth and he realized she did not approve of the idea he might want to get drunk. After she bathed the wound in very hot water, she cried out as he then doused it with the wine. He clenched his fist against the hot flare of pain as the red fluid coursed along the deep cut.

"Now you can stitch it." He rested his arm on his blanket covered lap and fisted his hand.

She patted the wound dry with a clean cloth and began. It hurt like a bitch and he had to bite his lip to keep from swearing. Bad as it was, it was pretty tame stuff compared to the jackhammer in his head.

He changed his mind as she snailed through the job. "Can't you go any faster?" he gritted out when she had neatly gathered together about half the wound. Cold sweat broke out on his brow.

"I have never done such work. Perhaps I am going too fast." She jerked the thread tight and tied a knot. When she looked up, he saw something in her gaze that told him she was angry. It took several moments for her to thread her needle again. His arm throbbed from shoulder to wrist.

"Never mind," he muttered as she slowly began on the second half of the wound. He wanted to vomit. His stomach danced. He took a deep breath. She wore an exotic scent he imagined didn't exist in Ocean City . . . or anywhere else in the US of A.

"Now, your . . . chest." She leaned forward to inspect the wound. She bit her lip . . . her very full lip. Wherever had he gotten the idea she was prissy?

His head filled with a vague buzz. He slipped backwards and groaned.

"Oh! Nilrem!" Her hands were cool on his brow. "He is soaked in sweat!"

Nilrem edged her gentle hands away and replaced it with his scratchy claw. "He is not feverish. 'Tis just he is not so brave."

Lien closed his eyes and groaned. His funeral ziti threatened to erupt from his lips. Somehow, the meal and the funeral seemed a world and millennium away.

The rustle of Ardra's skirt told him she was near. She placed a damp, cool cloth over his eyes.

"Foolish is more to the point," she said. "He came after the outcasts with naught but his bare hands."

Even with a head in a vice, Lien knew when he was being insulted. "I can sit up now." He pushed her hand away.

"Nay. Remain as you are." She touched his shoulder.

It was just easier to do as she said. He fell back against the bedding.

Without being told, she bathed his chest wound in very hot water, repeatedly, then doused it well with the wine as he had done. He felt the warm liquid soak the cloth beneath his body.

"Waste of good wine. Give me that, child." Nilrem took the wine skin and poured a hefty draught into a wooden cup and slurped it down, smacking his lips and then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I think our Lien needs to explain this curious mark on his arm."

Lien feigned sleep. Each stitch turned his stomach. He could feel them and hear them.

As Ardra sewed up his shoulder wound, they whispered about him.

"A snake is a mark of evil," Ardra whispered.

"Aye. But it coils thrice about his arm and in the very place a warrior wears his armrings," Nilrem whispered back. "Perhaps he is a warrior from . . . his place."

"In scarlet and gold robes?" Her fingers drifted from his shoulder to his upper arm.

They did not touch his tattoo, but he could almost feel a static charge as he pictured her fingertips hovering over the art.

Her breath whispered soft as a summer breeze across his shoulder. "And look . . . the snake markings are not scales. They are one of the old designs . . . the weave of eternal goodness found on the cauldrons of the ancient priests."

"Most curious," Nilrem said softly. "So, he wears a mark of evil, yet it is richly decorated by ancient markings of goodness. Hmmm. And what of this?"

Lien couldn't resist. He peeked. There dangling from the broken chain, knotted now, inches away from his nose, were the two glass rose earrings, the chain running through their clips.

"They're mine." He reached out with his good hand. Pain rocketed through his shoulder as he strained to reach the jewelry.

Nilrem held it just out of his reach and stepped away.

Lien threw back the blankets and side-stepped Ardra to reach the old man. He hooked the chain from Nilrem's hand, then dropped it over his head and turned back to Ardra. She looked a mile away in a gray haze. "Now. Finish the job," he said.

Ardra just stared at him, mouth open. He felt his cheeks flush hot as he realized just how naked he was. Really naked. He slow-motion walked past her to the straw, sat down, and drew a blanket over his lap.

This time, she kept her eyes downcast as she stitched.

"Of what significance is the jewelry, young man?" Nilrem took another deep drink of his wine.

"They belonged to my mother."

"But they are glass. No one may make such a thing here," Ardra said.

"They were not made here." And damn it, he decided, I'm not saying another word. "Yow!" he gasped as Ardra poked him rather hard with the needle. Sweat broke out again on his skin. The room tipped and spun. He felt ice cold.

When she finished her work, she coated each wound with the gray paste, then tore strips of clean cloth and bound both his arm and shoulder.

"Thank you, Mistress Ardra," he managed.

For the first time, she smiled. Only a small smile, which died quickly as she caught sight of his tattoo.

"Have you no such marks as these here?" he asked.

Nilrem answered for her. "Once, when men ran about in nothing but furs, they marked themselves on their faces, chests, and so forth, but not in such an artful manner . . . and not in such a place. The place of armrings."

"There are no armrings beyond the ice fields," Lien said simply. "Do you have something I could wear?"

Nilrem handed him what looked like a monk's robe. It was thick and scratchy. So much for sartorial splendor.

He glanced at Ardra. In a swirl of skirts she was gone.

Nilrem offered him a strip of rough leather to loop about his waist with the words, "I have asked Ardra's men to collect a few pairs of boots for you."

"Her men?" Lien imagined a small army of warriors, garbed in leather, armed with sharp swords. Great. He tugged at the robe that reached only to his calves.

"Oh, aye. Did you think a woman traveled about unprotected?"

"No," Lien said slowly. "I didn't know she was traveling anywhere."

Nilrem burst into a delighted laugh complete with knee slapping. When he calmed himself, he finally spoke. "You did not suppose her to reside with me?"

Lien shrugged. "If I can just have those boots, I'll be on my way."

"Your way? And which is your way?"

Before Lien could answer, Ardra entered the hut. Behind her were three large men. Blond, hard looking men. The cold air went straight up his robe. He was nearly naked, barefoot, and outnumbered.

"Come. Come." Nilrem waved them all in. The hut became immediately crowded. Maybe it was the pain in his head, but the boots the warriors dumped at his feet looked enormous--so did their swords.

When her guards retired to the outside--gone but close enough that Lien could hear the murmur of their voices, Nilrem asked Ardra, "What brings you here to me, Mistress Ardra of the Fortress?"

Ardra turned her wide tawny eyes not to Nilrem but to him. She slid her hands into her sleeves and looked not hesitant, but wary. Lien concentrated on the boots lying at his feet, tried to appear disinterested. Maybe he'd hear something useful before setting out on his own. It had been his plan . . . check out the local politics before settling in any one location.

Nilrem nodded in Lien's direction. "You must speak before this young man. He is not fit to stand outside awaiting our pleasure."

Good, the more feeble they thought him, the less of a threat Ardra might see in him.

She nodded as if coming to a decision. "I fear I must speak if he is not able to .. . go."

Her hair was loose about her shoulders. The fire's glow cast a soft sheen on the ripples. He shook his head. What the heck was wrong with him? It was just hair.

She pitched her voice low, and he pretended to be intently interested in the boots he was trying on. He tried not to appear to be eavesdropping.

"Tol is grievously ill," she whispered.

"What may I do?" Nilrem patted her knee gently. "I have several potions that will ease his pain."

Ardra squeezed the gnarled hand on her knee. She nodded and for a moment her head bowed. "I accept with my deepest thanks. The healer has been unable to give him ease."

"Done." Nilrem rose. He opened a wooden cask and withdrew a stoppered stone bottle. He tapped a small pile of yellow powder into a square of cloth and folded it as if it held gold dust. "Here." He handed the parcel to Ardra. "Four grains only in clear water as he needs it. Allow him to decide when he needs more. Twice as much . . . is fatal."

Ardra opened her cloak and Lien saw an embroidered gown in a deep green. He thought she could be Robin Hood's mate, all garbed in shades of green as she was. She tucked the package into a leather purse hanging from a belt at her waist.

"It is not just for Tol's ease I have come. He sent me with grave news to impart."

Lien settled on one pair of boots and realized he would miss socks. There seemed to be nothing resembling them here. With a sigh, he wrapped some strips of fabric about his feet and became aware that Ardra watched him most intently.

The boots were stiff brown leather, without the distinction of being a left or a right, but fit him well enough with the cloth wrappings. He imagined if he walked far, he'd have horrendous blisters. Where was Dr. Scholls when you needed him?

As he contemplated the sorry and not very clean robe he was wearing, Nilrem and Ardra continued their hushed conversation, but she kept glancing at him, worry etched on her face. Lien decided to fake sleep. He groaned as he tried to shift his feet onto the pallet. The heavy boots defeated him. He settled for falling diagonally across the straw mattress and watching through half-closed eyes.

"What other matter beyond that of Tol's ill health brings you here?" Nilrem asked.

"Samoht is camped on the border. Did you know?" Ardra leaned forward and knotted her hands into a tightly clenched fist.

Nilrem followed her gaze but shrugged. "Is he? Alone?"

"Nay! He comes with an army." She began to pace and wring her hands. "Oh, 'tis said he comes to await the birth of his first child." Her tone was sneering. "His Selaw mate was not good enough to dwell in his Tolemac palace. Nay, she must be returned to her mother here in Selaw once she was breeding. He treated her like a mare, taken to stud. I despise the man!"

Lien wanted to rub his aching temples, but bruises prevented him--and would alert her that he was awake.

She planted herself before him. "I know you are listening."

He opened his eyes. She was very close and practically quivering with emotion. "Is Samoht your master?" she spat out. "You bear his symbol. He comes to take my lands, my fortress. Some say he covets me as well." Her head bowed. No color rose on her cheeks but he sensed she was deeply mortified. Then he saw a single tear run down her cheek. "He could not even wait upon Tol's death to come."

"Samoht? Tol?" Lien struggled up on his elbow. What had he landed in?

Nilrem took a deep breath and answered for her. "Tol is Ardra's lifemate. He is ill."

The short answer said it all. Terminal, Lien interpreted. "Can't you heal him?"

Nilrem caught his eye and gave one curt quick shake of his head. If Ardra caught the gesture, she did not react. "What else may I do for you?" Nilrem took Ardra's hand and gently rubbed it between his. "I am at your service."

She looked up. As Lien watched, she visibly gathered herself and took a deep breath. "I cannot lose the fortress, Nilrem. I cannot."

"Tradition will not allow you to rule, my child." He patted her hand. Lien winced at the patronizing gesture.

"Tradition!" She leapt to her feet and stood over him. Staring up at her hurt his neck. "This is tradition." Her long elegant finger pointed at him. "A rose, passed from one man to another. Secret symbols to tell one man another is on his side. Well, I will not be deceived by it. Men may rule by might, but a woman may do just as well with her wits."

"Whoa," Lien said. "These roses are just jewelry. Nothing more. I've never met this Samoht."

Her mouth opened, then closed with a click. "One may serve a master even if one is too lowly to be permitted into his presence."

"Perhaps he tells the truth, my child." Nilrem hooked his hands together on his belly. "After all, we know little if nothing of the lands beyond the ice fields. Roses may have other meanings there."

Lien mirrored the old man's stance, linking his fingers and leaning back. It hurt his arm like hell, but he didn't shift position. "Yeah. I'm from way over there. Where I'm from roses are just a flower you give a girlfriend."

"Girl friend? You mean lover? One may not have a girl as a friend. This is nonsense you spin to distract me." Ardra lifted her nose into the air. "You bear the rose emblem. It is enough for me."

"Enough for what?" Lien asked mildly.

"Enough to believe in your treachery. Deceit. Licentiousness!"

"Licentiousness? What a great word. I always wanted some of that." Suddenly, his brain wasn't working so well. Ardra grew large, then small, shrinking and growing again like Alice in Wonderland. He fainted.

"I like him," Nilrem said as he hefted Lien's booted feet onto the pallet and settled his head on a folded length of cloth. "He can find amusement and still be in great pain. Lift his robe; he is bleeding somewhere." Nilrem pointed to a few spots of red.

Ardra sighed and tried for dispassion as she drew the young man's robe up his legs, stopping with discretion at his groin. "Does this man walk about naked? His legs are as brown as a field worker's." The thought caused an uncomfortable sensation through her belly. She ruthlessly ignored it.

"Here, Nilrem, this wound needs stitching."

Blood soaked one of the cloths Nilrem had bound about the man's thigh. Together, they removed the strips of cloth. She touched the needle to his skin and his thigh muscle jumped. He clamped a hand over hers and sat up, eyes wild and wide awake.

Nilrem put a hand on the man's shoulder. "She is helping you. Now sit back."

The man held his hand over the robe bunched in his lap and watched her work.

"Why is your skin so brown in places, pale in others?" she asked. The wound was in the paler area of skin. He had dark hair on his thighs the same color as on his head. Never had she seen such a color on a person before.

"I like the sun," he said, then moaned at the tug of the thread on the wound.

When she knotted the final small stitch he slumped to the side in a faint.

It unnerved her to touch a man so intimately, a man not her mate, so she tugged his robe down over his legs.

"He has the body of a warrior," Nilrem said, poking the man's belly. "Look at his arms and thighs."

"As I said, Nilrem, he is a treacherous pretender. He must be one of Samoht's guard, most likely, posing as a merchant or some such. It was most unwise of us to talk before him."

"Nay. He has ancient symbols of goodness on his arm. Surely, Samoht would not allow such pagan markings on his guard? And where are his armrings? Nay. I think he is what he claims, a simple man from beyond the ice fields, one who saved your life, do not forget."

"With the mark on his arm he cannot be so simple." Ardra knelt at the man's side. "Have you ever seen hair so dark? It reminds me of the rich brown dye my women make from the winter thistle."

"And that only grows in the rock crevasses out on the ice fields, does it not?"

She rubbed her fingers in the soft hair of his head. "Has he dyed his hair?"

Nilrem snorted. "Even that on his body?"

A vision of the man, stretched naked on the ground came to her. "Why would one do that? Who is he, Nilrem? He appeared in a moment--"

"And saved your life."

Nilrem could say what he wanted, but the man would not bewitch her. She knew evil when she saw it and evil was the mark on this man's arm and the red of the roses. She drew off the braided leather belt she wore looped three times about her waist.

"This man could overpower many of my men." She slid the soft leather belt through her fingers. "I have learned many skills from Tol. He taught me to rule, allowed me to take the reins of leadership, but this skill I learned from my women." As Nilrem sputtered a protest, she trussed the man, hand and foot.

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