A Battle Lord’s Heart (23 page)

           
Renken raked his eyes over the man’s
figure. The Battle Lord was thinner and paler from his ordeal, but another
couple of months would take care of that. Two more months. Tops. Then again,
under Atty’s love and care, maybe less, he figured. After all, look at what she
had been able to accomplish so far.
 

           
Yulen extended his hand. “My deepest
thanks.”

           
Renken took his hand, and they
shook.

           
“My door will always be open to
you,” the Battle Lord added. Taking his wife by the hand, he continued on
through the crowd as Renken watched them go.

           
They proceeded to the courtyard as
the crowd closed in behind them. The council of five men was already sitting
behind an ornately-carved table. Two chairs had been ceremoniously set to the
side. Yulen guided Atty into one before moving his chair closer to her and
taking a seat. It was a simple gesture and second nature to the Battle Lord,
but it sent a ripple through the crowd.

           
The man who had questioned her by
lantern light so many weeks ago stood and rapped his staff on the short wood
dais. “This public forum is now in session. The rules of formal presentation
will apply.” Turning to Yulen, he introduced himself. “I am Fareth Gins
Smallworth. I am the head of the Council.”

           
Yulen silently studied the other
four men present, noting their marks which distinguished them as Mutah, as
Smallworth finished their introductions. He inclined his head to acknowledge
them.

           
“We have called this forum to
discuss the possible alliance between West Crestin and Alta Novis.”

           
Atty gave a sudden intake of breath
at the announcement. She could see Yulen’s eyes narrow as he also took in the
news.
 
The crowd, however, seemed
unusually quiet. Obviously they had already been made aware of it.

           
“You want an alliance between my
compound and yours?” Yulen reiterated slowly in his deep baritone.

           
“That is correct,” Smallworth said.

           
Yulen thought slowly, tapping his
fingertips together right above his waist. “With or without a treaty?”

           
The crowd began buzzing. Smallworth
was forced to rap his staff for quiet. Behind him, his fellow Council members
were whispering among themselves.

           
“Can you explain what you mean by
‘with or without a treaty’?” the Council head requested.

           
“I believe the term is
self-explanatory,” Yulen said slowly. He’d stopped tapping his fingers
together. They now lay laced together across his middle.

           
Atty glanced at his stomach,
thinking of the wide bandage still wrapped around his abdomen. And beneath the
bandage, some of the worst damage that had been done to him.

           
She shifted in her seat for a more
comfortable position, knowing it was useless. Their son was active almost
constantly. Even Yulen had commented on more than one occasion that he didn’t
appreciate the little kicks and jabs against his ribs and back whenever they
were trying to sleep. She had been quick to remind him that he was only having
to endure them from the outside.
 
“Try
imagine having this going on
inside
you! At least you can get away from
it!”

           
Smallworth moved from behind the
table to stand in front of it. Apparently the move was unprecedented, as the
noise from the crowd once more increased. Atty tried to figure out why.

           
A hand reached over the arm of the
chair and took one of hers, entwining their fingers together. Again, this
contact, this gesture, was as natural for them as breathing, yet the crowd was
quick to notice it.

           
“How can there be an alliance
without a treaty?” Smallworth challenged.

           
“From what I’ve observed in the
past, most treaties are nothing more than veiled threats on a piece of paper. A
ceremonial line drawn down the middle of a room, with expectations on one side,
and consequences on the other if they’re not met.” Yulen shook his head. His
loose red-gold hair was like a halo of fire about his face. “I firmly believe
now that a true alliance cannot be formed as long as both sides have to tiptoe
around each other for fear of upsetting the balance. Your compound has
commodities I know my compound would enjoy acquiring. That other Normal
compounds would enjoy trading and bartering for.”

           
He pointed to his new weapons belt.
“The craftsmanship on this is exquisite. Once I show it to my leather workers
back in Alta Novis, they’ll be green with envy. On the other hand, my compound
has goods I’m certain your people would want. Not counting the fact that my
compound is on the main trade route, and work like this would garner a lot of
attention.”

           
Atty could see where he was going
with this. She just wished she could give it her full attention. At the
present, their son was bearing down on her lower belly. She could feel his tiny
feet through the small lump protruding from her stomach beneath the thick
material of her gown. Groaning, she had no idea she’d done so quite loudly
until she felt her hand being squeezed. She looked over to see a pair of blue-gray
eyes silently questioning her. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “He’s being
restless.”

           
Thankfully Yulen accepted her excuse
with a little grin, and turned back around to resume. “If West Crestin wasn’t a
Mutah compound, we wouldn’t be talking,” the Battle Lord pointed out. “We would
simply open our doors to each other and begin a mutual exchange of commerce.”

           
“But we
are
a Mutah compound,
D’Jacques,” Smallworth said. “And not all Battle Lords are as open-minded as
you. We still fear for our safety. We only feel comfortable having a ‘mutual
exchange of commerce’, as you call it, with others of our kind. That’s why
we’re wanting an alliance, and a guarantee of safety, so we can join with Alta
Novis.”

           
Yulen was quick to pounce on the
man’s unintentional
faux pas
. “So you can join with Alta Novis?” he
repeated with a slow smile.

           
As he expected, Smallworth did a
mental step backwards. Behind him, his fellow Council members went into a
private, heated discussion. The crowd, as well, had heard the gaff, if the
increased noise level in the courtyard was any indication.

           
Glancing out over the populace, Atty
could see several familiar faces, but not MaGrath’s. He had promised earlier to
be in attendance as soon as he finished handling an emergency with one of the
soldiers.

           
It was becoming quite painful now,
as if someone was pressing a heavy weight on her belly. She bit her lips and
tried to remain quiet as this tricky bit of diplomacy over word play was being
conducted.

           
“I believe what you meant to say was
that you are wanting an alliance so you can benefit in all that Alta Novis has
to offer, be it goods, commerce trade, or...protection?” Yulen deliberately
added the last word as a question, leaving it up in the air.

           
Smallworth saw his inquiry for what
it was and smiled. “We’ve been in contact with Wallis. I’m sure you know that,
D’Jacques. We know you originally had a treaty based on those so-called threats
and consequences, but it no longer exists. Today there is free trade and
enterprise between that compound and yours. You’ve also helped to fortify
them.”

           
Yulen waited. He wanted see how much
the man had left to say. It would be interesting to find out if the Council of
West Crestin included their people in all their decisions, or if it was just
another little demagoguery like the one in Wallis.

           
 
Atty was beginning to feel light-headed. Sweat was popping out on
her forehead, and a fine, thin trickle of it was slowly rolling over her skin
underneath her gown. Atty shifted again in her chair—just a little bit, so as
not to alarm her husband.

           
The pressure was greater and
steadily growing more painful. Breathing was restricted to short gasps of air.
It was only whenever their son would stop kicking that she’d get a few moments
of respite before he’d start up again. She closed her eyes and hoped he would
stop soon, or else she’d have no choice but to ask Yulen to excuse her from the
proceedings, no matter how much it meant to him to have her with him.

           
Smallworth raised a hand to his
chin. He rapped his staff twice to bring down the volume on the babble coming
from the crowd, then glanced at his Council members for a signal. He got it
from the man with the bear-like nose.

           
“D’Jacques, we’re going to put this
out on the table. We know the price Wallis is having to pay for your protection
and all that they’re benefitting from it. Is there any way we can get the same
amount of protection, the same services, and the same promise of aide?”

           
Very softly, Yulen answered, “Only
if you fly my banner.”

           
A warm, sticky wetness filled the
seat cushion beneath her. Atty could smell the hot, metallic scent, and knew
what it was. It felt distant and strange, but she was too far along to care any
longer.

           
“Yul.” It came out as a low moan.

           
“Atty?”

           
He was kneeling before her, moving
from his seat the instant he’d heard her use the diminutive of his name. A name
kept exclusively for times of love...or danger.

           
A cool hand touched her hot, sweaty
cheeks. Somewhere before her, she could see his worried face floating in and
out of a reddish fog.

           
“Dear God, what’s wrong, Atrilan?”

           
 
She was pale and shaking, and on the edge of blacking out.
Instinctively Yulen got to his feet and started to lift her from the chair,
until a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach reminded him he was nowhere near
healed enough to carry her, much less lift her. He turned around to face the
curious stares of the crowd, searching for a familiar face to help him with
her.

           
“I’ll take her,” a voice behind him
stated.

           
Yulen stepped nimbly aside as Renken
rushed onto the podium and leaned over to lift Atty out of the chair. As the
man gathered her into his arms, the back of her heavy, cream-colored gown
fanned out below her, soddened with a wide swatch of bright red blood.

           
Several women in the crowd screamed
as fingers pointed at the rapidly spreading patch. Renken stepped down into the
mass and began to plow through them, with Yulen directly behind him.

           
Within seconds the soldiers of Alta
Novis were clearing a path to the clinic.
 
Renken covered the distance in record time with his long-legged strides.
Atty had lost consciousness before he’d picked her up from the chair. Her head
rolled limply against his shoulder. He could feel the heavy, damp material of
her gown slapping against his thighs. His pants would be covered in her blood
by the time they got to the clinic.

           
MaGrath caught up with them before
they got to the front door, having been summoned by Mastin the moment Renken
had pulled the Battle Lady into his arms.

           
“Put her on the table. Yulen, cut
that damn gown off of her,” the physician barked as he rolled up his shirt
sleeves and washed his hands in a bowl on one of the counters.

           
Renken and Yulen locked gazes for a
long moment. Then, without a word, the ex-mercenary left the clinic. Yulen
watched him leave as the truth touched him. The man was in love with his wife.
A sense of sadness came over the Battle Lord with the realization. Nothing
could ever be more painful than unrequited love. Renken knew he would never
have a future with Atty, but the man couldn’t help himself. Pulling the dagger
from its sheath, Yulen proceeded to saw the heavy winter gown off Atty’s limp
frame.

           
There was more blood coming from between
her thighs, spreading slowly outward beneath her and across the leather padded
table. Pulling back the fabric, he saw her swollen stomach glisten in the
lantern light. Yulen could see movement inside, and for a fascinating second he
couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

           
“Liam, it’s too soon. She isn’t due
for another couple of months!”

           
“We can’t dwell on that,” MaGrath
tersely replied as he pulled supplies from the cabinets.

           
Seeing the long, thin, pincer-like
instrument being laid out across the linen-covered tray, Yulen felt himself
grow cold as his imagination tried to envision how it might have to be used on
Atty’s tender flesh.

           
“If you’re going to faint on me, at
least have the courtesy to step away from the table so you don’t land on her.”
To emphasize his point, the physician gave him a shove with his hip as he
rounded the end of the examination table.