Claire Delacroix (8 page)

He shrugged, as if disinterested, turning away to haul on his
chalwar
and his boots.

Kira stifled a very feminine surge of irritation that he had so little interest in her nudity. Not easy for her pride was it that he so readily admitted to finding her unattractive, and she struggled to her knees, letting the blanket drop away. Little point was there in shielding herself from him, for he undoubtedly had more interest in his horse.

Men, she thought with disgust, surprised to find his hand heavy on her shoulder when she tried to rise. How had he moved across the space so quietly and quickly? He frowned and shook his head, leaning over her to untie the scarf that bound her wrists.

That dark thicket of hair on his chest brushed against her shoulder and Kira took the opportunity to study him through her lashes at such close quarters. Though he was bigger than she, there was not an ounce of spare flesh on his body, all of it lean strength and muscle.

His eyes were gray, she noted with amazement, wondering at his heritage, for his eyes were not as narrow as the Mongols’, either. She felt that increasingly familiar tingle of awareness when his fingers brushed her skin, knowing all the while that ‘twas futile and foolish to feel anything at all for a bloodthirsty warrior like this.

But he had not abused her, she was forced to concede. Fixed on his task, he dropped to one knee to undo the binding at her ankles with surprisingly gentle fingers. Lucky for her ‘twas that rape was not among his objectives, Kira concluded as she noted the disparity in their sizes once more. Little enough was there she might have done to defend herself against one so much larger and stronger.

Mayhap ‘twas a blessing that he liked her not, she reflected, watching his strong fingers make short work of the tie at her ankles.

Her father might be pleased.

Surprisingly enough, Kira found that neither the warrior’s apparent disinterest nor the promise of her sire’s grudging satisfaction sat well with her. Clearly, her irrational thinking of the night before still plagued her.

Her stomach rumbled once more and the warrior spoke brusquely, indicating her garments with an imperious finger. Kira hastily donned her
kurta, chalwar
and djellaba, grateful that he seemed to understand her haste when he immediately opened the tent flap and hastened her to the latrine.

* * *

The most savage expulsion of her life left Kira weak-kneed with relief when ‘twas over. She inhaled shakily, passing one hand over her sweat-beaded brow. Knowing she had no choice, she turned to look, gasping aloud at the sight of the creamy pearl reposing amidst the dirt.

Kira glanced to her warrior, but he was scanning the horizon, frowning thoughtfully at the dawn with his arms folded impatiently across his chest. Her heart pounding erratically, she flicked the pearl into the grass with her toe and rolled it around under her foot.

Convinced he was distracted, she finally picked up the pearl and slipped it surreptitiously into her pocket. She looked guiltily to him again, but he evidently had not noticed her furtive move and she willed her heart to slow.

For no intention had Kira of surrendering the gem as yet. At least, not until she knew his plans for her.

Kira knew only too much about broken promises. He might not have abused her so far, but Kira would be sure of his intent before surrendering her only asset. Well might the warrior be biding his time, only to strike a more telling blow once he had what he wanted from her.

Kira strolled toward him as nonchalantly as she could manage, rubbing her troubled stomach to ease its aching. He turned that sharp gaze upon her and frowned, extending his hand between them in silent demand. Kira jumped at the abruptness of the gesture, then shook her head. She hoped against hope that she looked as convincing as she had the day before. His scowl deepened as he glanced back to the space she had used, offering his hand once more insistently.

“Nay, I did not pass it yet,” Kira lied. She shrugged as though she did not understand the matter.

The warrior’s brow darkened thunderously before he abruptly strode back to the spot where she had crouched. The precision with which he went to the exact location sent Kira’s heart plummeting. Much more had he observed than she had suspected and she feared suddenly that he might have seen her covert retrieval of the gem.

Had she left some mark in the dirt when she pushed it to the grass? She knew not and her heart pounded as she watched. He peered into the dirt, then strode back to her impatiently a moment later and grasped her elbow as he hastened her back to the tent.

Kira hesitated just inside the opening, not at all trusting his grim expression as he hauled on a short
kurta
with long sleeves that gleamed with the luster of silk. He left the
kurta
untucked and pulled a coat of mail over it, followed by a leather cuirass that laced over his chest. He looked as though he were dressing for battle, though Kira was an uneducated judge of such matters, and she could not help but wonder where he was going.

And what he was going to do with her.

Finally the gold-trimmed tunic he had worn the day before was pulled over the laced leather. He buckled on a scimitar, lashed a knife to the inside of his left forearm and scooped up an iron helmet lined with leather, jamming it on his head. His gaze fell on Kira as he fastened the strap under his chin and she fairly fidgeted beneath that steady regard.

He could not know that she had lied to him. Kira dropped her gaze that he might not see the truth in her eyes. Mayhap, with luck, he would merely think her uncommonly modest.

The warrior grunted to himself, undoubtedly making a comment on her response, and Kira dared to peek between her lashes as he retrieved his weapons. Had she not seen the evidence herself, she would not have imagined that he could look more forbidding than he had already. This sight, though, made her fold her hands cautiously together before herself.

For what battle did he gird himself? And what was going to happen to her?

She was only too well aware of the weight of his regard upon her, although she did not dare meet his gaze. Neither would she cower, and so the two stood silently for a long moment, Kira feeling each heartbeat pass with agonizingly slow speed.

The warrior remained silent, not a clue to be gleaned from his stony features when Kira glanced between her lashes yet again.

Mayhap he knew what she had done. Mayhap he had seen. Mayhap he was granting her one last opportunity to confess.

Mayhap she should have given him the pearl, she thought wildly.

No further time was she allowed to reflect upon the matter. A round shield, a bow and pair of quivers were the last items the warrior took. Then Kira found herself being hustled outside and through the rows of round tents, trepidation making her heart race.

“P
ersian, are you?”

Kira started at the sound of that achingly familiar language and almost turned before she caught herself. She frowned and scrubbed the filthy garment she had been commanded to wash, wishing any would-be companions would leave her alone.

The warrior had left her to wash clothes under the direction of an ancient harridan, and wash clothes she would. At worst, the task occupied her hands, if not her mind.

Although there was absolutely no need to make idle conversation with any of the other women standing knee-deep in the stream. None whatsoever.

Why would any of these women talk to Kira? Grist for the gossip mill, no more than that. Surprisingly, her relief to understand anything anybody said had nearly overpowered her usual caution. Long ago Kira had learned that her business was naught but hers alone.

“Indeed, you well look Persian. Certain am I that I have not seen you in the camp before, so you must be newly arrived.”

Unfortunately Kira’s lack of response did not seem to be affecting the woman’s friendliness. The woman dunked a garment alongside Kira and Kira noticed the dark gold hue of the woman’s skin. Persian skin. Slender fingers had she, much like Kira’s, though Kira could see that the nails had been broken, and graceful hands that moved as though they had once been pampered now bore hard calluses.

Kira’s gaze dropped stubbornly to her own hands and the similarity was inescapable. Would her hands soon be so abused? And what of the rest of her? She plunged the dirty garment into the river up to her elbows so that her hands were lost in the murky water.

The woman sighed. “I had so hoped you would be Persian,” she said softly. There was no missing the subtle recrimination in her tone, and the familiarity of the language rolled around Kira’s heart, entreating her to respond. “‘Tis tedious to have none to talk with in one’s own tongue.”

Curiosity got the better of Kira with that comment. Too close ‘twas to her own thoughts that she could not at least look to this woman. Kira schooled her expression carefully before she glanced up.

Her companion could not have been more than a few years older than Kira, for there was a youthfulness to her complexion that could not be subdued. She was slim and a full head taller than Kira, her hands moving with the fluid grace of a woman of station. Her dark hair was long but coiled back behind her head, several threads of silver catching the sunlight.

She smiled and though the gesture was welcoming, it revealed the unexpected hardness that dwelled in her dark eyes. Bitter she was, for all her solicitude, and Kira wondered what she had endured in the Mongol camp.

Did Kira dare ask?

“I am Persian,” Kira confessed in as noncommittal a tone as she could manage. The woman’s smile broadened.

“And recently arrived?” she prompted.

“Aye,” Kira admitted unencouragingly. No interest had she in sharing her entire sordid tale with this stranger. The woman waited expectantly, but Kira ignored her and returned studiously to her labor.

“Ha! Right on both counts I was, then.” The woman picked up her own work with satisfaction, but Kira let the remark pass without comment.

The silence between them was an uneasy one and Kira fancied the other woman was waiting for a confession of sorts. Kira scrubbed the dirty cloth determinedly, well aware the watchful eye of the old one on the riverbank was missing naught of this exchange.

“Persian I was once, as well,” the woman continued conversationally.

Kira gritted her teeth. Naught had she to confide in this woman.

More pressing matters had Kira to consider on this morning. Where had her warrior gone? Had he abandoned her for good or simply for the day? When would he return?

What would she do if he did
not
return? Not a backward glance had he cast in her direction when he had left her with the old one. Though it should not have surprised Kira, the matter bothered her more than she thought it should have. Nervous she was amidst these people, much more nervous than she had been before in his presence. Well enough she knew that the only change was the warrior’s absence, but Kira stubbornly refused to think any further along those lines.

“The
kalat
of your man is that?” the persistent Persian woman inquired. Kira looked to her uncomprehendingly, not knowing the term. “His tunic,” she whispered in explanation. Kira glanced down to find a blue garment similar to the one her warrior wore in her hands. Indeed, she had not taken the trouble to study the garment she worked on.

“Nay,” she said flatly, surprised when the woman exhaled with a hiss. Her friendly manner disappeared so abruptly and completely that Kira could only watch the transformation in astonishment. What had Kira said to so dismay the woman?

“And you would wash the
kalat
of another so openly?” she demanded in obvious shock. Kira knew she looked blank, but she gestured with one hand to the old woman who had given her the work.

“She bade me wash it,” she explained tersely. And little enough choice had Kira had in the matter. The Persian woman took a small step away from Kira’s side as though fearing to associate with her.

“Then Black Wind is not your man?” she asked sharply.

Kira knew her lack of understanding showed and the other woman shook her head irritably. “The tall one who brought you here. He is called Black Wind,” she said impatiently. Kira could not help but wonder at the import of his name. “Is he not your man?”

Kira shook her head. The woman glanced hastily from side to side before she leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. “Have you not a man?” she demanded incredulously. Kira could but shake her head again. The woman looked surprised, then her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Truly you cannot know the way of things here to speak to me without telling me your status,” she informed Kira frostily.

“‘Twas you who spoke to me,” Kira observed with a grimace. Clearly the woman was mad. She plunged the garment into the brown water swirling around her knees to rinse it out, deliberately ignoring the anger emanating from the other woman.

“No matter who began the talk. ‘Twas your place to tell me your lowly status,” the woman maintained. Kira’s interest was piqued by the reference. Lowly? “Claimed by one of the
keshik
am I,” the woman continued in a lofty tone, “and of considerably higher rank than a common whore like yourself.”

Whore? Kira dropped the garment into the water in her indignation. “No whore am I!” she asserted, and the woman laughed in disbelief.

“No secrets are there between we women,” she said with a malicious smile. “All within the camp know there are but three kinds of women here.” Kira knew her lack of comprehension showed and the woman continued scornfully. “Jest not with me. Openly claimed women like myself are there and whores who welcome any between their thighs.”

Kira drew herself up taller. “Chaste am I,” she stated proudly. “Clearly that makes me of the third type.” To her surprise, the other woman laughed harshly once more.

“Aye, mayhap it does, though you may well regret your status soon enough.”

“What mean you?” Kira demanded.

The woman smothered a smile and deliberately returned to her work. “War fodder are they,” she supplied with evident enjoyment. “Like children and prisoners of war, women like yourself lead the army into battle.”

“I do not understand.”

“They are slaughtered first by the opposing army,” Kira was informed with no small measure of relish. The woman smiled and turned deliberately back to her work. “Aye, more than one way is there to rid an army of extra and useless mouths,” she commented, examining a tear in the garment as though they discussed nothing more alarming than the weather. “Mayhap if you had a whit of sense, you would part your precious thighs.”

“Well you said yourself that there is no honor in that life,” Kira snapped, disliking the woman’s self-satisfied air.

“At least ‘tis a
life,
” she observed pointedly. “And should you not learn quickly the value of that, ‘twill be of little import at all.” The woman’s eyes narrowed and she leaned closer to Kira to continue in a confidential tone that Kira did not trust. “Mayhap there are but two kinds of women in the Mongol camp,” she murmured. “Those who choose to live, and those who die.” Kira exhaled her breath slowly, feeling her stomach churn sickeningly as she looked in the direction her warrior had disappeared.

“Did they not ride to battle this day?” she asked, and was not relieved when her companion nodded amiably.

“Aye, that they did and a big battle ‘twas to be indeed.” The woman glanced up with bright eyes, a knowing smile playing over her lips as she regarded Kira assessingly. “And yet you are here, not before the troops,” she observed coyly. “A pretty enough creature are you—mayhap Black Wind has hopes for you yet.”

Nay, Kira thought wildly to herself. It could not be so. The warrior wanted only the pearl before he consigned her to her fate, for clear enough had he made his disinterest in her form.

Suddenly Kira was very grateful for her impulse to keep the gem and she stifled the urge to finger it where ‘twas secreted within her pocket. Flatly refusing to reflect further upon her meager chances for the future, she carefully retrieved the garment from the muddy water and began to scrub once more.

* * *

The field was empty.

Birds wheeled overhead and called to each other, the dried grass of summer past waved in the wind and made a slight whispering noise as the wind slipped through it. The sky was a flawless cerulean blue and there was a faint hint of spring in the morning air.

The pastoral scene was markedly different than the one Thierry had expected. He stopped his horse in disbelief and eyed the view with skepticism. He squinted at the distant smudge of horizon but not a hint could he discern of the Golden Horde.

There was no enemy to engage.

“Where is Berke? Where are his troops?” Nogai demanded impatiently as he pulled up alongside Thierry. Thierry could only shake his head.

“I know not,” Thierry admitted calmly. Nogai snorted and surveyed the empty field arrayed before them with open disgust.

“But our spies said they were here but two nights past,” he protested. “With no less than two
tümen
of men. Promise of a great battle there was. Where could they have gone?”

That Nogai was disappointed, there was little doubt. Far to his left, Thierry spotted a movement, but did not bother to look closely. ‘Twas the other flank, the left wing of Abaqa’s own troops. Still unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyes, he scanned the horizon yet again.

Naught.

“Mayhap ‘tis a trap,” he suggested, unable to conceive how Berke could have concealed his men in the dead grass. No valley was there where Abaqa’s troops could be drawn unsuspectingly and encircled. No hills, no river gully, no trees. Naught but flat, unrippled plain confronted him as far as the eye could see.

“One could only hope,” Nogai commented in a disgruntled tone. “Never did I expect that we would have all but an opponent this morn.” Thierry glanced to his old friend in surprise.

“Well it seems that you are disappointed,” he said. Nogai grinned outright.

“I had thought to collect Abaqa’s new chalice,” he added wickedly. “Unsporting ‘tis of Berke to deprive us of the game, especially when I have oft heard how skilled the Golden Horde is in battle. Well had I been looking forward to the chance to empty my quiver into the ranks of a worthy opponent.” Thierry shook his head indulgently and frowned at the empty plain once again.

“‘Tis most odd that they should be gone,” he mused, almost to himself. “Well must it be a trap of sorts.” He looked to Nogai to find his own speculative thoughts reflected there. “Could your bloodthirstiness be sated by pursuit alone?” he asked with a quirk of one brow. Nogai laughed.

“But one way is there to discover the truth,” he said and gave Thierry a bold wink before he spurred his horse. “And mayhap there is still a chalice to be retrieved this day. If not, one might hope for some game, at least.”

“Then we ride in pursuit.” Thierry raised one hand to his troops and beckoned them onward with a shout as he spurred his horse. A glance to his left confirmed that the commander of that
tümen
had made much the same conclusion as Thierry, for those troops were also thundering onto the plain.

Thierry’s lips thinned with determination. Even should Berke be laying a trap, he would be hard-pressed to deal with the full press of Abaqa’s forces. Though if Berke truly traveled with two
tümen,
the match might be closer than Thierry would have liked.

Though the stakes were high, as well. The two hordes battled for dominion over these very grasslands, extensive and fertile lands imperative to the grazing needs of both nomadic groups. Without these lands, the sheep and horse stocks would have to diminish and Abaqa’s tribe would suffer less wealthy circumstances, if not outright hardship.

Abaqa’s sire had held these plains long, but his demise had opened the question again for his rival, Berke, who wished to expand. ‘Twas Abaqa’s first test as khan and one that he could not afford to lose.

And should matters go awry, Thierry well knew that the field commanders would pay the price for that loss.

Little doubt had he that Berke’s logic was much the same, and he puzzled anew over the Golden Horde’s absence. They could not have simply ridden away from a battle of import like this. Indeed, if Berke bested Abaqa here, he might well be able to absorb all of Abaqa’s dominion by continuing to sweep south. A new khan was at his most vulnerable in the first year of his dominion.

It made no sense. Thierry’s scowl deepened and he decided that Berke must have set a trap. A particularly devious trap that Thierry had best discern before ‘twas too late. Indeed, he saw in this moment the fullness of the risk he had taken in assuming the command of the right wing. Much was at stake. Too much, mayhap.

Mayhap Nogai would indeed see enough battle this day to satisfy even his taste.

* * *

Far behind the departing troops the shaman sat motionless on his white horse and watched the dust rise in the riders’ wake. He lifted his nose to the wind and listened to the voices of the spirits whispering in his ears, trying to discern more than they chose to tell him this day.