Reawakening (11 page)

Cayl snorted. “I like how you assume that I’d be the one wearing your initials.”

“I like to mark what’s mine,” Sethan murmured, leaning against his shoulder. “You’re too precious to risk losing.” Then he narrowed his eyes at Tarn. “We’re having a little private moment here. Do go away.”

Tarn went.

T
HAT
NIGHT
,
with Gard’s wards set and the archers ready, Tarn prowled the line, long after his own watch had finished.

When the first eerie groan sounded from the sands, he was there to raise his arm and send flames licking into the night, illuminating the shuffling figure crossing the sands.

Jancis’s arrow sang with a sweeter sound, taking it in the head so it stumbled and fell back, making the sands groan again before Tarn’s fire engulfed it.

“Don’t dry out the sand, you idiotic lizard!” Gard shouted, appearing at his shoulder in a rush of fury. “It’s the damp that makes them sound so loud!”

“Sorry,” Tarn said shortly and turned his flames up into the night instead. There were more coming, and they needed the light.

The sands sounded again from the other side of the circle of wagons, and Gard dashed off.

All night the dead came at them, and all night the sands wailed, the bows sang, and Tarn’s flames lit the darkness. He could hear the hushed, frightened voices of the traders, fastened snugly into their wagons. Someone was praying, their voice soft and fast. Others had gathered in Barrett’s wagon, abandoning sleep to play cards, none of their eyes on the stakes.

Tarn only saw Gard in action once, his lip in his teeth as he raised his hand and the sand plumed up to surround the staggering, eyeless dead, dragging them down into the ground.

After a few hours, the onslaught slowed, the remaining dead forced to crawl over the bodies of the fallen, making them easy to target. Gard reappeared at Tarn’s side, his eyes tired and shadowed.

“Who were these people?” he asked. “Before they were forced to this?”

“The ones we met before were slaughtered traders,” Tarn said, and slung an arm around Gard’s shoulders. He looked like any young soldier in his first battle—shocky, shivering, and tense for more. “Plenty of people move through the desert.”

“The others say that the Shadow did this.”

“It did.”

“The only Shadow I ever heard of was an old nightmare out of legend. It fell, the stories said.”

“You remember the stories.”

“I remember that the Shadow fell.” Gard raised his hand, shoulders tightening under Tarn’s arm. “Another!”

But a crossbow bolt was already spitting out to fell it midstumble. It was easier at night, Tarn remembered from long-ago battles, easier when you couldn’t see that they’d once had faces.

“By the time we brought it low,” he said, feeling the responsibility of it on his shoulders again, “it was too late to destroy it. We had taken too long, and it was more spirit than flesh. Such things, such ancient things, can be bound or punished or torn into scraps of power and hatred, but they cannot be utterly unmade, not once they are part of the matter of the world.”

“I’m sorry,” Gard murmured.

“So am I,” Tarn said heavily.

Not long after that, Ia came marching toward them. “Have you two slept?”

“We’ve been busy,” Gard said. He was resting most of his weight against Tarn now, but his eyes were still sharp.

“The attack’s slowing. Most of the traders are sleeping now, and I’ve sent the nonarchers to bed. If this keeps going, we need to pace ourselves.”

“There are only so many dead in the desert.”

She nodded. “Tarn, I’ve read about the attacks on the supply trains in the third battle of Astalor—they came in waves, right?”

Tarn nodded, remembering. “Once the first wave had been exhausted, and the graveyards emptied, it took time before the next wave reached the train. We can’t outrun them, but we can choose our ground and move in between waves.”

“They don’t exactly move fast,” Gard muttered. “I could outrun them.”

“The horses need to rest. The dead keep moving.”

Ia was listening carefully. “So, we wait until we’ve had no new incursions for a significant stretch of time—one cup of sand or two?”

“One, in a standard timer,” Tarn said.

“We could put an archer on the back of the line in case any real stragglers show up late for the feast,” Gard suggested.

“Fine, but at that point, you two, and anyone else who’s been out all night, will be sleeping in one of the wagons. Go and negotiate a space somewhere.”

W
HEN
THE
time came, they let Dit stumble into Barrett’s wagon, already groping for the blankets as Barrett, with a fond, weary smile, closed the laces at the back.

Tarn pulled Gard into Hireth and Jirell’s wagon. There was a nest of mats and blankets in the back, and Hireth came and showed them how to tighten the laces to block out the light before telling them to make themselves comfortable. As the wagon heaved into jolting motion, the instruments above them swung, chiming and humming slightly with the motion.

“I’m tired enough to think that’s pretty,” Gard murmured. He wearily peeled off his borrowed boots and then, with a yawn, stripped off his shirt. He dropped back into the blankets and grimaced, wrinkling his nose. “It would be ungrateful to complain that they’ve been putting this bed to excellent use, wouldn’t it?”

“Very,” Tarn said. “Just turn the sheets and hush.” He stripped down himself, layering his shirt above the grubby mats. Then he loosed the rag that tied his elflocks back from his face.

“That’s clever,” Gard murmured and rearranged his own clothes. Then he looked up and smiled. “Pretty.”

“Eh?” Tarn said. He was beginning to despair of ever keeping up.

Gard reached out and touched the end of one of his elflocks, rubbing it softly between his fingers. “Pretty, for a dragon.”

Tarn felt the blush rise right out of his belly. Trying to keep his dignity, he said, “Sleep, will you? There are more battles to come.”

With a yawn, Gard snuggled down. “And you? Or are you just humoring Ia? Do dragons need to sleep at all?”

“In this body, I do,” Tarn said and lowered himself into the blankets behind Gard. “Stop yapping.”

He got a hurt sniff, and then Gard muttered, “See if I talk to you again, then.”

“Gard,” Tarn growled in warning. This close, he could smell the man, the cinnamon scent that clung to his hair, the faint scent of dust and sun and musk. It was a good smell, one that let the worry seep out of him and made his cock stir warmly. He sank slowly toward sleep, his eyes falling closed.

“Do you think that if the wind blew in the right direction, the instruments would play a recognizable tune?”

Tarn reached around without opening his eyes, grabbed a pillow, and tried to hit Gard with it. He failed, mostly because Gard was lying on said pillow, but it did send a warm and loose-limbed desert rolling into his arms.

“Mmm,” Gard said, pillowing his face against Tarn’s bare shoulder. “Better. Sleeping now.”

And then, to judge by the slowing of his breath and the almost snores that escaped him, he did just that.

Tarn, his whole body flushed from the contact and his cock slowly filling in anticipation, swallowed his groan and threw his arm across his eyes, willing his erection to fade so he could sleep.

Chapter 11: Rousing

T
ARN
WAS
hard again when he woke, his cheek resting on the soft, slightly scratchy mass of Gard’s hair. With one long leg laced between his, Gard was twitching against him, his breath coming fast and frightened. One hand was knotted in Tarn’s hair, and Tarn was embarrassed by his erection, when Gard was clearly in distress.

Distress, shivering against him with hot gasps, felt much like sex, however, and Tarn’s body was yearning for this. He had wanted to conquer the desert and make all that lived and loved within it his. He had not expected to see it take such an appealing form. He wanted to put his human hands on Gard, conquer him in an entirely different way.

Right now, though, his fierce desert spirit needed comfort. Gently, Tarn rubbed a hand down his back, stroking him. His skin felt very soft, unmarked by age, and Tarn slowed his touch, savoring it.

“Sssh,” he whispered. “It’s a dream, just a dream. You are safe under my wing. Sssh.”

Gard came awake with a start. For a moment, he just shook in Tarn’s arms.

“You’re safe,” Tarn murmured again. “You’re with me. Bad dream?”

Gard shuddered. “I was in the desert… I dreamed it…. The moon was bright. Then a shadow came between me and the stars, until it had blotted every one of them out, and I was lost and cold and alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Tarn promised. “Never again.”

Gard sighed, as if that meant nothing, and shifted slightly. Then he froze, and Tarn realized with a sudden flush that Gard’s thigh was pressed against his erection, a teasing pressure even through the cloth of their breeches.

“Ignore that,” Tarn tried ordering.

Instead, Gard pressed his thigh in a little harder, making Tarn choke out a gasp as pleasure shot through him. Gard chuckled, low and dirty, and leaned forward to breathe in Tarn’s ear. “Is this what we are to each other, then? Are we lovers?”

“Not yet,” Tarn murmured, frowning as Gard moved his thigh away. Then he gasped again as Gard’s hand closed on him, the sensation barely dulled by the cloth. “I came here to court you.”

“And what does the dragon king want with me?” Gard asked, running a slow fingertip up Tarn’s length. “What aren’t you telling me, Tarnamell? What do you want?”

“The desert,” Tarn choked out. “Under my protection, with the Shadow cast out. I need your help for that.”

“Just another battle for power, is it?” Gard asked, his hand stilling.

Tarn looked up at him. The sun had risen while they had slept, heating the air, and Gard’s dark skin was damp with sweat. A thin trail of black curls led down from his belly to the top of his breeches, promising more. His mouth was soft, his lips damp and full, and his eyes were hungry. In the dim light, Tarn couldn’t see if he was hard, too, but he hoped so.

“And you,” he said. “I want you.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” Tarn said, and slid his hand up Gard’s thigh. And, yes, he was hard under his breeches, jerking forward as Tarn’s hand covered him, his silver eyes falling half closed.

Then Gard shifted his hand again, unknotting the ties of Tarn’s breeches and exposing him to the warm air. Tarn sighed and lifted his hips into Gard’s grip, arching his back in delight at the first firm clasp around his swollen cock. Every brush of air over him felt like a tease now, and Gard’s slow steady pumping filled him with another rush of pleasure. This was the best reason to take human form.

Or one of the best, at least, he reminded himself, and worked his hand into Gard’s breeches to get a handful of his own. Gard’s cock was hard and hot against his palm, prickling with damp heat, and Tarn began to stroke him, trying to match Gard’s own slow rhythm.

When Gard groaned and pulled away, he leaned up unthinkingly to pull him back. Gard was only kicking his clothes away, though, and he came crowding back into Tarn’s embrace to settle against him, chest to chest and cock to cock. As Tarn pressed up against him, sliding his hands across the taut rise of Gard’s ass, Gard reached between them and wrapped his hand around both their cocks, working them together.

Tarn freed one hand from its explorations to close over Gard’s, entwining their fingers and quickening the pace.

Gard kissed him then, his mouth sweet and lax. He tasted like the desert, like spices and sunshine, and their tongues slid against each other as their bodies rocked together to a bright and inevitable conclusion.

Afterward, slumped lazily around each other, it occurred to Tarn to say, “We’ve been very poor guests.”

“Just burn the evidence,” Gard muttered from where he was pressing slack kisses to Tarn’s shoulder. “I’d offer, but I’m not sure a sandstorm would help much in this case.”

It had been a while since Tarn had last exerted such precise control. He concentrated, though, feeling the smears on their skin and against the sheets collapse into dry ash.

“Tickles,” Gard protested and then lifted his head to grin at Tarn. “Do it again.”

“No,” Tarn said, locking his arms around the wriggling menace. “I’m sleeping now.”

“No fun at all,” sighed Gard, but curled in next to him, a comfortable armful as the wagon jolted on.

L
YSON
WOKE
them later. The wagon had stopped moving, and there was a soft murmur of conversation.

“Ia wants Gard to hex the sand again,” he explained. “There’s food cooking too. Go and feed yourself up before the fun starts.” Then he paused, shaking his head. “Funny how seeing other people using your belongings makes them look different. I could swear those sheets are cleaner now than they were last night.”

“It’s Tarn’s righteousness,” said Gard, stretching with a groan. “His very presence cleans the sin from the air and the filth from the—ow!”

Tarn stopped pinching him to nod thanks to Lyson and drag his shirt back on. “Our thanks for the bed. We were in need of sleep.”

“A very good sleep,” Gard murmured, and, with a cackle of laughter, squirmed away from Tarn’s glare.

T
HE
NIGHT
went much like the one before, with the dead catching up to them just after sunset. There were fewer today, and many were older bodies, skeletal and dragging.

“They’re rather sad,” Ia said, surveying them grimly.

“Still deadly,” Tarn said. “Just be thankful there have been no children among their number. I lost good men to that once—they stayed their hands out of pity, and the dead tore them down.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” she snapped. “My people don’t think they’re living in a war yet. I had tears and guilt today, and that was just from the ones who aren’t scared of me.”