“COME OUT OF THERE!” THE MAN SHOUTED. HIS VOICEwas deep and lively. Although he clearly meant business, he gave Tristan a humorous smirk.
“You look ridiculous!” he added. “It’s a pity you have nothing to steal but those meager trinkets lying around your neck!” The bizarre-looking man furtively cast his eyes toward Tristan’s weapons, lying just out of reach on the riverbank. “Although that sword with the gold hilt looks tempting,” he added dryly.
Standing waist deep in the rushing Sippora, Tristan shivered. Whoever the intruder was, he had him dead to rights. The prince knew there was no point trying to reach his weapons, for he could be easily killed before he left the water.
Tristan watched in dread as the man bent down to grasp the discarded dreggan and knife quiver. After tossing the quiver over one shoulder, the man stood and sheathed his sword. Then he drew Tristan’s dreggan, letting the baldric drop to the ground. For some time he admired the magnificent Minion blade in the moonlight.
Tristan quickly looked around. To his dismay, hundreds more equally mysterious figures lined the surrounding ridge. Shivering more violently, he wrapped his arms about himself. He couldn’t imagine how so many men had slipped by his Minions. He tried looking past his captor and toward the warrior campsite, but the riverbank blocked his view.
“Who are you?” Tristan demanded. “What do you want?”
“The answer is simple,” the man replied. “I want your horse, your gold jewelry, and anything else of value you own. And I mean to get them.”
Tristan tensed as he thought about losing the Paragon and his gold medallion. Where in the name of the Afterlife were Hector and his twenty warriors?
“Do you plan on standing in that freezing water all night?” the man demanded. Emphasizing his point, he pointed the dreggan at Tristan. “If so, I hope you have already fathered all the children you want.”
Tristan scowled. Naked and dripping water, he walked up the slippery riverbank to stand beside his discarded garments.
“May I dress?” he asked sarcastically. “Or are you going to steal my clothes, too?”
“The rags you may keep,” the stranger answered. “I wouldn’t wear them on my worst day.”
Tristan dressed quickly. Running his hands through his wet hair, he pushed it back from his forehead. He stood there for a few moments, glaring at the man who had so surprisingly appeared.
The figure was imposing, almost theatrical. About Tristan’s age, he was tall and muscular. He wore a white, blousy shirt, its full sleeves collected loosely at the wrists. Baggy black trousers were tucked into his soft, laced top-boots. A gray fur vest lay over the shirt, and a brimless hat of the same material sat at a jaunty angle atop his head.
His longish brown hair escaped the hat’s bottom here and there, and he wore a neatly trimmed, matching goatee. His sharp jawline and dark eyes glinted in the moonlight. Several gold chains adorned his chest, and many of his fingers bore glittering rings. His free hand rested loosely on a curved hip dagger, its leather scabbard accented with silver filigree. A matching sword dangled from his left hip. The weapons seemed to be a natural part of the man’s persona, showing that he knew how to use them.
Tristan suddenly realized that despite not knowing the fellow’s name, he understood his heritage. The intruder was a Eutracian highlander. As their eyes met in a contest of wills, Tristan tried to remember what Wigg had once said about them.
The highlanders were as much myth as reality. Living in colorful wagons, they were reputed to be marvelous horsemen. The men did whatever fighting was called for, while their women stealthily performed the thieving and duping of unsuspecting innocents as their caravans traveled from town to town. It was often said that a highlander maid could easily steal a man’s purse, horse, and heart all in the same night. The legend went on to warn that the man’s purse would be taken surreptitiously, his horse taken quietly, and his heart taken willingly.
It was also rumored that besides speaking Eutracian, these nomads conversed in another language all their own. Their women were said to be remarkably beautiful and intensely sexual beings, possessing notoriously free spirits. The highlanders were rumored to live in tightly knit clans that often warred among each other, usually over territory and ill-gotten spoils that none of them could rightfully claim. Still standing on the riverbank, Tristan glared into the highlander’s dark eyes.
“Turn around,” the man said. “Put your hands behind your back.”
Knowing he had no choice, Tristan did as he was told. He soon felt his wrists being bound. He turned back to glare at his captor.
“What happens now?” he demanded.
“We return to your poorly guarded campsite,” the man said. He again pointed Tristan’s dreggan at him. “A surprise awaits you. Move, dango!”
Tristan scowled. “What did you just call me?” he demanded.
“Dango,”the highlander answered with another smile. “In our world it means ‘city dweller.’ And if you’re thinking it’s an insult, you’re right.”
Cursing himself for letting the Minions rest rather than sending scout patrols aloft, Tristan reluctantly walked the remaining way up the riverbank. After retrieving the dreggan baldric from the ground, Tristan’s flamboyant captor prodded the prince forward. Clambering down from the ridge, the other highlanders followed. Tristan saw no women among them.
As they reached the top of the ridge, Tristan couldn’t believe his eyes. Although not one looked injured, all twenty Minion warriors had somehow been overcome. Their hands, feet, and wings bound tightly with harsh rope, they sat glumly on the ground around the campfire.
More highlander men surrounded the captured warriors. Laughing at the Minions’ expense, they eagerly tested the warriors’ unusual akulee and hungrily ate purloined elk meat. All of the warriors’ weapons lay nearby in a ramshackle pile. A strange-looking heap of what looked like coarse netting lay beside the captured Minion weapons, along with a loose collection of colorful arrows.
The highlander leader walked up alongside Tristan. “Those flying creatures are yours, I presume?” he asked.
Tristan nodded angrily. “How did you capture them?”
The highlander raised an arm. “Do you see that pile of netting?” he asked. “After sneaking up the ridge, my men attached arrows to the nets, then shot them over your fighters. The arrows carried the nets to the ridge’s other side, then buried themselves deep into the ground. We use the same technique to capture herds of deer. Your warriors started to cut their way free, but as they did they were told that we already had you. We described you, then warned them that if they didn’t surrender, you would be killed.” As the highlander leader turned toward Tristan, a look of respect flashed across his eyes.
“Whatever those winged things are, they’re certainly loyal to you,” he said. “They collectively offered up their lives so that you might go free.” He let go a sudden, short laugh. “I’m not so sure I could say the same for my clansmen!” he added.
“You’re highlanders, aren’t you?” Tristan asked. “What is your name?”
Smiling, the man bowed sarcastically. As he did, many of his followers laughed uproariously at the prince’s expense.
“I am Rafe of Clan Kilbourne,” he answered. “Chieftain of the clan. All told, we number just under three thousand. We are camped not more than two leagues away. Had you traveled just a bit farther, you would have flown right over us.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you, may I ask?”
Tristan suddenly regretted having asked Rafe’s identity. He was about to lie when another of the highlanders rushed forward.
“I know who thisdango is!” the man growled.
The highlander was huge-almost as big as Scars. But where Scars was muscled, this man was grotesquely fat. He was as colorfully dressed as Rafe, and at least twenty years older. A gray, downward-dropping mustache covered his top lip, and unruly gray hair graced either shoulder. His calloused hands looked the size of small hams. Smiling, he arrogantly placed them on his hips.
“Tell us, Balthazar,” Rafe said.
Walking closer, the highlander named Balthazar searched Tristan’s face.
“He’s Prince Tristan, that’s who!” Balthazar shouted. “I’m sure of it! I saw him once in Tammerland. He was younger then, but there is no doubt.” Scratching his chin, he looked back at Rafe.
“We should keep this one,” he added slyly. “Rumor has it that he commands several wizards. They would surely pay to get him back.”
Rafe laughed. “Is that so?” he asked. “My, but thishas been a fortuitous day!”
Looking down at the captured warriors, the highlander leader thought for a moment then looked back at the prince. “I was going to rob you, then set you and your fighters free,” he said. “But I see that you’re too valuable to release so easily. It seems you’re coming with us.”
Rafe came closer and reached out to lift the still-wet Paragon and gold medallion from Tristan’s chest. The prince tensed. For several anxious moments the rapacious highlander eyed them hungrily as they lay twinkling in his palm.
Tristan’s mind raced. Should he tell him about them? Or would that only pique the bastard’s curiosity and make him want them more? Hoping against hope that he was doing the right thing, Tristan remained silent. To the prince’s relief, Rafe finally let the jewel and the disc fall back to Tristan’s chest. Rafe nodded.
“You must be royalty,” he said. “Who else would wear a medallion that carries the heraldry of the House of Galland, eh? I stand convinced. You may keep your baubles, Your Highness. I sense that they will pale in comparison with what your ransom will bring.” The highlander chieftain looked at his clansmen.
“We ride back to camp!” he shouted. “There is much to celebrate tonight! We will bring the winged ones along, as well! Ugly as they are, they should be worth something in trade!”
Rafe placed his face only inches from Tristan’s. “Nothing is to happen to this one,” he added quietly. “It seems he’s worth his royal weight in gold.”
Amid his men’s shouting and cheering, Rafe prodded Tristan toward the ridge’s other side. About fifty meters away, hundreds of horses saddled with colorful tack grazed quietly on the emerald fields. When Tristan and the highlanders reached them, the prince was relieved to see Balthazar single out Shadow. To Tristan’s surprise, Rafe drew his curved dagger and cut the prince’s bonds. Rubbing his wrists, Tristan looked at Rafe curiously.
“I’m not worried about you escaping, Your Highness,” he said. “As we ride, we will be all around you. Where can you possibly go?”
Tristan scowled. “I see your point,” he answered angrily.
Turning to Balthazar, Rafe heartily slapped a hand down atop his friend’s shoulder. “See to it that the winged ones are brought along,” he ordered. “Have them walk back, and be sure to bring their weapons-we can always use more. Keep the warriors bound, my friend, and do not underestimate them. We tricked them once. But by the looks of them, I would not wish to try again.”
“On my life,” Balthazar answered.
After grinning at the prince, Rafe said something to Balthazar in a strange language Tristan didn’t understand. Throwing his head back, Balthazar laughed hugely, his fat belly nearly popping the buttons of his riotous silk shirt.
“Everyone mount up!” Rafe shouted. “We ride for home!”
Under Rafe’s watchful gaze, Tristan swung up into his saddle. Shadow danced nervously for a moment before settling down. Rafe cast a greedy glance at the black stallion before mounting his dull bay mare.
“That’s a beautiful mount!” he shouted at Tristan, his voice barely rising above the hundreds of anxiously milling horses. “I will enjoy owning him!”
Wheeling his mare around, Rafe trotted her southeast. With hundreds of watchful highlanders surrounding him, Tristan had no choice but to also wheel Shadow around and go with them.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, RAFE INCREASED THE PACE. UNFETTEREDby fences, woods, or hills, the hundreds of galloping riders struck out across an approaching field with abandon.
Surrounded on all sides by colorful highlanders, Tristan quickly realized that Shadow was easily the equal of their horses. But even though the prince had often been called one of the best horsemen in the kingdom, he was about to be further humbled by his talented captors.
Knowing that they were showing off largely for his benefit, Tristan watched as the highlanders started performing amazing feats of horsemanship. Some leapt from their saddles to stamp their boots against the passing ground, even as their horses kept on charging. They would then launch back into the air, easily finding their saddles again. Others took their reins in their teeth, then stood upright in their saddles to wave their swords. As Tristan watched, he noticed that aside from their other weapons, each highlander also carried a short bow and a quiver full of colorful arrows slung across his back.
Looking ahead, Tristan saw Rafe leering back at him. Well aware that even the best Royal Guard cavalry officers had never been able to perform such feats as Rafe’s clansmen, Tristan scowled. Laughing loudly, Rafe faced forward in his saddle again then started leading the hundreds of riders in a gentle turn toward the west. Not to be outdone, Tristan dug his heels into Shadow’s flanks.
After a few more minutes of hard charging, Tristan saw a small rise looming up ahead. Rafe headed straight for it. As they reached the top of the rise, the highlander chieftain held up one hand. Tristan and the clansmen came to an abrupt stop, allowing their horses some rest. Saying nothing, Rafe pointed toward the shallow valley lying below. As Shadow stamped and snorted beneath him, the prince looked down.
Hundreds of highlander wagons stood quietly on the fields below, their colorful wooden wheels and canvas tops stretching far across the moonlit plains. Campfires seemed to burn everywhere, the light from their orange-red flames lighting up the night sky. The smell of pungent food came to Tristan’s nostrils, causing his stomach to growl. Seeing the camp’s huge size, he could easily believe Rafe’s claim about being the chieftain over three thousand men, women, and children.
Turning in his saddle, Rafe waved one of his clansmen forward. Strong and fit, the fellow looked younger than most of the others. As he rode past the prince he gave Tristan a hard stare.
“Lead them down,” Rafe ordered. “As usual, no one gains entry to the camp unless his arrow finds its mark.” Looking over at Tristan, the highlander chieftain smiled. “The prince and I will stay here and watch,” he added cryptically.
With a nod, the young highlander wheeled his horse around to start leading the others down the slope at a full gallop. Hearing the hundreds of pounding hooves, highlander men, women, and children eagerly poured from the campsite to walk out on the plains to watch their comrades approach.
Curious, Tristan spurred Shadow up alongside Rafe’s mare. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Rafe leaned one arm down on his saddle pommel. His eyes continually locked on the galloping clansmen, he smiled.
“Watch and learn,” he said. “You are about to witness an old highlander custom-one designed to keep our skills honed. Any of my men who miss the target will not be allowed to eat tonight, or to sleep with his woman. It is a test of both the horses and the men. There is an old highlander saying, dango. ‘A clansman can only be as good as the horse he rides.’”
Fascinated, Tristan watched the riders charge down the opposite side of the rise. Then he noticed something odd, lying in the distance. Narrowing his eyes, he saw what looked like several dozen straw scarecrows standing in a long line before the camp. Each one was attached to a pole that had been plunged into the ground. Between the incongruous scarecrows and the approaching riders lay a deep ravine, its depths dark in the twinkling moonlight. Such deadly ravines were not uncommon on the Farplain fields, Tristan knew. Even so, he found it odd that Rafe would choose to make camp near one.
He watched the thundering highlanders suddenly fan out into long, disciplined lines like charging cavalry regiments, one line following behind the next. As the lines formed, the riders reached over their backs to retrieve their deeply curved bows. Then each one removed an arrow from his quiver.
The scene bathed in the magenta moonlight was captivating. As the lines of hard-charging highlanders approached the deep ravine, each put his reins between his teeth then notched his arrow onto his bowstring. With no regard for their safety, they kept galloping onward. Should anyone’s horse fall short in his jump, death would come quickly to both horse and rider. Mesmerized by the scene, the prince couldn’t help wondering how many brave riders would die, simply because Rafe had ordered them to do this bizarre thing.
The idea was simple enough, but would also be very difficult to accomplish. As each rider jumped the ravine, he would loose an arrow at one of the scarecrows. If his horse successfully finished the jump and the arrow found its mark, both horse and rider had proven themselves. Holding his breath, Tristan watched as the first wave of riders thundered onward.
Dozens of arrows flew through the air as the horses leapt over the gorge. Amazingly, not one missed its mark. Flying through the air, the horses crashed down on the other side. The first wave had been successful, but there were many more to follow. Surely they could not all be so skillful, or their horses so sure, Tristan guessed.
As wave after wave of highlanders followed, few of their arrows missed their marks. Mesmerized, Tristan could only sit atop Shadow and marvel at the plainsmen’s skill. Finally the last line charged headlong toward the ravine. Not to be outdone by the others, the highlanders shouted wildly through their clenched teeth as they chased toward the abyss. Their arrows notched and their bowstrings pulled, they started leaping their horses over the dark gorge. Just then one of the horses went down, taking another mount with him.
Stepping into a hole dug by some burrowing plains creature, the stallion’s front leg snapped in half like a dry tree branch. Screaming wildly, the horse tumbled to the grass headfirst. Another horse stumbled over him and also went crashing to the ground. They hit hard, horses and riders skidding across the dewy grass and toward the gaping ravine. His heart in his throat, Tristan watched helplessly as the drama played out before his eyes.
As he fell, one rider managed to dig his boot heels into the turf, slowing his momentum. He skidded to a stop at the ravine’s edge. But the other rider and the two horses weren’t so lucky. Tristan watched in horror as he realized that the second rider’s boot was caught in his saddle stirrup. His horse’s momentum carrying them unerringly toward the ravine, they tumbled over the side. Unable to regain his footing, the other horse followed.
Tristan and Rafe heard the highlander’s distant screams for a time, then all went silent. As their horses pawed the ground and the spectators from the camp anxiously rushed toward the ravine, the once-cheering highlander riders respectfully went quiet.
Tristan’s admiration quickly turned to anger. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was unnecessary loss of life. He glared at Rafe.
“Tell me,” he growled. “Was it worth that?”
Sighing, Rafe did not turn to look at him. “It is our way, dango, ” he said quietly. “If there is a need to explain it to you, then it is something you would never understand.”
Finally Rafe turned, his dark eyes pouring into Tristan’s. “Follow me,” he ordered simply.
Without hesitation Rafe started galloping down the hill toward the highlander who had been spared. Tristan followed. With one fluid movement Rafe grasped the man’s outstretched hand, then hoisted him up onto his horse’s back, just behind his saddle. With his last clansman secured, Rafe led Tristan safely around the ravine’s far end.
Slowing their horses, they trotted quietly into the highlander camp. Before every wagon, a campfire burned cheerfully. Black pots hung over many of the campfires, their steaming contents sending delicious aromas into the air. As Tristan looked around he saw Rafe’s horsemen return to their wagons to be eagerly greeted by their loved ones. Pleasant but odd-sounding music filled the air, sometimes interrupted by the squeals of playful children. Although he was Rafe’s captive, Tristan found the carnival-like atmosphere fascinating.
Aside from their exotic clothes and jewelry, most of the women he saw looked quite ordinary. But some were positively ravishing, with dark, seductive eyes, hourglass figures, and long, dark hair hanging to their waists. As he rode by, several of them gave him glances that clearly spoke of sexual curiosity, mixed with an animal-like wariness.
As Tristan accompanied Rafe deeper into the camp, the happy children stopped playing. The highlander men and women looked warily at him from their seats around their fires and from the shadows formed by the canvas wagon tops while the camp elders talked among themselves urgently, using the hushed, guarded tones of their secret language. Greed showing in their eyes, some pointed brazenly at the shiny silver bits adorning Tristan’s black saddle and bridle.
Who is this person Rafe has brought into our midst? Tristan could almost hear them asking. Aside from his saddle, he does not look rich. No outsider ventures willingly into a highlander camp, unless he wants to be robbed. How can he be so stupid?
Turning his mare left, Rafe led Tristan toward the camp’s center. The cleared area was large and encircled by wagons. The wagons’ stern ends faced the clearing’s center, and their doors had been lowered, their insides showing bedsheets, blankets, and pillows. More tasseled pillows lay on the ground before the wagons, with highlanders reclining on them. A large bonfire burned merrily in the area’s center. The highlanders eyed Tristan warily as they watched him ride into their midst.
Rafe pulled his mare to a stop near one of the largest wagons. After the hard ride, the prince was thankful to have his feet back on the ground. A young boy came running to take their reins, then led the sweating horses away. Scowling, Tristan couldn’t help but wonder whether he would ever see Shadow again, but there was little he could do about it.
Rafe walked over to his wagon and casually tossed Tristan’s dreggan, baldric, and throwing knives inside. He then lowered himself down atop several colorful pillows. Lying casually on one side, he beckoned the prince to do the same. Tristan obliged, sitting cross-legged atop one of the larger ones. Rafe clapped his hands.
Four highlander women appeared. They were all fiercely beautiful in the same sort of way, giving Tristan the impression that they might be sisters. Each wore a low-cut, high-hemmed frock that left little to the imagination. Each had strings of gold coins around her neck and multiple gold bracelets on her wrists. One carried a large amphora, and another girl carried a tray of glasses. Rafe and Tristan each took one.
Rafe’s glass was filled first with a dark, smoky-smelling liquid. Then one of the women filled Tristan’s glass. As she did, her long, dark hair brushed Tristan’s cheek, giving him the impression that it had happened on purpose. As he watched her seductively walk away, she turned to smile back at him, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. Then she touched one fingertip to her blouse, directly atop her heart. Slapping one hand down on his thigh, Rafe laughed uproariously.
“That one is Yasmin,” he said with a wink. “She’s famous for her predatory ways. You are unfamiliar with our customs, so I will decipher her meaning for you. Yasmin just suggested that she would like you to share her bed tonight.”
Rafe took a discerning sip of the dark brew, then looked mischievously at Tristan. “Are you interested, Your Highness?” he asked. “A woman of such quality deserves an answer.”
Before responding, Tristan took a swig of the mysterious drink. At first he recoiled, finding it even more bitter than Minion akulee. But unlike akulee, the taste quickly settled down to provide a pleasant, warming sensation. Guessing that it was particularly strong, he sipped, rather than guzzled the stuff. This was clearly no night to lose his head. He looked over at Rafe.
“I am your prisoner,” he answered. “Why would you give one of your most beautiful women to me?”
After taking another sip, Rafe laughed. “You misunderstand, my friend,” he answered. “I do not give her away. No one owns a highlander woman. In our world, a woman wishing to serve a man and being subservient to him are two very different things. If she wishes to serve you, she will do so with all her heart. But should she be mistreated, humiliated, or betrayed, you would likely find a particularly treasured part of your anatomy suddenly taken away with a swift slice of her dagger.” Pausing for a moment, Rafe took another drink.
“Because Yasmin’s offer was made freely, who am I to argue with it?” he added. “Being chosen in this way is truly a great honor. Fewdangos can make such a claim.” Leaning closer, Rafe gave Tristan a conspiratorial look. “I suggest that you agree with her wishes,” he told Tristan. “It will be an experience you will long remember.”
Tristan took another drink. He realized he was starting to like the heady concoction. “What do you call this?” he asked, hoping to avoid an answer about Yasmin.
Rafe smiled. “In our language it is calledtachinga, ” he replied.
Tristan gave Rafe a meaningful look. “You treat your enemies well,” he said. “Why do you do it?”
“You are not my enemy,” he answered. “You ride well, and you drink well. And by the look of those weapons you carried, you also fight well. Your sword blade shows the telltale signs of many hard-fought battles.” Throwing his head back, Rafe laughed at his next thought. “And now Yasmin wishes to learn whether you do something else as well!”
Laughing again, then slapping Tristan on the shoulder, Rafe almost knocked the prince over. “Just because I plan on ransoming you doesn’t mean we cannot be friends! Tell me, are you hungry? We will dine together!”
Tristan nodded. “I’m starving,” he answered. “But before we eat, I must make a request.”
Rafe regarded him narrowly. “What is it?” he asked.
“When my warriors arrive, I want them treated humanely,” Tristan answered. “They are to be fed and cared for. I value them just as much as you value your clansmen. Surely we can agree on that score.”
Rafe nodded. “Unlike you, I do not command an entire nation. But I know what it means to lead, and to earn the respect of my people.”
Rafe clapped his hands. Soon the four women reappeared. Yasmin came to stand directly before Tristan. Looking up at her face, he was quickly reminded of her exotic beauty.
She was tall and leonine, with dark, heavily lidded eyes that seemed to look straight into his soul. Her jaw was rather square and her lips full, almost pouting. She stood barefooted before him in a blatantly sexual stance that reaffirmed her earlier intentions. Her long, dark hair was unruly, and hung to her waist. She was an amazingly strong yet also feminine creature, one that he couldn’t imagine any man ever truly taming. It would be a shame to break her spirit, he realized. This one’s wild side should be preserved.
“Bring food,” Rafe said simply.
As quietly as they had come, the four women walked away. As Yasmin left, Tristan found himself watching her body seductively sway to and fro. Reaching for the amphora, Rafe refilled their glasses. He smiled again.
“The truly beautiful ones have a way of getting under a man’s skin, don’t they?” he asked. “Not to mention his heart.”
Taking another sip, Tristan thought of Celeste. “That they do,” he said softly.
Soon the women reappeared with two trays of food and a large silver bowl. Tristan had no idea what sort of food it was, but it smelled wonderful. The women placed the trays and the bowl on the ground before Tristan and Rafe. One tray held warm bread and freshly churned butter. The other held two bowls of hot stew. Lean cuts of freshly roasted lamb swam in rich brown gravy alongside carrots, potatoes, and onions. Tristan noticed that no utensils had been provided.
Three of the women then walked away, leaving Yasmin standing alone. To Tristan’s surprise she sat down beside him on her knees. Wondering why, he shot a questioning glance at Rafe. The highlander chieftain smiled.
“It seems you have made quite an impression,” he said. “She wishes to feed you.”
Tristan turned to look into Yasmin’s dark eyes. Her gaze was intoxicating.
“Thank you, but that won’t be needed,” he said politely. “I can fend for myself.”
Yasmin bored her seductive eyes into his. “I don’t do this only for you,” she answered. Her voice held a husky quality that he found attractive. “You are unaccustomed to dipping into our hot stew,” she said. “You would burn yourself.”
Tristan scowled. “Why do you care?” he asked.
Leaning closer, she placed one hand on his thigh. He had to admit that it felt warm, inviting.
“Because should you accept the offer of my bed, I want everything working as it should-including your fingertips,” she said brazenly.
Reaching into the hot stew, she grasped a lamb piece between her index finger and thumb then offered it to him. Smiling again, Tristan accepted it.
The food was wonderful, and rather unlike anything Tristan had tasted before. Yasmin served him skillfully. As they feasted and drank, Tristan decided to offer Rafe a proposition.
Given the chieftain’s surprisingly friendly nature, the prince was becoming more sure that he and his warriors would eventually be released. But he desperately needed to return to Tammerland sooner, rather than later. Moreover, the highlanders impressed him-even though they were scandalous thieves. Such men could be useful, provided they could be controlled. And controlling them meant giving them something. As Yasmin fed him another piece of lamb, he looked over at Rafe.
“What would it take for you to let me and my warriors go this very night?” he asked. “As you said, I am royalty-I need no one’s permission to make a deal. If we can come to terms and you release us now, I swear to you that you will be fairly rewarded.”
Rafe took another swig of the potenttachinga and laughed. “What type of fool do you take me for?” he asked. “Do you really believe that I would release my greatest prize on a mere promise? The clan elders would brand me a fool, or worse!”
Tristan thought for a moment. “How did someone so young become chieftain?” he asked. “I would have expected a clan leader to be much older.”
A sad look overcame Rafe’s face. After refilling his glass he took another long swig oftachinga. Removing his fur hat, he tossed it to the grass, then tousled his hair.
“The same way that it is said you did,” he answered sadly. “I inherited the post from my slain father. That is our custom, provided the firstborn son has reached a certain age.”
Yasmin held another stew piece before Tristan’s face. Smiling, he thanked her then said that he had eaten his fill but that the food was wonderful. Then he turned back to Rafe.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. “It seems we have more in common than I thought. Even so, I must get home quickly. Eutracia’s fate and the fate of the craft of magic depend on it.”
Reaching out, Yasmin placed the silver bowl between Rafe and Tristan. The bowl was filled with water and floating rose petals. Following Rafe’s lead, Tristan washed his hands and face, then dried them with a cloth supplied by Yasmin.
Rafe scowled. “You need to understand something,” he said. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about Eutracia, or about the craft. Our way of life has been going on for centuries. My people have seen dozens of monarchs come and go, each one haunted by his supposed worry over the craft. And for what, we ask? As far as we are concerned, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I like you, dango. But I seriously doubt that you and your wizards are any different from the fools who have come before you. Unlike some other clans, we are not murderers or rapists. Here, you and your warriors needn’t fear for your lives. Even so, you will stay with us until I say otherwise.”
Still determined to get home, Tristan thought for a moment. “Of all the things in the world, what is it that you and your clansmen want most?” he asked, still hoping to appeal to Rafe’s greed.
Rafe looked thoughtfully across the clearing. “Despite our way of life, my answer might surprise you,” he said softly.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“Some of us-especially those who have children-wish to finally put down roots,” he answered. “They are tired of wandering, being looked down on, and living from hand to mouth. They want a better, more secure life. Not all feel that way, but many do. What I’m trying to say is that we want a homeland of our own.”
Tristan gave Rafe a look of surprise. “Do you feel this way?” he asked.
“I have purposely delayed taking a wife and having children, so that I might better lead my people,” Rafe answered. “Putting one’s personal needs aside is but one of leadership’s many burdens. Just now we are in the midst of a fragile truce with a rival clan-one that I am not sure will survive. Until I know my people are safe, my life must remain as it is.”
“Suppose I helped you with your troubles?” Tristan asked.
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “How?” he asked.
“Order your entire clan to come with me to Tammerland,” Tristan answered. “I can guarantee your safety. You needn’t live behind the city walls, if you choose not to. In return for taking me and my warriors home, and granting me one other favor, I will give you your homeland. I will deed your clan any number of acres of land they want, and anywhere they want-all within reason, of course. I will grant the land in perpetuity, along with full hunting, fishing, grazing, mineral, and timber rights. You could even form your own province, should you wish to do so. Choose the right piece of Eutracia, and you could become rich beyond your wildest dreams. Best of all, it would happen legally, including the crown’s ongoing protection against rival clans. You could still practice your customs, provided you abandoned all illicit activities. Refuse, and you will remain thieves and nomads, your heirs and theirs perhaps wandering Eutracia forever.”
Tristan could see that he had impressed the highlander. “You would do that for us?” Rafe asked incredulously.
Tristan leaned closer. “Eagerly,” he answered. “The stakes for our country are that high.”
Rafe slugged back the last of histachinga. Staring into the bonfire, he thoughtfully rolled the empty glass between his palms. “And this other favor you mentioned,” he said, his wary skepticism returning. “What is that?”
“For a brief time I wish to command your marvelous horsemen in the struggle that is brewing,” Tristan answered. “When the fight is over I will release them from my service. I will need every able-bodied rider you can muster. For too long, Eutracia has been without a cavalry regiment. I fear that she will soon need one. Highlanders who might wish to stay and form a permanent regiment would be welcome.” Tristan looked hopefully into Rafe’s eyes. “What say you?” he asked.
Rafe looked over at Yasmin. It was clear that she was as stunned as her chieftain.
“Even as clan leader I do not have the authority to dismiss your offer out of hand,” Rafe answered. “Its ramifications are too huge. I will take it up with the council of elders in the morning. By highlander law, whatever the council says is always done. Soon after daybreak you will have our answer, Tristan,” he said, using the prince’s given name for the first time.
Tristan nodded. “Fair enough,” he said.
Just then they watched the massive Balthazar and several other highlanders push their way past the circled wagons and into the clearing. Walking up, Balthazar reached down to grab thetachinga amphora. Hoisting it up alongside his forearm, he took a long sideways drink. After wiping his mouth, he smiled.
“The winged ones will be here in a few hours,” he said. “They can be a handful, even when bound! What is to be done with them?”
“See to it that they are fed, and treated with respect,” Rafe ordered. “I have promised their master that it would be this way.”
“As you wish,” Balthazar answered. Turning to the highlanders standing behind him, he barked out some sharp orders in their secret language. They quickly went about their duties.
“Thank you,” Tristan said.
Rafe shrugged his shoulders. “A promise is a promise, even among thieves. Now then, it is time for us men to enjoy ourselves!” He looked over at Yasmin. “Would you and your sisters do us the honor of a dance?” he asked.
Coming smoothly to her feet, Yasmin gave Tristan a sly look. “By all means,” she answered. She disappeared quickly.
As Balthazar sat down with them, Rafe leaned closer to Tristan. “She has fed you, agreed to dance for you, and offered to share her bed. I can never remember adango being so honored. This is truly a night to remember!”
Rafe again slapped Tristan hard on the back, this time forcing him to cough. For the first time since meeting the highlander, Tristan smiled. The chieftain’s manner was so infectious that he simply couldn’t help it.
Moments later, Yasmin and her sisters reappeared. They were dressed even more provocatively than before. Aside from the flimsiest of dark material draped over their shoulders and breasts, only diaphanous, blousy leggings covered the lower parts of their bodies. Their feet and midriffs were bare, and they bore bits of gold jewelry that pierced their navels. Each girl wore a sheer veil, draped seductively below her eyes. Looking closer, Tristan saw that they also wore a pair of thumb and finger cymbals on each hand.
The women walked to a place before Tristan and Rafe, bowed, then sat on their knees. They closed their eyes. Rafe clapped his hands.
From somewhere on the other side of the bonfire, lively music started. As it wafted its way across the clearing, the women stood and started their dance. Two of the girls quickly made their way toward other men, while Yasmin and her sister approached Tristan and Rafe.
Tristan had eyes only for Yasmin, just as she did for him. In the firelight, her undulating body was amazingly beautiful. Moving seductively to the music, time and time again she approached him, only to expertly tease his senses then slink away. Closing her eyes, she raised her slender arms overhead to start tapping her cymbals together. As the music grew louder, her movements became ever more provocative, the clashing cymbals and the alluring sway of her hips marking every beat.
She moved closer again, this time so near that Tristan could smell the enticing perfume sprinkled between her breasts. Slowly sitting on her knees with her naked back to him, she leaned back until her head and chest were in his lap. Like he and Yasmin were the only two people in the world, the entranced prince could hear only the music, smell only her perfume, and see only her beauty. She lifted her body, bringing her mouth nearer his. As if possessed by a spell, Tristan closed his eyes and parted his lips…
The scream that tore through the night was chilling. It was a male voice, coming from the opposite side of the clearing. The music stopped abruptly and the dancing girls went stock-still. Yasmin immediately came to her feet.
Standing quickly, Tristan looked at Rafe. Balthazar and the highlander chieftain were already upright. Looking across the campsite, Rafe’s eyes held a peculiar mixture of worry and hate. Snapping his head around, Tristan saw the object of Rafe’s concern.
A highlander was running toward them. Standing, Tristan coiled up at first, then relaxed as he recognized the fellow who had led the charge toward the ravine. As he neared, Tristan saw that he was carrying something. Yasmin came to stand beside Tristan.
Running pell-mell, the highlander skidded to a stop before Rafe. Looking down, Tristan saw that he was carrying a canvas cinch bag. Tristan froze as he saw the bag’s bottom. It was dripping blood.
“Master…,” the breathless highlander said. He handed the bag to Rafe at arm’s length, like it was full of deadly snakes. “This was just found at the camp’s edge!” he exclaimed. “I have not opened it, but I fear the worst.”
Rafe untied the bag and looked inside. At once his face blanched and twisted into a terrible grimace. Closing his eyes, he dropped the bag to the ground, then turned his face away.
“What is it?” Tristan asked. Forgetting himself for a moment, he started to reach for the fallen bag. Before he could grasp it, Balthazar roughly shoved him aside. Saying nothing, Balthazar picked up the bag and looked in. A hateful look overcame his face as well. He too dropped the bag like it was cursed.
“Zorian traitors!” he growled. “You will pay for this!” Shaking his fists in the air, Balthazar raged against the night. “Do you hear me, you bastard sons of a thousand fathers? This insult will cost you your lives!”
As other highlanders crowded around, Tristan reached down to retrieve the bloody bag. He did not wish to offend anyone, but he had to know. He pulled the bag open and looked inside.
It contained a severed male head. It was bloody, and cut many times by what had probably been a razor-sharp dagger. The eyes had been sewn shut with bits of coarse leather, and its teeth pulled out by some crude instrument. Clearly, the man had been tortured before being killed. Closing the bag, Tristan respectfully placed it back onto the ground, then looked at Yasmin.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“Our truce with the Zorian clan has ended,” she said sadly. “The head in the bag is that of Casimir, Rafe’s brother.”
“The Zorians are a rival clan?” Tristan asked.
Yasmin nodded. “They are butchers, rapists, and cutthroats-including their women.”
“Casimir was captured by them?” Tristan asked, trying to understand.
“No,” she answered. “During a truce it is often customary for each side to exchange hostages. The hostages are almost always persons of importance. As long as the hostages live, so does the truce. By killing Casimir and sending his head, the Zorian elders have ended the truce. A challenge has been made. Rafe has but one choice left to him now.”
Looking over, Tristan watched Rafe turn back around. The highlander chieftain’s face was resolute. Yasmin placed her lips near Tristan’s ear.
“Whatever happens, you must not interfere. This is highlander business. Rafe likes you, but he will tolerate nodango intrusions.”
Rafe nodded harshly at Balthazar. Understanding, the giant quickly walked away.
“We should sit,” Yasmin whispered into Tristan’s ear. “We have no part in this.”
The prince sat down on the dewy grass. Yasmin sat beside him. Despite the tense circumstances, he was struck by how comfortable her presence felt.
Balthazar soon returned with a bound prisoner in tow. The man was about Tristan’s age. His face was dark and cruel-looking, and his long hair fell about his shoulders. His hands were tied behind him.
Several more Kilbourne clansmen came forward. Two of them carried a thick, rough-hewn pole. They quickly pounded it into the ground before the bonfire. Pushing his prisoner toward the pole, Balthazar viciously shoved the man’s back up against it.
The two other highlanders quickly untied the prisoner’s hands, then bound them tightly again behind the pole. They then did the same to his feet. Placing a leather strap around the man’s forehead, Balthazar pulled the strap tight and tied it, pinning the man’s head to the pole.
Rafe picked up thetachinga amphora and took a long drink. He carelessly let the amphora drop to the ground. Unsheathing his silver dagger, Rafe walked toward the prisoner.
His dagger hanging loosely from his right hand, Rafe glared at the prisoner’s dark face. The bonfire highlighted the man’s sharp, unrepentant glare. Aside from the snapping flames, the tense campsite had gone totally silent.
Tristan turned to Yasmin. “Is the man tied to the pole your Zorian hostage?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Yasmin whispered back. “He is the Zorian chieftain’s second son.”
Reaching out, Rafe impassively drew his dagger across the prisoner’s offered throat. The man coughed blood for a moment, some of it running down his chest. Soon his head slumped forward. Sheathing his dagger, Rafe took out his sword. With a single stroke, he beheaded the corpse. The head tumbled to the grass.
“It is done,” Yasmin whispered.
Picking up the head by its hair, Balthazar held it high for everyone to see. He then walked back to where the canvas bag lay. Removing Casimir’s head, he reverently wrapped it in cloth, then handed it to one of the female elders. He put the other head into the bag and knotted the string. Balthazar casually tossed the bloody bag to the young highlander who had first brought it into the camp. As he wiped the blood from his sword, Rafe turned to look at him.
“Dump that trash at the edge of the Zorian camp where they will be sure to find it,” he ordered softly. Bowing, the young highlander picked up the bloody bag and hurried for his horse.
Yasmin leaned closer to Tristan. “Rafe will want to be alone,” she whispered. Despite all that had happened, her eyes still held the predatory yearning that had filled them before. As the firelight highlighted her sensual face, Tristan again felt himself drawn to her.
“He will retire to his wagon and so will I,” she said. “Things have changed. Much will happen tomorrow.” She placed a warm palm against Tristan’s cheek. As her lips neared his again, he sensed the heat building inside him. “What is your decision?” she asked. “Will you come with me?”
Reaching out, Tristan clenched some of her tresses in one hand. Closing his eyes, he luxuriated in its wonderful scent. Looking her squarely in the face again, he commandingly pulled her hair, ordering her closer. She smiled. A quick series of master-slave signals shot back and forth between their eyes. But which of us is the master, and which the slave? he wondered.
“I…,” Tristan said. Then he froze.
A screaming man had suddenly charged into the camp, his sword held high. Dressed all in black and with a black scarf tied across his lower face, he was heading straight for Rafe’s back.
“Rafe!” Tristan screamed.
Rafe turned just in time to see the killer coming and he too raised his sword. As the intruder lashed out with his blade, Rafe deftly sidestepped the bow then took the man’s head off at the shoulders.
Seconds later, the entire camp erupted into pandemonium. Women screamed, men hollered out urgent orders, and the sounds of clashing sword blades filled the night. Tristan stood and spun around to look.
Figures dressed all in black had invaded the camp. Some on foot and some on horseback, they were cutting down men, women, and children with abandon. No one needed to tell the prince who they were.
As fast as his feet could take him, Tristan ran for Rafe’s wagon. Reaching inside, he frantically searched for his dreggan and knife quiver. But just as he found them, he felt Rafe’s strong grip on his wrist. As he turned to look at the chieftain, Tristan’s face turned into a vicious snarl.
“Don’t be a fool!” he shouted. “You need my sword! And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll order that my warriors be freed and their weapons returned to them! I swear on my life that we will not take up arms against you!”
Cursing, Rafe shook his head back and forth for a moment, then finally relented. He shouted at Balthazar. The huge highlander came running. “Do as thedango says!” Rafe ordered him. Running across the clearing, Rafe drew his sword and joined the fray.
Tristan grabbed the giant by the shoulders. “Go to my warriors and free them!” he shouted. “Give them their weapons, then tell them to find me! Tell them it is an order from theirJin’Sai! I know that phrase means nothing to you, but when they hear it they will instantly obey, and not harm you! Go!” Balthazar gave Tristan a confused look, then ran off to do as he had been told.
Wheeling around, Tristan quickly situated the knife quiver over his right shoulder. He drew his dreggan and tossed its baldric aside. Then he heard Yasmin scream.
At first he couldn’t find her amid all the confusion, mayhem, and sudden death. By now many wagons were ablaze, fighters were dying all around him, and insane wailing filled the night. Suddenly he heard her scream again, and he whirled around.
About ten meters away, a figure in black had pinned her to the ground. Holding a dagger to her throat, he was viciously trying to tear off what remained of her clothes. Yasmin was fighting back furiously, but Tristan knew that her attacker would soon take what he wanted. Tossing his dreggan from his right hand over into his left, Tristan immediately reached back over his shoulder.
Let my aim be true, he prayed. His right arm a blur, he sent the knife whirling end over end across the clearing.