Not just blinded by the frenzy of battle, she realized, but by pain. Viscous crimson matted his dark hair and lay thick over his clothes and skin. She couldn’t tell how much of the blood was his, but he hadn’t fought through the swarm of revenants and emerged unscathed.
Vela, help him. And Mala, too. She had defeated men of his size before—men who had been so certain of victory when they’d faced her, simply because of their great heights and the strength in their thickly muscled arms. She had defeated men more heavily armored than this one. But when battle-madness possessed warriors, it bestowed upon them a wholly different kind of strength, one that did not falter with injury. Pain fed the bloodlust and rage, and they couldn’t be stopped except by death.
The bloodlust had probably saved his life. Even Mala could not have survived so many revenants. Not alone—unless the madness of battle had possessed her, too. But if he came for her now, one of them would die by it.
Mala didn’t want to die. And she didn’t want to kill the man who had stood firm and risked everything to protect the people in the caravan. Such warriors were far too rare in these cursed lands.
“It is finished,” she repeated, more quietly this time. “Your sword has feasted on the flesh of every revenant at your feet, and those that made it over the barricade have been slain—”
“You have come.” His harsh interruption startled her to silence. “Finally come.”
He dropped his sword. Mala’s heart jumped against her ribs, and she started forward, thinking that she would have to catch him before he collapsed into the pile of corpses, but he began to wade through the carnage, instead.
Wading toward her—and the bloodlust in his eyes had been joined by fierce hunger.
“I waited for you, little dragon,” he said roughly. “Every night, I dreamed of you. And now I will have you.”
CHAPTER 2
No. Mala would not be had like this.
“Warrior, do not come closer,” she warned. “You’ve waited for nothing.”
“Nothing? No.” Triumphant laughter filled the warrior’s eyes and voice. “You have come and it is not the end.”
Easily Mala spun the haft in her palm and gripped her sword properly. “It will be.”
He grinned, his teeth white in that face of red. Bits of flesh and blood dripped in a trail behind him. “You know me, little dragon.”
Little dragon. He spoke the name as if to a loved one. Did he even see her, or did he see someone else? Was the madness putting a false vision behind his eyes?
Curse it all. Mala didn’t want to kill him. Yet if he took a few more steps, she would rip open his throat. It didn’t matter that he was unarmed. He was tall, towering over her, and his shoulders were twice the breadth of hers. Combined with the bloodlust, his strength and size made him as dangerous as ten men with swords.
She raised her blade and hoped either the sight of her weapon or the steel in her voice would pierce his senses before it was too late. “I don’t know you, warrior. But if you come closer, I’ll be on intimate terms with your still-beating heart.”
His grin faltered—as did his step. Hoarsely, he asked, “You don’t know me?”
So he had heard her. “I don’t,” she said.
He halted. Confusion darkened his laughter into a frown, then sudden awareness flared across his face in a painful spasm. Abruptly his fists clenched at his sides and he closed his eyes, as if shutting out the sight of her. His heaving breaths became slow and controlled.
The madness was passing, she realized—and he must be feeling his injuries. Mala’s tension eased, but although she lowered her blade, she didn’t glance away from him and didn’t drop her guard.
Finally she asked, “Are you yourself again?”
Mala didn’t know who that was, but she suspected it was not the man who had come for her with that wild and ecstatic grin. That suspicion was confirmed when he looked at her, and instead of laughter there was only the hardness of stone.
When he spoke again, his voice was as rough as the side of a mountain and as bleak as the cliffs. “How many?”
He did not ask how many revenants, Mala understood. This was every honorable warrior’s curse—to never remember the number of lives saved, and to never forget how many he hadn’t. The sounds of relief coming from within the barricade had given way to the grieving wails of the living and the agonized cries of the wounded. Now that the bloodlust was fading, he must hear them.
“Three,” she said softly. “Two men and one woman. Two others will only survive the night with Nemek’s blessing. There are a few who might lose a limb, or who might not rise from their sleep until many days have passed, but they will live. Some livestock will have to be put down before the revenants’ poison transforms them.”
Hoofbeats neared. Shim. Mala glanced at the stallion. Sweat lathered his flanks and crimson spattered his legs. Nearer to the cliffs, a revenant lay pulped on the ground, and the woman with the bloodied shoulder was carrying the sobbing child back toward the caravan.
She looked to the warrior again. He was watching her with an unwavering gaze, the whites of his eyes a piercing contrast to the red masking his face. A thick and tangled beard hung to his chest and dripped blood onto his molded leather breastplate. If he wore a crest upon his armor, the gore concealed it.
The blood couldn’t conceal the rips in his woven tunic and slashes in the winter furs belted over his loose brocs. What hadn’t been protected by armor had been shredded by the revenants’ teeth and claws. Though she couldn’t see the flesh beneath his clothing, the muscles of his legs and back must have been gashed as badly as his arms.
That might be why he hadn’t yet taken a step since the madness had passed. He had to be in agony. “Have you anyone in this caravan who will see to your wounds, warrior?”
He abruptly looked away from her. “No. I only ride alongside them.”
As a hired man. But she’d already guessed as much. Though a few travelers had peered over the wagons, none had called to him with concern. They’d only been making certain that the revenants were dead.
So she would tend to him, warrior to warrior. Not yet. He still hadn’t moved—probably because he didn’t know if his next step would bring him to his knees. Mala’s pride would have pinned her in place, too. If he had to fall, best to give him privacy to do it.
She turned away. “I’ll see to the livestock.”
No response from the warrior. Instead his penetrating gaze returned to her face, and he silently watched as she gestured Shim closer and retrieved the single-bladed axe lashed to her saddle. She pushed the handle into her belt, then dragged the tack from Shim’s sweating back.
“Scout the entrance to the maze to make certain that no other revenants are lying in wait,” she told the stallion. “Then take your ease. I’ll rub you down when we’ve finished here.”
With a nicker and a soft butt of his head into her chest, he trotted off. Glad to be away from the stinking pile of revenants, most likely. Probably glad to be away from the wailing humans, too.
She glanced at the warrior. Shadowed by heavy black brows, his dark gaze followed the stallion before he suddenly turned his head, searching the ground. He stilled again when his gaze lit upon the heap of corpses, and all expression wiped from his face, as if a cold wind had scraped across a bare rock.
His horse, Mala realized. His mount’s body lay beneath the carnage. Perhaps he’d been attached to the animal, and perhaps it had only been useful to him—but a hired warrior was only worth as much as his steed, and if his mount died, often several seasons passed before he could earn enough to buy another. Sometimes years.