But, then, Churnazh had been a common brigand before he joined the Navahkan army, rose through the ranks, and seized the throne, and he was proud of the brute strength that proved his right to rule. Strength Bahzell could appreciate; weakness was beneath contempt, and he knew his father couldn’t have held his own throne if his warriors thought for one moment that he was a weakling. But in Churnazh’s eyes, “strength” rested upon terror. His endless wars had made Navahk the most feared of all the Bloody Sword cities, yet Navahk herself was terrified of him . . . and his five sons were even worse than he.
All of which explained why the last thing a hostage from Hurgrum had any business doing was standing in this hall listening to screams and even considering intervening. Besides, whoever was screaming was only another Bloody Sword, and, with the noteworthy exception of Brandark, there wasn’t a Bloody Sword worth the time to send him to Phrobus, much less risk his own life for.
Bahzell told himself that with all the hardheaded pragmatism he could summon . . . then swore vilely and started down the unlit corridor.
Crown Prince Harnak grinned as he smashed his fist into Farmah’s face yet again. Her gagged scream was weaker and less satisfying than it had been, but his metal-reinforced gauntlet cut fresh, bleeding gashes, and he felt a sensual thrill of power even greater than he’d felt when he raped her.
He let her slip to the floor, let her try to crawl away with her arms bound behind her, then kicked her in the ribs. The shredded chemise wadded into her mouth muffled her gurgling shriek as his boot smashed her into the stone wall, and he laughed. The bitch. Thought she was too good for a prince of the blood, did she? Well, she’d learned better now, hadn’t she?
He watched her curl in a beaten ball and savored her hopeless terror. Rape was the one crime that might turn even his father’s men against him, but no one would ever know who’d had this slut. When they found her body and saw all the things he’d done-and still looked forward to doing-they’d assume exactly what he wanted: that someone taken by the Rage’s blood frenzy had slaughtered her like a sow, and-
An abrupt explosion of rending wood shattered his hungry anticipation and snatched him around in shock. The long abandoned sleeping chamber’s locked door was thick, as stout and well built as any door in Navahk was likely to be, but its latch simply disappeared in a cloud of splinters, and the door itself slammed back against the wall so hard one iron hinge snapped. Harnak jumped back in instant panic, mind already racing for a way to bribe or threaten his way out of the consequences of discovery, but then his eyes widened as he saw who stood in the opening.
That towering figure could not be mistaken for anyone else, but it was alone, and Harnak snarled in contemptuous relief as the intruder glanced at the naked, battered girl huddled against the wall. Big he might be, but Bahzell of Hurgrum was no threat. The puling, puking coward had hidden behind his “hostage” status for over two years, swallowing insults no warrior would let pass . . . and he was armed only with a dagger, while Harnak’s sword lay ready on the rotting bed. Bahzell would never raise his hand to the heir to Navahk’s throne-especially if it meant matching eighteen inches of steel against forty!-and even if he carried the tale to others, no one in Navahk would dare take his word over that of a prince of the blood. Particularly if Harnak saw to it that Farmah had vanished before the Horse Stealer could get back with help. He straightened his back with an automatic, arrogant snarl, gathering his scattered wits to order the intruder out, but the words died unspoken as Bahzell’s eyes moved back to him. There was something in them Harnak had never seen before . . . and Bahzell wasn’t stopping in the doorway.
A ball of ice froze in Harnak’s belly. He had time to feel one sudden stab of terror, to abandon his swaggering posture and leap desperately for his sword, and then an iron clamp seized him by the throat. Shouting for help would have done him no good-he’d chosen this spot so no one would hear his victim’s screams-but he never got the chance to try, for his cry died in a wheezing gurgle as the clamp lifted his toes from the floor. He writhed and choked, beating at Bahzell’s wrist with his gauntleted hands, and then another hand-not a clamp, this one, but a spiked mace-crashed into his belly.
Harnak screamed as three ribs snapped. The sound was faint and strangled . . . and dwarfed by the sound he made when a knee like a tree trunk smashed up between his legs.
His world vanished in agony so great he hardly noticed the mace crashing into his belly again. And then again and again and again. But he retained enough awareness to realize what was happening as Bahzell released his throat at last. The choking hand clasped the nape of his neck instead. Another hand caught his belt, and Crown Prince Harnak of Navahk screamed in terror . . . until he smashed face-first into the dirty little chamber’s wall and the impact cut his shriek off like a knife.
He oozed down the stone, smearing it with red, and Bahzell snarled and started forward to finish the job. The Horse Stealer’s muscles quivered as fury snapped and sputtered through them, but sanity still flickered, and he made himself stop. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, fighting back the red haze. It wasn’t easy, but the killing madness ebbed without quite passing over into the Rage, and he shook himself. He opened his eyes once more and looked down, grimacing at the knuckles he’d split on his enemy’s metal-studded leather jerkin, then turned to Harnak’s latest victim.
She writhed away in terror, too battered and beaten to realize he wasn’t Harnak, but then she felt the gentleness of his touch and whimpered.
“There, lass. There,” he murmured, bitterly aware of how useless the soothing sounds were yet making them anyway, and her frantic struggles eased. One eye opened, staring fearfully up at him, but the other was swollen shut, and the cheek below it was clearly broken.
He touched her hair gently, and disgust filled him as he recognized her cut and bloody face. Farmah. Who but Harnak-or his brothers-would rape a mere girl supposedly under his own father’s protection?
He lifted her, and bleak hate filled his eyes at her pain sound when broken ribs shifted. Her hands were bound behind her, and fresh contempt snarled through him as he recalled Harnak’s swaggering bluster about courage and hardihood. Courage, it seemed, required a “warrior” to bind a teenaged girl half his size to be certain she was helpless before he raped her and beat her bloody!
He eased her into a sitting position on a battered old chest against the wall. It was filthy, but the only other furnishing was the bed Harnak had raped her upon. She shuddered in terror and pain, yet she leaned forward to help as he cut the cord that had flayed her wrists raw and plucked the wad of cloth from her mouth. Returning intelligence flickered in her good eye. “Thank you, M’lord,” she whispered. “Thank you! ”
Her hand rose and squeezed his wrist with surprising strength. Or perhaps not so surprising, for she, too, was hradani, however slim and delicate she might be compared to Bahzell.
“Hush, girl. Don’t be thanking me,” Bahzell rumbled, and looked away from her nakedness in sudden embarrassment. He spied Harnak’s discarded cloak and scooped it up, averting his eyes as he held it out to her, and her sound as she took it was trapped between a sob of pain and shame and a strange, twisted ghost of a laugh.