Kevin’s face split into a grin. ‘Here? Now?’
Mara clapped her hands, and servants rushed in, ready to answer whatever request she might choose. Impishly, the Lady of the Acoma looked up at the tall barbarian who held her. ‘Call my attendants and have them draw bath water.’ As an afterthought, she added, ‘And erase these slates. They contain information that could start a rebellion, and I don’t want my other slaves to learn impertinence, as this one has.’ As the servants hurried about their assigned tasks, she reached up and touched the scratch of stubble that grew on Kevin’s cheeks and chin. ‘I don’t know what it is that I see in you, dangerous man.’
Unaccustomed to sharing intimacies in a room filled with bustling activity, Kevin flushed beneath his tan. One by one he pulled out the pins that bound up Mara’s hair. When the rich locks fell free, he reached into the midnight mass and used it to screen both of their faces from public view. ‘You’re quite the Ruling Lady,’ he murmured into the scented gloom, and their next kiss swept away reason. Letting his hands slide playfully along the curve of her neck, he felt her shiver in delight and anticipation. Whispering in her ear, he said, ‘And, sorry sod that I am, I have missed you . . . Lady.’
Mara moved far enough away to see if his expression was mocking, but instead she read something in his eyes that caused a weakness to flow through her. Leaning against his hard body, the sunburn on his chest hot against her cheek, she answered back, ‘And I have missed you, my barbarian. Gods, how I’ve missed you.’
9 – Ambush
Keyoke motioned a halt.
Behind him, the first heavily laden silk wagons creaked to a standstill, the stamp of the needra teams scattering ochre dust on the breeze. Keyoke blinked grit from his eyes. The weight of his much-used battle armour made his knees ache and his back cramp; getting too old for campaign in the field, he thought.
Yet the warrior within him prevailed. Neither age nor fatigue reflected in Keyoke’s stance as he turned keen eyes toward the crest of the hill and scanned the roadway ahead. To the men who stood in neat ranks behind their officers, Keyoke was as he had always been: a craggy, sun-beaten figure that seemed carved from indestructible rock.
Ahead, the trail wound like a looped cord through promontories of cracked granite; dirt lay rutted where the rainy season had gouged away soil loosened by needra hooves and caravan wheels. But the rise ahead of the pass was not empty, as it should have been. Against a sky fogged with dust, Keyoke perceived movement, and a sparkle of sunlit green armour. A trailbreaker had lingered in wait for the caravan, sure sign that something was amiss.
Keyoke motioned to his newly promoted Strike Leader, a short man with a scar that marred an eyebrow, named Dakhati. ‘Pass the word to be ready.’
The order was superfluous. Warriors stood poised in their lines, hands rested lightly on sword hilts. They had marched at the ready since leaving friendly borders. Not one had been lulled by the uneventful passage of days or the fatigue of levering wagon wheels mired in the ruts of ill-kept mountain roads. These lands were rife with bandits, and laid out by the gods for ambush.
Mara’s finest soldiers had been selected to escort the precious silk to Jamar, for while attack was expected upon the decoy wagons, they were defended by a large force. Should Keyoke’s small band encounter battle, each warrior would be required to fight like two. And no one doubted that the scout who waited in the roadway meant trouble. The trailbreakers had been men who had once foraged in these very hills as grey warriors. They knew these valleys and would not be jumping at shadows.
Keyoke motioned broadly, and the scout up ahead disappeared. Moments later, he arrived at the head of the caravan striding out of the roadside brush with the silence of sun-moved shadow. He paused before his Force Commander and gave a stiff nod of respect to Keyoke and Dakhati.
‘Report, Wiallo,’ Keyoke said. His body might feel its burden of years and service, but his memory was yet sharp; he made a point of knowing every soldier’s name.
The scout passed a last, uneasy glance over the slope, then spoke. ‘I’ve hunted here often, sir. Before evening, mulaks and kojir birds should be flying above the lake beyond that ridge.’ He indicated the sun-dappled shade of the forest. ‘And sanaro, li, and other songbirds should never be quiet at this hour.’ He glanced meaningfully toward Keyoke. ‘I do not like the silence and the sound of the wind.’
Keyoke knuckled back his helmet, letting a gust of breeze evaporate the perspifation under his hair. Then, slow and deliberate, his seamed fingers tightened the chin strap. Veteran Acoma warriors knew their Force Commander prepared for a fight. ‘Other birds roost in those trees, do you think?’
Wiallo grinned. ‘Large birds, Force Commander. Ones who wear dogs’ tails instead of feathers.’