Firestorm (14 page)

A dagger was little use against a sand cat. And there was little time to make it back to the blasters. Even now, the sand cat loomed from its hiding place in the tree above her, his long fangs bared, snarling in warning. The beast was sure to spring at any moment.

"Raina," Teague called softly. "I'm directly behind you, about five meters back. I want you, on my command, to turn and run to me. Hand me your dagger as

you pass, then keep going until you reach camp. Come back as quickly as you can with a blaster. I'm sure you'll know what to do with it."

"And why not run back to camp and return with the blaster yourself, Tremayne?" she tautly shot back. "You're five meters closer than I."

"Because I'm bigger and stronger than you and can hold off the sand cat longer, that's why!" he hissed. "Now, no more of this. The cat will attack while we stand here arguing."

She hesitated an instant longer, then nodded. "Suit yourself, Tremayne. At your command."

He inhaled a deep breath. "Now!"

Raina wheeled and ran, her dagger at her side. From behind her, the sand cat roared, outraged that his prey should take him by surprise. The huge beast leaped from the tree and bounded after her. Teague ran toward her.

As they passed Raina shoved the dagger into his hand. A quick look, then she was gone, racing for the camp. Teague dug in his heels and lowered himself into a fighting stance.

"Purify me," he solemnly intoned the opening words of the sacred blade ritual. "Open me . . . guide me . . . free me . .." He dragged in slow, deep breaths, willing his pulse to slacken, his body to relax, to accept, to soar ... To prepare and protect him from the sand cat's claws . . .

Then the beast was upon him. Teague took the brunt of the weight of the huge animal before falling to strike the ground hard. For an instant, as the cat sank his claws into his chest, he thought the blade ritual had prepared him.

Then the pain came, sharp, shattering, agonizing. He cried out, his roar of bewilderment and despair swallowed in the triumphant scream of the sand cat.

Nine

Her heart thundering in her breast, Raina raced through the palmas trees toward the dim light of the campfire. She ran as fast as she could knowing, even as she did that there was little likelihood of making it back to Teague in time. The desert sand cat was just that powerful, just that efficient.

She reached the campsite, snatched up a blaster, then wheeled and raced back. As she did a cry, swiftly followed by an animalistic scream, filled the air. Teague. Ah, gods, Teague! she thought, the fear and panic twisting her heart into a tight little knot.

Her legs pounded down the hard-packed path, her mind reeling with the sudden, horrific change the night had taken. A few minutes ago, it had been a perfect eve for repose, for contented contemplation of the day past. Now, it was filled with the terrible sounds of battle. A battle wherein a man rendered a fearsome sacrifice . . . just so she might live.

Teague, oh Teague, she thought. Why? Why?

Raina found the two, man and cat, rolling in a deadly embrace on the ground. The stench of the beast mingled with the sharp tang of fresh blood. Teague's blood.

She set the blaster mechanism to fire, aimed and awaited the first opportunity to shoot the cat without killing the monk. It came when Teague, with what must have been a superhuman effort, flung the sand cat off and away from him.

The huge beast immediately gained his footing and, turning, sprang for him once again. In that instant, Raina fired. Fire spewed forth, a sizzling, crackling blast that briefly illuminated the darkness before striking the sand cat fully in the chest.

The animal screamed in agony. He writhed and twisted in the air as he plummeted to the ground. Raina slung the blaster across her chest and ran for Teague. She didn't need to waste time checking if the cat was dead. The blaster was a killing weapon.

The monk lay there, unmoving, drenched in blood. Raina slid to a halt at his head and dropped to her knees. She shoved her hands beneath his back and clasped him by the shoulders. Without even a pause, to see if he was conscious, she began dragging him back to where there was light and safety.

"G-gods, Raina," he groaned, as she pulled him along. "Could you try to avoid as many rocks as you c-can? I don't need the rest of my b-body ripped open."

The sound of his voice, weak and pain-laden as it was, heartened Raina. He was still alive. Perhaps there was hope.

As they neared camp, the fire threw tongues of undulating light upon them, revealing the horrifying extent of Teague's injuries. Raina bit back a despairing groan. He was covered in blood, his tunic and cloak rent with crimson slashes staining darker and wetter by the second. Gods, how had he survived this long without bleeding to death?

Dragging the monk close to the fire, Raina hurriedly shoved a rolled-up blanket beneath his head, then scrambled over to the pile of packs to retrieve the med kit.

She carried the kit over, dug into it, and retrieved the thin laser cautery.

It was then that she saw her bloodied dagger, still clenched in his fist. Laying the cautery aside, Raina pried the weapon free and tossed it to the ground by his head. Then she turned and, grasping the front of his long tunic, ripped it asunder.

His torso bore countless deep gashes, all oozing blood. She took up the laser cautery, flipped it on, then paused. "This will hurt, but I can't spare the time to give you a narcotic. You could well bleed to death if I don't hurry."

He nodded his acquiescence and managed a weak smile. Raina inhaled a deep breath, then aimed the cautery tip toward his most copiously bleeding wound. With a sizzle, it seared the bleeder shut. Teague gasped, gouged his fingers into the sand, and shuddered.

Raina swung quickly to the next gash, cauterized that one, and moved on. Though it pained her to cause him such torment, she'd not a moment to spare. His life came first, his comfort second.

Teague groaned softly now, his big body jerking beneath her relentless care. Sweat broke out on his face. He bit his lip until it bled.

After a time, she couldn't tell which wounds she'd cauterized and which she hadn't, so profuse was the bleeding from the yet untreated wounds. Rearing back, Raina grabbed for the water bag, twisted the cap open, and poured a generous amount of fluid over Teague's chest. The monk hissed in pain and arched up, his body rigid and taut.

"G-gods, Raina," he moaned. "Wh-what are you doing?"

"Flushing the blood away so I can see what bleeders are left," she replied tersely. "Hold on. We're almost done."

"You're a s-savage nurse. B-best you remain a warrior."

Though she heard the faint tinge of teasing in his words, she spared him not a glance. Time later to chastise him, if he lived. Time later to ease his pain. But now . . . now all that mattered was saving his life, conserving each and every precious drop of blood he had left.

Finally, blessedly, Teague lost consciousness. Raina spread out a clean blanket, unceremoniously rolled him over, and began to work on his back. The sand cat had been viciously thorough. Hardly any part of his body, save his hands, booted feet, and face, had escaped unscathed.

At long last, she finished with his back and legs. After cleansing the wounds anew with water, Raina slathered a healing ointment on them, laid a clean cloth over his back and each of his legs, then carefully flipped Teague onto his back.

As she worked to cleanse and apply ointment now to his chest and arms, one of their equs whinnied. The other soon followed suit. From out in the darkness, came the answering whinnies of several other equs. Raina went still. The sound of hoofbeats, of squeaking leather and clinking metal, filled the air.

Instinctively, she grabbed up her dagger, brandishing it before her. Then the realization of the futility of the action permeated her mind. The dagger was of no real use to her if the sounds were any indication of the size of the group that approached.

An impulse to grab a blaster and hide in the darkness filled her. One glance at Teague lying there helpless and wounded dispelled that notion. A fierce protectiveness swelled within her. She wouldn't leave him. She'd sooner die fighting at his side.

Quickly, Raina resheathed her dagger beneath her robe, then covered Teague with a clean cloth and a blanket to protect him from the night chill. She threw the last few sticks of wood on the fire, then stood, walked over to where she'd thrown down the blaster in her haste, and picked it up. Making her way back to where Teague lay, Raina sat once more, placing the ready-to-fire weapon across her lap.

"How is the monk?" Rand asked. "From your comments when you returned with him, I could tell there was a battle with some animal and that he was wounded."

"I managed to stop his bleeding," Raina muttered. "The rest will be up to him. In the meantime, we have visitors."

"The equs calling out. They were calling to others,"

"Exactly."

"I would help you in any way I can."

She glanced at his carrying pack. "My thanks, but there's little you can do at present. Best you stay silent. Incendarians, for all their exposure to some of the Imperium's advanced technology, most likely haven't had much experience with a talking box. I don't know what effect it would have on them."

"A wise plan."

Men's voices—many of them—rose on the night air. Raina checked Teague one last time. He was still unconscious, and his freshly cauterized wounds looked stable. If they were to die this night, at least he wouldn't suffer. It wasn't much, but it was all the consolation she could find in such a dismal fate.

The equs halted at the edge of the small oasis. The riders dismounted. There was a brief, low interchange. Then four tall men entered the circle of light cast by the fire.

All were dressed in long, flowing white robes that covered their bodies from their high-collared necks to their booted feet. Over the robes, they wore thick, do-mare-hide belts with long, curved sheathed daggers shoved beneath them and bright blue sleeveless cloaks that fell to their feet. Their heads were covered by flowing white headcloths, the ends of which they wrapped around their faces.

Typical desert garb and the colors of the Tuaret tribe, Raina thought, gazing up at them—a large, strong tribe known for its fairness and hospitality. Some of the tension eased from her. They most likely wouldn't die this night, after all.

The tallest of the men eyed her, then Teague. "We track some thieving Katebs and find instead a mirah and a man who looks," he paused to study Teague more closely, "like he just fought a sand cat."

"Which is exactly what he did" Raina responded dryly, pointedly ignoring his attempt at gallantry in his use of the desert term for a beautiful woman. "If you're looking for the Katebs, they lie buried in the sand about four hours' ride east of here."

The man arched a dark brow. Thanks to the headcloth pulled across his face and the dim light of the fire, Raina could make out little more of the man's features than his amber-colored eyes and bronzed skin.

"Am I to understand that you and your friend encountered them earlier?" he asked, when she failed to elaborate.

She met his sharp, assessing gaze squarely. "Yes. Not that they lived long enough to enjoy our company." She laid the blaster aside, but within easy reach, and began to sort through the contents of the med kit. "Now, if your curiosity has been sufficiently appeased I really must get back to my friend. The rest of his wounds need tending."

"And do you refuse us the hospitality of your fire?"

Raina froze. The unwritten law of the desert demanded that she not turn away any who asked to share her fire. Though Raina had been born and raised near the royal city of Ksathra, she was well versed in desert customs. The Ar Rimal spanned too great a portion of Farsala not to have had many aspects of its unique heritage permeate all parts of the kingdom. She couldn't, in all good conscience, turn them away.

"You know it's forbidden to deny another the comforts of one's fire." Raina stood and, walking over, gathered up their remaining packs and carried them back to the side of the fire where Teague lay. "You may take your rest there," she said, gesturing to the now cleared area. "Our food supplies are meager, but we will share them if you've—"

"We've adequate supplies of our own," he said impatiently, cutting her off with an imperious wave of his hand. "The water of the oasis and a spot at your fire is all we require."

"Fine." Raina nodded stiffly. "Suit yourself." She sat and began pulling out the medical supplies she needed.

"A moment more, mirah."

Raina glanced up, once again wary. "Yes?"

"Are you life-mated to this man?"

"What is it to you, one way or another?"

He shrugged and let the headcloth fall free of his face. Raina gave a start of surprise. His was a face of aggressive virility, with dark, high-bred features, firm and sensually molded lips, and a blade of a nose that had apparently been broken once. It was, she noted, the only flaw in a flawlessly rugged, handsome countenance.

"What is it to me?" he repeated slowly. "Nothing, for I am mated. But most of my men,"—he gestured to the group of fifteen Tuaret warriors beginning to file in behind him—"are without life mates. If you are un-mated, I would know it now. You are far too lovely to remained unclaimed."

Anger and indignation flooded Raina. Why, the unbridled arrogance of the man! Yet even in her outrage, she recalled the desert customs well enough to know he could give her over to one of his men and suffer no consequences, if she dared admit she were unmated.

Teague would back her again. She was certain of that, if nothing else. And common sense told her she needed once more to claim what she wasn't—a mated woman.

"Of course he's my life mate," she lied smoothly. "Who else would fight a sand cat to protect me? Why else would I be working so hard now to save his life?"

"Indeed." He walked over and took his place across the fire from her. "And what are you called, mirah? I would know whose camp I share."

"My name is Raina."

"And your mate's name?"

"Teague Tremayne."

There was an expectant pause as Raina awaited a return of the courtesy. It wasn't forthcoming. In the eyes of the desert, she was but a woman, after all. Her rights and privileges were few, save those she gained from her mate.

"And your name?" she asked finally, meeting his bold gaze with an equally bold one of her own. "If you would deign to share it with me? In the name of my unconscious mate?"

He smiled thinly. Raina could tell he wasn't particularly pleased with her lack of customary subservience, but she didn't care. It was her fire, curse it all, and her offer of hospitality.

"In the name of your mate, then," the Tuaret leader softly agreed. "I am called Bahir. Bahir Husam al Nur, leader of the Tuarets. Or rather," he added, as a bitter afterthought, "what is left of the tribe, after Malam Vorax declared most of us outlaws."