The Sword And The Pen (17 page)

"How did you get in here unchallenged? It seems my guards have become lax and lazy." Forehead puckered, she glanced around the small tent. "And where are you things? Your clothes?"

"Good questions," I muttered as I looked around the primitive tent. Where in the hell was I? How had I gotten here, wherever here was? Those fingers of panic closed into tight fists of terror.

Not waiting for my answer, she strode to the tent opening, lifted the flap and spoke to a man standing guard. I missed what was said because outside the sun peeked over the horizon illuminating a scene--straight out of a nightmare, straight out of one of my books.

Stunned, I could only stand and stare at row after row of shabby tents. Weary men dressed in ragged homespun clothing and battered, tarnished armor moved around the encampment, starting their day. Campfires burned low, sending trickles of smoke into the misty morning air. The smell of coffee brewing and meat cooking mingled with the odor of blood-soaked dirt. Somewhere a horse whinnied. Another answered. A dog barked. A man yelled. A thud followed. The dog yelped then fell silent.

Open-mouthed, I stared. Logic told me this couldn't be happening. I couldn't be where I thought I was. Could I? The direction of my thoughts made me question my sanity more than I'd ever questioned Seri's. As much as I wanted to believe I was dreaming, everything felt and smelled much too real for me to fool myself.

Seri let the flap drop, blocking my view of a world gone mad. She turned back to me. "It seems your skill at infiltration has improved." Her grin held a smidgen of dismay. "No one saw you arrive in camp or enter my tent. If you'd had this talent at Dennigon, it would have saved you several months in Alric's dungeon."

Dennigon? Alric? Dungeon? Baffled, I searched my memory. It came to me. She referred to an event in book two of Donoval's adventures when he'd attempted to steal into Lord Alric's castle. In that book, I introduced young Serilda. Growing trepidation kept me silent. Her account of what happened differed from what I wrote. Her world differed from the one I'd created. In my book Donoval escaped capture without Serilda's help. Still, readers loved her character, and after one more Donoval story I'd started Serilda's own series of books.

"After the way we parted, I'm surprised at your visit but not displeased. It's been a long time."

She came to stand next to me. The heady scent rising off her sleep-warmed skin distracted me. Her finger stroked down my arm in a wordless promise, leaving a trail of heat.

"I've missed you, Donnie," she continued, her voice pitched low. Her breath caressed my cheek. "Can I hope that you've reconsidered your decision not to back my fight against Roark?"

She thought I was Donoval? Why? I shook my head, not in answer to her question, but in denial. Strands of blond hair caught on the stubble of my beard. My hair. My blond hair. My long blond hair.

Hell, no! Donoval's long blond hair. My stomach fell. I didn't want to believe what my senses told me. Here in this world, Seri's world, I was Donoval. My thoughts were mine, but it appeared the body was Donoval's.

"If all possible explanations are ruled out, then the impossible must be true," I whispered.

What had happened to my real body in the real world? Was I lying in my office unconscious? Dead?

"No?"

I heard the anger return to her voice. She moved away, leaving me feeling alone and adrift in a sea of bewilderment.

"Then why are you here? You know I'll not abandon my people to Roark's tender mercies."

Why was I here in Barue? Why was I here in my fictional world? Why was I here in Donoval's body? Why was I here in a nightmare? And more importantly, how? The questions made my head spin, my stomach clench, my vision blur. With a groan I sank to the floor.

"Donnie!"

Seri's cry of alarm followed me into blessed oblivion.

*** *** ***

Serilda studied the maps spread out before her, but her thoughts focused on the man sleeping behind her. In the three years since she'd last had Donoval in her life, in her bed, much had changed.

She'd grown strong and independent, capable of charting her destiny. Inside, she admitted she owed part of that growth to him. His refusal to back her struggle to free Barue from Roark's tyranny had driven them apart, made her stand on her own. If he'd backed her, the coming victory--or defeat, she allowed--would be his, not hers. But his refusal to support her fight for Barue's freedom was not what had made her leave him. She could fight her own battles. His inability to see her as an equal, a person in her own right rather than a mere woman, an extension of himself, was what had come between them, what had kept her from giving herself to him body and soul. He demanded that she abandon the fight, leave Barue to whatever fate decreed, while she bonded herself to him and do nothing but serve him and bear his children.

Leaving him had been painful but necessary. After the murder of her family and then the monks, she'd given up on having any kind of relationship, resigned herself to being alone. But when Donoval entered her life, against her will her battered heart attached itself to him.

At the tender age of ten and seven, she'd rescued him from Alaric's dungeon and joined him in his battle to regain his throne of Shallon. At his side she'd learned how to fight--how to care again. But she'd known if she gave in to his demands, she would lose herself, become nothing more than a possession--though a cherished one--without rights or thoughts of her own. So when Roark made his attempt to seize the throne of Barue, she'd left Shallon and Donoval to fight against him.

She'd believed herself well over her childish infatuation with Donoval for some time now. She refused to consider what she'd felt was love. What did she know of love?

Affection. Caring. Concern. These emotions were familiar to her. Hausic, Mauri and Jole, as well as the people of Barue, stirred her affection. She cared for them. Worried about them, but would not admit to loving them. Loving people made you weak, left you vulnerable. And to defeat Roark she couldn't afford any weakness.

So, why did the sight of Donoval asleep in her bed rouse that long dead emotion inside her?

Why had he come? And how had he gotten here?

After his appearance she'd had the camp and the surrounding countryside scoured. There was no sign of his passage. No one had seen him arrive. When he'd collapsed, she'd sent for the healer. Aside from a few bruises, the healer found nothing wrong with the man. She'd dispatched a messenger to Shallon, Donoval's kingdom, but it would be a day or two before a reply came. She could only wait until he woke and explained his presence.

In the meantime, she had a battle to plan. Rousting Roark from the castle was the key to his defeat. During the preceding months she'd driven him relentlessly through the countryside into retreat. Now, because of her badly executed attack a few days earlier, he'd managed to reach and barricade himself inside this fortress.

She needed to pry him out and crush him. Once winter set in she'd have to disband her troops; they didn't have the equipment or supplies to stage a siege. And even if they were willing to do so, the ministers and rightful rulers of Barue didn't have the coin to fund one. This long civil war with Roark had drained the country of more than men.

Without provisions, her troops couldn't survive the harsh winter months. Ever ahead of her pursuit, Roark had stripped the surrounding countryside of its crops, livestock and wildlife. That which he didn't take he destroyed, leaving the few people who escaped his murderous passing nothing to exist on, while he and his men could sit out the winter in comfort. If she didn't roust and defeat him now, come spring he'd begin anew his campaign of terror.

Already the air turned crisp, foliage burst into color; frost touched the ground and iced the edges of the streams. The seer predicted a storm by the end of the week. Once it hit, the war was lost. So, in four days time her troops would begin their assault.

All she needed was a plan capable of success. Corrupt blackguard though Roark was, she couldn't deny his genius. No matter how long she studied the maps and diagrams of Roark's stronghold, she could find no chink, no weakness, no crack in his defenses. If she didn't find one, she was defeated before the battle began.

With a cry of frustration, she swept the papers from the table.

"Problem?"

Startled, she whirled around. Donnie sat cross-legged on the bed, a robe draped over his lap. In the light of day he no longer looked washed out or ill. He looked tough and appealing, a haven of strength and comfort in a storm of chaos. A stubble of beard darkened the hard line of his jaw. He ran a hand through his tangled hair. The motion drew her attention to his well-muscled chest. At her stare, his lips twitched and his cheeks reddened.

Moisture pooled in her mouth as memories both familiar and strange slammed into her: Copulating atop furs by the flickering light of a fire, their bodies slick with sweat, their passion stoked by the battle for control that ever raged between them. Giving and demanding satisfaction, but never requesting or truly receiving it. Making love on crisp, cool sheets, their bodies growing warm with desire. Pleasure flowing sweet and easy between them.

She blinked at the image. Nothing involving herself and Donoval had ever been sweet or easy. When not fighting for control in bed, they battled for command of each other's lives.

"Problem?" Donoval repeated.

"No. There is clothing for you." She pointed to a neat stack of garments Jole had found at her request. Her scouts had discovered no sign of his guard, horse, weapons or garments. His appearance in camp and in her bed baffled her.

"Thanks."

Thanks? The word was odd. His voice sounded different, softer. Every word King Donoval spoke came out as a command. Though he generously rewarded those who served him, he rarely expressed gratitude in words. What had happened to change him?

She caught only a glimpse of his pale buttocks as he turned away to dress. Using the bed robe as cover, he struggled into the soft hide trousers and simple cotton shirt and stomped his feet into the boots. His unusual modesty confused her. Donoval took pride in his body and gave no thought to nudity.

Once clothed, he picked up the scattered maps and papers.

"Donnie, why are you here?" She used the nickname he abhorred and waited for his reaction.

Nothing. When she'd used the name before and he hadn't reacted in his normal manner--becoming enraged at being treated with less the than proper dignity and respect he felt he deserved--she'd discounted it because of his strange arrival and disorientation. Now he appeared well and in control. Why didn't he respond to her taunt?

"Seri, I think you need to sit down. I have something to tell you." He placed the papers on the table and pushed her unresisting body into a chair.

His use of the name only Mauri used and his uncharacteristic patience and concern baffled her. Was he bespelled? Or was she?

"I'm not sure where to begin." He ran his hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught in the tangled mess. The urge to feel the rough silk of those strands had Serilda curling her fingers into fists.

"I'm not Donnie--er, Donoval."

The skeptical look on Seri's face mirrored my doubts of my sanity. The coherent, rational explanation I'd formed in my mind dissolved. What I was about to tell her defied belief. And if I didn't believe it, how could I expect her to?

Before my doubts overwhelmed me or she could respond, I hurried on: "It may sound insane, but I'm not who you think I am. I'm not King Donoval."

She regarded me with a mixture of concern and amusement. "Then, who might you be?"

"My name's Brandon Alexander Davis. I'm a writer. . .er, a scribe."

Her brows drew together. "A monk?"

"No." This was going to be harder than I thought. In her world, only monks put pen to paper--or in their case, quill to parchment. Most people were illiterate. Even Donoval could read and write little more than his signature and simple commands. Having been fostered by monks, Seri was an exception.

"I'm a bard, a troubadour, a teller of tales--only, I write them down for other people to read."

Her brows drew together and her lips tightened. "You jest. Why?"

"It's not a joke. I'm not from this world. Your world. I'm from another place."

"You've been injured or ill. Your mind is confused."

"Injured maybe, but my mind is clear. I know who I am, and it's not Donoval. I'm an author. I write books about your world."

"You're a historian? Monks keep--kept--the written history, but since Roark destroyed the Order of Light, none have been penned." Her gaze moved over me. "You look and sound, for the most part, like King Donoval of Shallon."

"I look like Donoval because in this world I inhabit Donoval's body, but my mind is that of Brandon Alexander Davis."

She started to speak.

"Wait, let me finish. I write fiction. What you call history are the books I wrote. I live in a far different world. A world of wonder and, by your standards, magic."

Ignoring the storm brewing in her eyes, I continued, telling her about myself, about Brandon Alexander Davis the author, neurotic, semi-hermit, about my Barbarian King books, my Warrior Woman books. Who she was. How she'd appeared in my office.

When I finished in a breathless rush, for a moment confusion crossed her face as she considered my words; then her lips thinned into a tight, angry slit. "I am no creature of your imagination. I am real. I am Serilda d'Lar. Feel me. I am solid flesh." She grabbed my shoulder in a punishing grip. "As are you."

I flinched as her fingers dug into my flesh, but I welcomed the pain. It grounded me in this world.

If I'd had time to write down my explanation, maybe I could have done better. Trying to speak without a script was a big mistake. Public speaking isn't one of my strengths. The few times I'd agreed to speak at a writers or fantasy fan convention I always wrote my speeches ahead of time. And still I'd sounded stiff and stilted.