The Sword And The Pen (21 page)

Sitting around the fire, I felt sweat roll down my back. The stench of my perspiration burned my nostrils. Dirt and blood crusted my hands. The skin of my face felt gritty.

When I inquired about where I could bathe, Josef eyed me in surprise. Apparently, I hadn't made bathing a priority among this crew. Only one thing might get these men to do that.

He let out a chuckle and punched a fist into my arm. "Ah, I understand. You share a tent with Lady d'Lar."

Heat rushed up my neck, making me glad of the dirt on my face.

Nodding in what looked like approval, he pointed toward a stand of trees and told me there was a stream I could use if I was crazy enough to wish to do so. Laughter followed me as I strode away from camp.

Aching muscles screaming in protest I trudged into the woods and followed the scent of water. To my delight, I found a small clearing where a fallen tree had created an even tinier pond. I stripped off my boots, grubby trousers and shirt and stepped into the water.

Big mistake. The icy water took my breath away. Beneath the canopy of trees, the early evening sunlight filtering through the colorful foliage didn't warm the air. Sweat turned to ice on my skin. Shivering, I jerked back.

I considered heading back to the tent with its warm stove and soft bed furs, but dirt and sweat crusted my skin. If I asked, I knew I'd be provided with hot water to wash, but the thought of making Mauri or Jole or anyone here wait on me didn't sit right in my mind. It would make me feel as if I'd created them solely to serve my needs.

Besides, I wasn't ready to face Seri yet, especially not looking and feeling like something a tarak had dragged back to its den. Next time I faced her I wanted to be at my best. In control.

In my dreams, seeing her. . . Being within touching distance of her shattered what little control I had.

Gritting my teeth I splashed into the stream and quickly rinsed the grime from my flesh.

*** *** ***

Serilda paced the tent in agitation. Hours had passed since she bested Donoval on the training field. What had she been thinking? He'd be furious with her for making him look the fool in front of the men. She should have stayed and found a way to placate him; instead she'd run away.

Was he even now on his way back to Shallon, leaving her to continue her fight against Roark alone? No. She couldn't believe that of him. Despite all his faults, he'd pledged his word to help Barue.

Perhaps it would be better if he did leave. Something was not right with him. Could three years of ruling Shallon in peace have destroyed his fighting ability? Or had the blow he took to his head scrambled his brain? His strategy seemed sound, his body still muscled and toned, but he lacked the spark of a warrior that she remembered. He even spoke differently. Not to mention being clumsy. If he went into battle as he was now she feared the outcome.

The tent flap opened. A cold breeze chased across her skin. She turned to see Donoval entering. Though his shirt and trousers were dirty, his skin was clean. He carried his dusty armor and sword. His hair lay wet against his head, darkened to the color of rich honey. He'd scraped the stubble from his cheeks, leaving them reddened.

Along with the scent of river water, he carried a hint of the strong beer the men preferred.

He didn't say anything as he dropped his armor against the tent wall, but as their eyes met his lips curved in a small smile. Like rain softened the hard ground after a drought, relief softened the hard knot of tension inside her.

"There are clean clothes for you." She pointed to the fresh shirt and trousers lying across the bed. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, I joined Josef and his men. Tarak really is barely edible, isn't it?"

She forced herself to turn away as he stripped off his soiled garments and pulled on clean ones.

"You can turn around now. I'm decent."

As before, his words made little sense, but she turned to face him. Boots off, he sat on the edge of the bed. He appeared relaxed and unconcerned about what had happened on the training field.

"Are you not angry?" she ventured.

His brows drew together. "About what?"

Instead of easing her mind, his words tightened the coil inside her gut. This was not the Donoval she knew. But if he didn't want to speak of it, she wouldn't press.

"Tomorrow I launch a test assault against Roark to see if he'll take our bait."

"A small foray to draw him out," he added with a grin. "Should be interesting."

She could hear what sounded like a tremor of fear in his voice. It turned another screw in her gut. Donoval was fearless--at times, in her opinion, to the point of stupidity.

"I'll take twenty men and--"

"We'll take twenty men," he broke in.

"There's no need for you to fight this battle."

The grin disappeared from his face. He straightened. "After today there's every need. Your men need to know I ride with them. That I'm capable."

"Today was a fluke. You've been injured. No one expects you to lead this charge." Even to her own ears her assurances rang false. If he didn't ride with her and the men, their confidence in him would falter. But if he did, could she keep him safe?

"I expect it." His words sounded like a growl. "I ride with you tomorrow."

"As you command, my lord." She inclined her head in curt acknowledgement of the authority she'd granted him by their deal, but couldn't keep the anger out of her voice. Let him kill himself if that's what he desired. Who was she to stop him? Unable and unwilling to put her fears into words, she whirled and stalked out of the tent.

"Aw, hell, Seri, come back. I didn't mean. . ." His voiced trailed after her.

Afraid to hear his pleas, afraid she'd succumb, she hurried away.

*** *** ***

Serilda stood next to her warhorse, Ryder. Sensing her tension, the big beast pranced restlessly. Behind her, a troop of twenty of her best men awaited the order to ride into battle. Donoval strode up to her and stopped, but didn't speak. The bruise she'd put on his cheek made her look away in guilt. Hurting him had never been her intention.

Though the men followed her, she knew they instinctively looked to Donoval, to a man for direction. She quashed her surge of resentment at their unconscious defection. If asked, they'd all swear loyalty to her. But three years couldn't wipe out centuries of male-dominated history and tradition. Even her victory in the wrestling match hadn't swayed them. Most if not all were of the opinion he'd allowed her to pin him.

That she and Donoval knew the truth didn't change her disquiet. He had the strength, but his skills were gone. Though no one else seemed to notice, his refusal to spar with her, his clumsy handling of his sword, along with his strange way of speaking and attitudes left her confused and concerned. In more ways than she cared to count, he wasn't the man she remembered.

The Donoval she knew never backed away from a fight--even one he believed he might lose. His male pride wouldn't allow it. His insistence on riding today should have reassured her that he hadn't changed completely, but it didn't.

She started to hand Donoval Ryder's reins, but he took the reins of the smaller mount instead.

"Ryder's been your horse for the last three years. Let's not confuse him by changing riders," he said softly. Whatever anger he'd harbored toward her the night before was now gone.

"I'm sure he remembers you. You bred and trained him." She didn't understand her protest, but felt obliged to make it anyway.

As if to confirm her statement, Ryder snuffled Donoval's chest then rested his massive head on the man's shoulder.

He staggered under the weight. "But I gave him to you."

"As you wish." Refusing to argue with him in front of her men, she swung up into the saddle then watched in disbelief as he clambered gracelessly onto the smaller horse. Once he was mounted she said, "We await your orders, King Donoval."

He shook his head. "These are your men, Seri. Your battle plan, your command." He spoke for her ears alone. None of her men heard his words.

With each passing moment her unease grew. Who was this man who claimed to be King Donoval?

The skirmish started well. Serilda led the attack on the western gate. Unable to resist her taunting, Roark opened the small portcullis and dispatched a troop of thirty men. Of course, she'd known he would. By doing so, he risked little and stood to gain much. Roark knew that even if Serilda managed to fight her way to the gate, she'd never be able to penetrate far into the castle walls with this small force. Not since the gate opened to a narrow corridor. Once they were in that corridor, archers on the battlements or in the courtyard could easily pick off her men. Later, when her men breached the eastern gate and gained access to the main yard of the castle fortress, they'd use that same situation against Roark.

Of course, if his troop defeated hers, he could capture her, end the siege and the war with minimal losses. Not that losing men--allies or foes--ever bothered Roark.

Fear receded to the back of her mind. With a battle cry, she pulled her sword and charged into the fray. Her men followed. In the bright light of day, swords clashed. Men and horses shrieked. Blood flowed.

Answering the press of her knees and his training as a warhorse, Ryder moved as if he was part of her body. They dodged and surged. He reared and lunged, knocking an oncoming attacker from his saddle. Hooves slashed downward, ending the man's scream.

From the corner of her eye, Serilda looked for Donoval. Expecting him to be at her side, she was troubled to see him a distance away, surrounded by four of Roark's men. His sword glinted in the sunlight as he fought, but something wasn't right. It was just as she'd feared: He was barely managing to retain his seat; he moved sluggishly, ineptly, without his usual expertise or fluid style.

His foes moved in for the kill.

Roark's men poured out of the gate. They attacked swift and hard. Frozen with fear, I watched as Seri led the charge to meet them.

I'd written dozens of battle scenes. I'd written this very scene, in fact, while she was planning strategy in her tent. This small skirmish between Seri and Roark's men--my writing had been a desperate attempt to take control of this world I'd created but that had now absorbed me. I'd scribbled out what I imagined should happen, what I'd hoped would happen, and I prayed it would truly be the outcome. Seri's men would prevail. If I were to trust my power, I should have no fear, but living it was different. The sights, the sounds, the smells, all overwhelmed my senses. Swords flashed. Men screamed. Metal clanged against metal. Blood. Death. Dying.

I hadn't been able to write every detail, either, or what happened to Donoval; there hadn't been time before Seri became curious about the parchment I used and I had to toss it into the fire. Had that action made a difference? Would I have been able to affect the outcome either way?

Sunlight spilled over the meadow, its warm yellow light a sharp contrast to the dark intensity of the battle being waged. Men fought somberly, the only sounds the ringing metal, the creak of leather, grunts and cries of pain, the muffled thud of hooves against the ground. The smell of fear, that acrid mixture of sweat both human and animal, dirt and blood, burned my nostrils.

I needed to defend myself, to fight, but at that moment I had an attack of sanity--or insanity. I couldn't accept this situation. Paralyzed, I watched as Roark's men clashed with Seri's troops.

Four of them quickly surrounded me. I drew my sword, but everything I'd ever learned or written about swordplay fled my mind. I reminded myself that this was not a game. This was not fiction, however it had started. This was real. These men meant to kill me. Whatever happened here couldn't be edited, rewritten or revised.

Something slammed against my back. It was a sword blade, and my metal armor prevented it from cutting me in half, but pain radiated up and down my spine. My horse tossed its head and pranced to one side. A blade thrust past where a second ago my throat had been. Another blade whooshed toward my head. I ducked.

Inside me, the spirit of Donoval swore. I felt him fighting to break free of the restraints I'd placed on him, fighting to return to his body. Which did I fear more, dying in this battle or losing myself?

Losing Seri. That's all I cared about.

Adrenaline coursed through me. I swung my sword wildly. A cry of pain let me know I'd struck a target. Satisfaction rushed through me as blood sprayed across my face and chest. As I pulled back to see, the man's shocked eyes met mine then clouded over. He slid limply from his horse. I lost sight of him beneath the milling horses. Hot and metallic, I tasted his blood on my lips.

Horror gripped me. In this reality I'd killed a man! Sitting in my office writing, I'd thought I understood the emotions of my characters as they lived, laughed, cried, loved, killed and died. I'd had no clue. Still, the bile clogging my throat couldn't eliminate my gratification at seeing the man fall. He'd meant to kill me, and to stop Seri. He would have known no regret had I been the one to die.

Other men entered the fray, distracting my attackers and leaving me alone on the field.

Part of me wanted to flee, to return to the safe, secure world behind my keyboard, where blood and death were mere words on the page. Another part craved something different, something more elemental. That buried part of me reveled in the destruction, gloried in the required strength and skill. That part was Donoval. Like a drug, the urge to strike back, to kill first those who would kill me, flooded my veins. But a battle raged between the Brandon I knew myself to be and the character I'd created and whose body I inhabited.

My fingers clutched the hilt of my sword. I held it up. Sunlight glinting off the crimson blood mesmerized me. How easy it would be to let go, to surrender logic, reason and compassion, to give in to the creature hammering to be released. But if I did, if I became a killing machine, could I ever again be me: Brandon Alexander Davis? Or would I be forever altered, changed? Would actions in this world be the same as actions in mine? And even more concerning, would becoming one with Donoval trap me in this world?