The Sword And The Pen (22 page)

As I struggled to hold on to myself amidst the chaos swirling around me, I saw Seri a few yards away. She fought one man, and another approached from her rear. She plunged her sword into the first, but before she could turn and defend herself the second would be on her. Only I was close enough to help.

Again, fear rendered me helpless. My scribbles on paper couldn't save her. I'd tried that already, and things looked grim.

But I can help, a voice thundered inside me.

In desperation, I surrendered to the power of Donoval, let his persona seize control of our body. Without conscious thought I began to fight, thrusting, cutting, slicing. No longer pausing to see the results of my blows, I plowed through Roark's men. I had to reach Seri!

With his hind legs, Ryder lashed out at Seri's attacker and missed. The movement threw her off balance. She fell forward over the animal's neck. I came up beside her assailant, who was focused on her. Before he could strike, I shoved my blade through his throat. He died with a gurgle.

There was no time for celebration amidst the melee; the battle raged on, separating me from Seri almost immediately. And from that moment on, Donoval's body memory and skill directed me, fought for me, saved me, saved Seri.

Time stretched out endlessly as I fought and killed. I took many wounds, but I felt nothing. Only later did I realize the skirmish lasted mere minutes.

*** *** ***

At the last moment, Donoval ducked. Serilda breathed a quick sigh of relief. Distracted by his near miss, she almost didn't avoid the next attack against her. A blade ripped through the leather guard on her arm and found her arm.

Behind her, she heard and felt the approach of a rider. Locked in battle with another man, she couldn't turn to look. Ryder lashed out with his hind legs, throwing her off balance for a split second. The man in front of her tried to use the distraction, but she leaned forward and came in under his guard. He died as her sword came up through his chin. When she turned, the other man was gone.

She fought on. Locked in a life and death struggle, time ceased to have meaning. Time after time she swung her sword. Bodies spouting blood and gore fell around her. The smell of death, sweat and human waste stung her nose. Her arms ached. Her mouth went dry. Screams of pain deafened her.

She was pleased to see her men dispatch Roark's. Though he'd sent out more men than her, he hadn't chanced a larger force of men. He knew if he did she would have brought up the rest of her men and out in the open he risked being defeated. As the skirmish drew to an end, the last of Roark's soldiers turned tail and ran. However, the gate was barred. Roark didn't tolerate failure.

The men backed up, waiting for the final blow, waiting to be cut down by Serilda's force. Instead, she signaled her men to pull back, leaving the few survivors to face their leader's wrath. If they were smart, they'd run while they had the chance. Roark's anger at losing even a small battle would not be pretty, and he'd take his rage out on those who'd failed but returned.

She'd accomplished her goal. The next time she attacked, Roark would be likely to send a larger force to meet her, leaving the other gate much less guarded. That was the plan.

Eyes averted from the carnage, she sat and waited as her men gathered up their dead and wounded. Of the soldiers she'd started with, she'd lost three. The rest all bore some injury, most minor, a few serious--and there was at least one that would prove fatal. Her battle lust faded, leaving behind the burning acid of regret for lives needlessly lost, for lives destroyed. For lives, both theirs and hers, forever changed by one man's greed and lust for power.

"Lady d'Lar." Hasen, her second-in-command approached her. "King Donoval has been injured."

"What? How bad?" The last she'd seen him, Donoval had been holding his own. Yet he hadn't fought with his usual skill at any point, and his sword-work was slow and clumsy. Unwilling to admit the cold knot of dread forming in her chest, she searched the milling men for a glimpse of him. His blond head was nowhere in sight.

"I don't know. He refuses to allow anyone to see, and there's much blood."

*** *** ***

The battle was over. Donoval retreated, but he stayed part of me, no longer a separate entity; I had let him in.

My thoughts cleared as I came back to myself. My bloodied sword dangled from my hand as I sat atop my horse. Other, rider-less steeds milled around. Mangled, bloody bodies littered the ground. Some twitched and moaned; others lay still, staring at the cloudless sky with glassy eyes.

Seri's men whooped and yelled at the few survivors of Roark's troop that ran back toward their castle. I searched for her amidst the crowd. Back straight, face blank of emotion, she sat atop her warhorse. Relief slammed into me.

I'd written that she'd survive, and I'd written her standing where she did, but I hadn't written the part about my--Donoval's--intervention. Had my words influenced the outcome of this fight, or was her survival coincidence? Had I any control over what happened in this world? Was Seri's death at Roark's hands already preordained by what I'd written, not to be changed?

I couldn't accept that. My being here altered everything. It had to.

I lifted my arm to gain Seri's attention. A surge of pain caught me by surprise. Through a gash in the leather guard, blood dripped from a cut on my sword arm. The world wavered around me. I swayed in my saddle. A strong hand clasped my shoulder and held me upright.

"My lord, are you injured?" Hasen asked. He had ridden up behind me.

I stared at him in disbelief. Blood caked my body from head to toe, and he wanted to know if I was injured? I took an inventory. The gashes on my cheek, thigh and calf, though bloody seemed minor. Wincing, I pressed my palm against the slash just above my groin, below where the armor ended. Hot and sticky, blood seeped through my fingers. It didn't feel like a mortal wound--or at least my guts weren't spilling out--and the pain from this cut was less than some of the others, but in this world without the aid and assistance of a real doctor, how could I be sure?

When I didn't answer, Hasen tried to pull my hand aside to see.

"I'm fine!" I shoved him away with a bit more force than I intended, and I nearly toppled him off his horse.

He gave me a skeptical look before galloping off to pull up next to Seri. I watched him engage her in conversation; then I groaned as her angry gaze turned to me. What had I done wrong now?

*** *** ***

Back in camp, her lips tightly compressed to keep from berating Donoval in front of her men for his carelessness, Serilda waited while he dismounted and preceded her into her large tent. Warmth from the cheery fire blazing near the entrance couldn't touch the chill deep inside her.

Along with clean linen strips, Mauri had left water to boil, a needle and silk thread, and an herbal salve. Fresh bread, fruit, cheese and wine waited on the table.

Serilda pushed Donoval toward the bed.

"I'll get blood on the bed robes," he protested with a cocky grin.

"Don't argue." She pushed him down and undid his plate armor. Once it was off, she untied and removed the leather guards from his arms and legs. When the movement pulled open the cut on his arm, moisture beaded his brow. His hand pressed tightly to his abdomen, he winced but said nothing. She saw sweat roll into a cut on his cheek.

The wounds on Donoval's face, chest and arm appeared minor if painful. The deep gash on his thigh would need stitches. The one he hid beneath his palm, which still seeped blood, concerned her more. If a sword had penetrated his innards, there was little anyone could do for him; he was already dead. She hated the horror she felt, the pain it caused her heart.

After she'd removed all but his leggings, she cleaned and bandaged his injuries, all except the one on his thigh and under his hand. Finally, she had no other choice. She laid her hand over his. "Let me see."

"It's just a scratch. It'll be fine."

"Don't be a fool. Let me see."

"Fine, then. Look." Intentionally misunderstanding which wound she wanted to see first, he wiggled out of his blood-soaked leggings.

She brushed aside his hand and examined both wounds. Looking at the one that had concerned her more, she flinched then breathed a sigh of relief. A few inches lower and the sword-blow would have unmanned him, but in fact the blade had merely grazed his belly, leaving a ragged tear. It was no worse than the gash on his thigh.

She kept her gaze from confirming that his maleness remained intact, sure that if it had been touched he wouldn't be sitting calmly.

"You were fortunate today." Ignoring his sex, which rested so near her fingers she could hardly breathe, she spoke while she cleaned and began to stitch the gash on his thigh.

"Damn!" He jumped as the needle pierced his flesh. "That hurts!

To hold him in place, she clamped her hand down on his leg. "Be still, or I might accidentally stitch your cock to your leg." She felt him flinch, and laughed.

Continuing the joke, she jabbed the needle toward his groin, but he caught her wrist in an inflexible grip. "Don't you have anything to numb my skin before you stitch me together?"

She hadn't thought to use numbweed, because in the past Donoval had always refused, considering it a sign of weakness rather than good sense. Unwanted guilt at causing him needless pain made her lash out, that and anger at his changed personality. "We save numbweed for serious injuries. As you said, these are naught but scratches."

He released her hand and nodded. Gritting his teeth he said, "You're right. Proceed."

She shook her head, bemused, but set to.

His muscles twitched and his lips thinned as she stitched his thigh, but he didn't utter another complaint. Each stitch increased her irritation. Averting her gaze from his groin, she cleaned and bandaged the cut on his abdomen.

Once she finished, her fear again morphed into anger. She could no longer contain her scathing censure. "I've never seen such ineptitude in battle. You handled your sword like a beardless boy! Mauri fights better."

When he didn't react with his typical heated dismissal of any criticism, she glanced at his face. Something was really different here. "Why are you smiling? You could have been killed!"

"I didn't know you cared," he joked.

His humorous tone disconcerted her. The Donoval she knew had little sense of humor, especially concerning his skill. "I don't," she retorted. But her voice didn't carry the ring of conviction. " I need you alive. If you die before your troops arrive, I doubt they'll follow me into battle. Years of peace sitting on Shallon's throne have made you lazy and soft." And to prove her point, she jabbed the muscle of his uninjured arm. It felt solid as ever.

His grin grew, along with another part of him. "Not so soft."

Hot and hard, his thrusting manhood brushed against her fingers. She jerked away, but he caught her wrist and placed her hand on his arousal.

She inhaled sharply. The coppery smell of blood, the fresh mint of the herbal salve and his familiar warm male scent invaded her lungs, stirred her senses and teased her memories with the times she'd patched, stitched and bandaged him before. He'd always come back from a battlefield aroused, no matter his wounds, and apparently now was no exception.

For her, the battle, the killing, all left her feeling shattered. Drained. Alone. Numb to any emotion beside rage. Then, as now, she needed to fill the emptiness inside her. Appease the beast. Soothe the flesh. Reaffirm life in the most elemental way. They'd always been good at that.

Yes, then as now she could take what he offered, use him to fill the chasm in her soul--for the moment.

But things were different now. As before, she feared that being with Donoval offered only a fleeting reprieve to the loneliness inside her. Their encounters, though physically satisfying, left an emotional void. Like cool water poured over sunburn, the feeling couldn't last. Though she knew he cared for her, Donoval could not, would not give her what she wanted, what she needed above all else. His heart beat only for his country, for his people.

With each gasp she took his scent invaded her, curled and expanded in her lungs until she couldn't imagine breathing air devoid of his smell. She let her gaze travel down his muscled chest and flat abdomen to where her hand circled his heat. Need overcame common sense. Though it left her wanting, she'd take what he could give: Of their own volition, her fingers caressed the satiny skin covering the steel of his arousal.

"Make love with me?" he asked.

"What of your injuries?" She had never seen him so badly wounded.

She traced a finger along the edge of the gash on his thigh. His cock twitched.

"A scratch. This aches more." He touched his chest.

His soft plea startled her. Donoval didn't plead. He commanded. Ordered. Demanded. Occasionally, Donnie might tease and cajole, but he never asked. She looked into his eyes and saw. . .

She wasn't sure what she saw. Though this body and voice were Donoval's, the person who stared back at her was a stranger. And yet, he was not. Deep inside her she felt she knew this man better than she ever had known or would ever know Donoval.

When she was young and vulnerable, she hadn't seen beyond Donoval's physical beauty and strength. Along with her body she'd tried to give him her heart, but she'd discovered that while he'd share his body with her, he lacked the ability to love a woman--to treat her the way she wanted, to act as she needed, as an equal partner. Their lovemaking, while physically passionate, had never seemed to touch his heart the way his zeal for his people did. No, hours after they finished she always felt more alone than before.

Though tolerant of her "foibles," he'd never seen her or any woman as a person, an equal, as a being with wants, needs and desires separate from his. And when he'd had to choose, his heart belonged to his country, Shallon, and to his people. Serilda herself always came last.

Again, fear consumed her. Could she take what he offered without putting her heart at risk?