 
### Delicate Dangerous Queens

and other origin stories from Curse of the Jenri

by Stephanie Barr

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Stephanie Barr

Discover other titles by Stephanie Barr at Smashwords.com

Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

Tarot Queen

Beast Within (First of the Bete Novels)

Nine Lives (Second of the Bete Novels)

Twice the Man (Third and final Bete Novel)

Saving Tessa

Musings of a Nascent Poet

Curse of the Jenri

Legacy

Ideal Insurgent

The Taming of Dracul Morsus

Pussycats Galore

Catalyst

The Library at Castle Herriot

Dedicated to Stephanie, Roxy and Alex, always.

To Chuck Larlham who not only supported these stories at every step along the way, but beta read the whole thing again without complaint.

To Mirren Hogan, Eric Klein, Lee Barr, Dar Matthews, Jen Ponce, and Ana Marija Meshkova, proof that good beta readers are worth their weight in gold

And to Fiona Sky who edited three of these stories.

Cover by Shannon Lee

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Delicate Dangerous Queens (Saldomar)

Not a Doxy (Cristo)

Hidden Treasure (Denra)

Not Quite a Knight (Riko)

About the Author

Preview of Curse of the Jenri

Delicate Dangerous Queens

"What a stupid way to die, trying to save a stranger," Saldomar muttered, as the surf washed against the horrific hole in his side, bringing a wave of painful fire with its salty kiss. "What kind of idiot gets on a ship when he can't swim? Should never have dived after him. I should have let him drown."

Though, upon further reflection, Saldomar had to admit the end the stranger met with—a school of hungry sharks—was hardly more pleasant than drowning. Saldomar wished mightily they hadn't seen him as a second course.

Saldomar got away—magic has its uses—but not unscathed, because magic has its limitations. Saldomar figured he'd used up the rest of his good luck being close enough to shore to make it to ground. He'd been there, baking in the sun, half in and out of the water, for what seemed hours. It probably hadn't been, but the distinction didn't really seem important since even the expectation of death was not quite compelling enough to get him to crawl entirely onto dry land.

Saldomar the Mage. There was a part of the world that would shudder at that name, offer obeisance, or perhaps make the sign against evil. How his master would laugh to see him now, a victim of the tide. Saldomar summoned a chuckle. His master would probably kick him again for good measure for his cockiness.

He ought to get up and do it himself right now, before he ran out of blood.

He waited to see if that would work.

Nope, still nothing.

The sharks didn't get any vital organs—Saldomar was just quick enough to move bowels and kidney out of the way—but the sharks had made a mess of some muscles and more than a few blood vessels, so the sea left a little redder than it came in. Too bad mages can't heal themselves, he thought bitterly, though he could feel his magical reservoirs were ebbing, too. But he might could make it, if he wasn't jammed between a couple of rock spurs on some Bastor-forsaken pebbly beach with no signs of intelligent life anywhere.

As if in answer to that thought, there was a scream. Not human, but also not the scream of any animal he could readily imagine. It was a defiant, angry, I'm-going-to-kill-you scream, and Saldomar was really not in the mood to be eaten by anything that vicious. But, while the screaming and obvious sounds of clashing and tussling, punctuated by yelps and grunts of pain, felt close enough to be within arm's length, Saldomar saw nothing.

Which should have made him happy. That was all he needed: to be torn to bits by thrashing animals. And yet, as the fight progressed and the screaming of the first creature became more strident, more desperate, he wasn't finding himself the least bit pleased.

What in Nether was going on?

Curiosity, as his master had noted, was an occupational hazard for Magii. Saldomar had it in spades. When a hideous beast—dead, about half Saldomar's size, like a dog-warthog cross—landed with a thud by his head, Saldomar _had_ to know what had happened. Following the trajectory of the monster, Saldomar managed to pull himself past his rock spurs, and with a little more stubbornness, over the lip of what he thought was an embedded volcanic boulder, but which turned out to be the hollowed-out cup of a nest of large eggs. The eggs, mostly broken now, were being attacked by a sizable pack of more of the nasty beasts and were defended by the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

She looked like a dragon in miniature, made of amethyst and jade, so like crystal herself she didn't seem opaque. Her efforts to defend her eggs had not been fruitless. There were more dead beasts than those still living, but it had taken a toll. One of her wings was badly mauled, so she was grounded, and there were several wounds in her lustrous hide. Many of the dead were scorched so Saldomar presumed she had fire breath, but it, like magic, appeared to be a finite resource. With her brood reduced to a couple eggs at most, she stood steadfast above them, her functioning wing poised as a shield, but she was but one creature. And they were clearly practiced in teamwork.

He saw the bum's rush, knew she would fall, and spoke without thinking, a simple spell of sleep. Natural magic wasn't his forte, per se, but it wasn't taxing and worked well on all but two of the creatures. She attacked one of the remainder while the other jumped on her back. Saldomar gathered a bit of his magic power and aimed a fireball at the assailant on her back, hoping her fire breath made her resistant to flames.

The creature fell from her, screaming, flaming, but crushed another egg. The dragon queen screamed and latched on to the last of her attackers with a merciless bite to the throat. When it collapsed, she fell with it and didn't move, other than ragged breaths that shook her body and tremors of nerves flailing their last.

"Hey," he said conversationally, "the others are just asleep. They'll wake up soon."

_Oh, well. I did what I could,_ he thought. _Maybe she'll get lucky_. But he couldn't quite escape the notion that her store of luck, like his, was finite.

So, with an effort that surprised him and a bolt of debilitating pain, he managed to pull himself over the lip and tumble down into the dragonet-made caldera.

His magic might be tapped out, but he had his dagger. He crawled from one remaining beastie to the next, making sure they were all well and truly dead, pausing only for the waves of nauseating pain to wash over him or to wait out the fits of dizziness.

He found himself truly grieving as he saw the small dragon bodies, in a myriad of jewel-like colors, all but formed, crushed or partially eaten. They were probably only days from hatching. He searched among the tiny corpses, small enough to fit in his hand, and shell fragments, to see if any eggs remained intact. There were three he thought might be, but one was torn through on the other side and one had cracked long since, its cargo long dried out and rattling within the shell. Only one, still warm and heavy in his hand, remained. This shell was purplish and he could almost feel the heartbeat of the creature within.

A hiss broke him from his reverie and he turned his head to see her arched over him, her violet eyes whirling with fury. He could see her shaking but didn't know if it was the pain and blood loss or her own rage. Her body was badly mauled and her ravaged wing dragged behind her. He doubted she would ever fly again.

But she was intent on him and what he would do to her last egg.

He offered her the egg, surprised at his own reluctance, his hands shaking as he leaned on his other elbow and held it out to her. She cocked her head to the side, regarding him intently, and then pushed his hand back.

He had no time to puzzle out her meaning as he found his world going black but had enough presence of mind to curl around the egg so it would not fall.

*

The last thing Saldomar expected to do was wake up again. Ever. Of course, once he had, that left quite an array of other unexpected prospects before him.

The smell of a fire, the warmth of it, the crackles and pops, woke him, but he didn't open his eyes right away. He figured he'd enjoy not being dead for a moment before finding out if he were roasting on a spit.

"How long were you going to pretend you were asleep?" a voice, light as down, asked. He felt a cool touch at his forehead and opened his eyes.

She was as dainty and beautiful as the dragonet queen. Pointed pixie face with huge sea-green eyes lashed with ridiculously long blonde lashes, a tiny nose, a narrow full mouth, and skin as translucent and pale as alabaster. The sprinkle of freckles on her nose and her long braid of red-gold hair were just enough to make her seem human. Still, he _had_ been out of luck.

"Have I died? Are you an angel?"

Her voice was still dulcimer soft, but quite firm. "You are _not_ dead. And I am _no_ angel."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"I'm trying to decide if that's better for me or worse."

She narrowed those magnificent eyes, which did nothing to dim their beauty, and started to probe his skull. "Did you hit your head as well?" As she leaned over him, he noted her loose-fitting tunic in blue-green, and that she was, nonetheless, as slender as a reed.

"I knew I was out of luck. You're a child! Bastor is a soulless bastard."

"I've often thought so myself, but I see no reason to curse your God for something that isn't even true. I'm nearly thirty summers old."

"Impossible!" Saldomar said with feeling.

"Quite possible," she said, pushing back wisps of hair with long-fingered hands on impossibly small wrists. "I will say that my apparent age can be used for my own benefit however. How do you feel?"

How did he feel? And now that her ethereal beauty was not filling his vision, where in Nether was he and how did he get here? What happened to the dragonet queen and the—?

"The egg!" He would have jerked up but a heavy weight on his chest stopped him, and strangely, began to purr.

"I have it safe here." She had risen to stir a pot of something at the fire, and he spotted the purplish egg, cozy in a nest of cloth.

From his recumbent vantage point, he saw they were in a cave but there were holes in the ceiling so the smoke could escape, and something about the light from the mouth of the cave made him think they were still close to shore.

"How did you find me?"

"The dragonet queen called Wiser," she said, indicating the huge gray and white cat perched on his chest. The cat blinked at him with one eye of startlingly bright green and the other of an equally startling blue. "And Wiser led me to you. Wiser, you can let him get up." Wiser rose and stepped to Saldomar's opposite side and sat placidly.

The girl—woman—readied a bowl of something that looked like stew.

"Who are you? How did I get here?" he asked her. He wasn't sure if he was hungry anyway. How much of his gut was left? He was not anxious to look.

She dropped the spoon with a little splash. "Let me explain something. I'm Jenri. I'm not a blushing violet or dainty daisy. I can carry a skinny man like you, even waterlogged, without trouble, and I'm a fair hand with healing spells. Go and check. Go on."

He explored with his fingers first, and when they found only whole flesh, sat up in surprise, braced for the wave of pain that didn't come. It wasn't perfect but the flesh had filled in, the muscles underneath undersized but connected. It was a masterful job even for an expert, which she should hardly be at thirty years old. "This is incredible."

"It helped that your body wanted to be healed. Many magic user's bodies are resistant to healing."

"Well, one doesn't get to be—" it occurred to him that advertising his actual age would be confusing for this youngster, "my _age_ without having learned a thing or two. And convincing one's body to follow suit. Did you say your name was Jenri?"

"Jenri is my _tribe_. Have you not heard of us? My _name_ is Cordalin. And your stew will get cold. I couldn't replace your blood so you need to eat."

He stopped her hand before she could feed him. Gently. "Thank you. For saving me, for bringing me here, for healing me, for saving the egg. I can, however, feed myself."

She handed him the bowl.

"The dragonet queen... Is she...?" He didn't want to say it and took a mouthful of stew.

"She's dead. She was dead when we got there. Wiser said she had told us to save you and make sure you kept the egg, that she _entrusted_ it to you. Given your reaction earlier, she seemed to know what she was talking about. Then we burned her and her broken brood as she'd asked."

"And those nasty creatures that attacked her?" he asked before another bite.

"Make a pretty good stew, don't they?"

He rolled the savory stew around his mouth and nodded before swallowing. They were damned tasty in fact, for all their outward ugliness. "What is this tribe of Jenri, and why would you think I'd recognize it?"

Though kneeling, her back stiffened and her eyes flashed. "Everyone has heard of the Jenri!"

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes spitting fire, she was magnificent. The jade jewelry, chased with silver, threaded through her hair and about her neck seemed to glow with her passion and he could feel the force of it. He settled back with his stew to enjoy the show. "Not I. Are they a traveling troupe of entertainers?" he asked in his most innocent voice.

She leapt to her feet with a grace he had to admire and began pacing, stopping now and again to shake an angry finger in his direction. "The Jenri," she said with censure, "have been famous for more than one hundred and ten generations, nearly two thousand years! We have been free for all that time. Not one descendant of Lavinia has been enslaved or stolen without reprisals from the clan, Jenri warriors, and their mates."

"How fierce!" he said politely, then held out his bowl. "More stew?"

She snatched the bowl from his hands and refilled it at the pot, making far more noise than she had the first time. She thrust it back in his hands, knocking the spoon to the floor in her haste. Then, she loomed over him. "The Jenri have bred only warrior women for thousands of years, warriors that, unlike most, can do magic as well as they fight."

Saldomar choked on his stew and was unsuccessful in making it look like a cough.

"Are you _laughing_ at me? At _us_? Do you think you can look at me and know what I can do?"

Well, she had him there. Even if she did look like a twelve-year-old girl with her skinny legs and slender frame, he knew looks could tell little. Around her tiny waist she wore a leather belt with a number of deadly-looking knives. Against a rock, elsewhere in the cave, he'd noted a slim sword and a tall bow with a quiver of arrows, sitting next to his own swords and knives. As a slender man with a pretty face, he'd lived a lifetime with people underestimating his power and physical prowess.

And there was no doubt she had brought him here and saved his life. She deserved better than to have her own power mocked.

He set aside his bowl, and as gracefully as he could muster, naked and sitting, he bowed his regrets. "I'm sorry. I _was_ teasing you, but I already know you are a woman of formidable power."

She let out her breath, already visibly calmer. Interesting. His first perception—that she was a redhead of unusually placid nature—returned. But that temper was something to behold.

"Forgive me. You are just so beautiful when you are angry, I couldn't help myself."

The color in her cheeks, which had been receding, blossomed into deep red, darker even than her hair. "You're teasing again," she accused.

"I most certainly am not. You are easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen with a mouth that appears to be made for kissing." Saldomar didn't hide his sincerity, certain she could read it.

"I'm not... I'm not beautiful," she said, but without power.

Saldomar rose, ignoring his nudity, and touched her bright cheek. "The Jenri you say are warrior women? What happens to their sons?" Saldomar had always been shorter than most men and slight of stature, but he was still taller than this delicate creature who bristled with power. He found the combination heady.

"We don't... We can't have sons."

"With no men, how do you have children?"

Cordalin had closed her eyes at his caress, but opened them and pushed his hand away. "You're too close," she said. "Jenri women mate only with men who can beat them in some sort of combat."

"Ah," he said. "Have you some clothes I could wear?"

"I would not fight a man who's recovering from near death," she said, outraged. "I have the clothes you were wearing when I found you but have not repaired your shirt. And I had no way to wash them, but they should be dry."

He found them, still stiff with salt, but that was easy to fix with a simple spell he'd learned early in his apprenticeship to avoid cleaning. He shook the soil, salt, and blood away, then dressed quickly. "You saved them intact? That must have made things quite complicated. Thank you for your consideration." Another spell set the shirt to mending itself. The spells that made his work easier as an apprentice were the ones he learned first. Pity he'd lost his cloak, a lovely creation of black silk. But it had certainly saved his life by distracting the sharks and just as certainly it would have cost him his life if he'd tried to drag its waterlogged folds with him to shore.

Truth is, he needed a moment. He'd always been attracted to women of power, and they were few and far between. He found himself incredibly attracted to this lovely wisp of a girl, but his century and a half of experience was a poor match for her innocent youth, and he'd be best served to remember it. When she talked of mating Jenri women, there was little doubt she meant a lifetime commitment. If he made a move, she would misunderstand and she deserved better than treatment of that sort.

Which was a real pity. There was more than one way to flush skin as fair as hers and he would truly love to do so with passion.

In the interest of not threatening her, he left his weapons where she'd placed them. When he turned back to her, she was back to her original calm. "How do you feel? Your wound?"

"I still feel shaky but I suspect that's the blood I lost. There is almost no pain, which is more than I deserve for my foolishness. I'm sorry to have taken you from your destination for so long." He stopped and tried to figure it from the light from the cave. "How long have I been here?"

"Two days."

"Ah. I'm sorry. I didn't realize I had caused so much inconvenience. Or that I had diverted you so long from where ever you were headed." He bowed.

"The choice to be diverted was my own. Well, mine and Wiser's, so no apology is necessary. And I wasn't going anywhere in particular."

Saldomar kept his doubts to himself. She was remarkably well provisioned for an aimless ramble. "Well, I'm sure I can get by on my own if you'd prefer to continue on your way."

She smiled up at him, wrinkling her nose in a darling way. "Can you continue your own healing?"

"No, I haven't that power."

"But you have power. You're a magician, right? I saw what you did to your shirt."

"I am a mage, but we are no more skilled at self-healing than any other magician."

"Yet you carry swords and knives."

"As do you. The Jenri are not alone in their embrace of both fighting skills and magic."

Her brow wrinkled. "You are the first I've heard of in the world of men."

He bit his tongue on his retort, every bit as hot as hers on the Jenri. If the Magii were as well known on his continent as the Jenri were on this one, she could hardly know that, and he'd revealed too much of his foreignness with his earlier ignorance. After a pause he said, "We're something of an elite lot and not cohesive as a tribe as you Jenri are." Both statements were true, after all.

She looked up at him from under her lashes, and it occurred to Saldomar that she might be perceiving more than she was letting on. He'd best be on guard. "You intrigue me, Mage who-has-yet-to-give-his-name," she said. "Do you object if I wait here a few more days? I can further your healing, and I've a yen to see that egg hatch, if you don't mind."

"Saldomar." He was both gratified and dismayed. She was a tempting creature and a stimulation in mind and spirit he'd not had in a long time. But he couldn't blame her for wanting to see the hatchling. He quite yearned to do the same.

*

The egg seemed in no hurry to oblige. While Saldomar's strength and stamina returned with rest and food, and his wound approached a perfect repair with Cordalin's continued ministrations, the egg refused to show any signs of change. They kept it warm, and sometimes, he felt he could sense movement within, but nothing imminent.

In the meantime, he was relegated to bed rest, largely, but allowed to roam the cave. His entrapment was made tolerable by many a fine conversation with Cordalin, who turned out to be every bit as clever as she was beautiful, and he found himself waiting wistfully when she went out on reconnaissance and to check on her mount—left alone in a nearby wood with no apparent worries for abandonment or theft.

He offered once to do it for her and was greeted with a look of such disdain that his pride would not let him repeat it. Did she think only the Jenri could do such a simple task?

Also, when she left, he was consigned to boredom with naught to entertain himself but stroke the egg in an encouraging manner. He knew he was recovered in mind and body, but he was reluctant for his time with this intriguing creature to come to an end. It needed to, though, for he was finding her increasingly endearing and that was no good for a gadabout like himself.

Five days—conscious—with her, and they'd flown by. He decided, he'd treasure and perhaps dream about these days for years to come, including all the things that had not come to pass, and would never come to pass... Unless he changed his mind _and_ could actually win a contest with her, which he knew now would be no small feat.

Cordalin had barely left the shelter of the cave when Saldomar heard a crack from the egg and called her back. "She's hatching!" He had always known instinctively the dragonet-to-be was female. He had an affinity for them.

Cordalin rushed back in, grabbing the bucket of fresh fish they kept to ensure the new hatchling would be fed. Wiser had told Cordalin, if you don't know what to feed something, fish is always a wise choice. Both Cordalin and Saldomar hovered over the egg in its nest of blankets near the fire. The egg was rocking with energy now, and the first crack had been joined by more. When the hardened snout of purple-black broke through the tough shell, he had to stop himself from yelling encouragement.

"Raack!" the baby cried, pushing back shards of shell with talons as long as his own fingernails. The tiny creature, small enough to curl into his cupped hands, shook off the last of her shell and unfurled delicate wings of gray with just a hint of purple, still glistening with the liquid from her hatching. Her spiked tail stretched behind her nearly the length of his forearm. She opened her jaw on her pointed face, her purple eyes focused on Saldomar's face. _Pick me up! I'm cold!_ she demanded in his mind.

Saldomar offered his arm, and she climbed on, using her talons with little care and wrapping her tail around his wrist. _I,_ she said with great dignity, _am Weird. I need food._

Saldomar nodded to Cordalin, who understood immediately, and grabbed a fish from the bucket, slicing open its belly as she offered it to the tiny beast.

The talons biting into his arm tightened and Saldomar offered. "If you're going to eat that with any sort of ferocity, I would prefer you not take my arm with it."

Weird paused and then stepped back to the cave floor, changing the grip of her tail so it was still wrapped around Saldomar's wrist, but her body was free to attack the fish with gusto. Three fish were dispatched and eaten in a very short space of time. Then, without preamble, she climbed back up Saldomar's arm and curled up in the crook of his elbow to sleep.

"That was vicious," Cordalin said, awed, "and perhaps the most adorable thing I've ever seen."

Saldomar found himself moved beyond words. He felt like his whole world was here, in this cave, this tiny scrap of ancient magic and the beautiful woman who could voice his own thoughts without effort.

Tears he could not stop in his eyes, he turned from the dragonet to Cordalin just in time to see the readied crossbow right before it was triggered. "Duck!"

Quick as thought, Cordalin was ducking, turning, throwing knives, as she made a beeline for her sword, bow, and probably other weapons. Four men in armor and formal regalia dropped at the entrance, hilts poking from at various armor vulnerabilities. Saldomar recognized the crest from the ship he'd been on a week previously and raced after her.

"Here," she said, handing him his weapons. "Take that baby and escape. I'll hold them off."

"Those," he said with significant umbrage, "are the local king's soldiers. His own army!"

"I was afraid they'd find me," she explained with no hint of remorse. "C'mon, c'mon, buckle up and get moving. More are coming."

"Move where? We're in a cave! We're trapped!"

"Trapped? Bastet help me, you think a Jenri would hole up someplace without a back door?" she asked, firing arrows at the next wave with the same precision as her knives. "Are you daft?"

For the first time in a century, Saldomar was shocked beyond words. Why hadn't he thought of that?

"You seriously didn't explore the cave while I was gone? Don't they teach mages anything?"

Saldomar could have kicked himself. They _did_ teach Magii useful tricks like that but his brain was apparently not working at high gear. It had never even occurred to him to look for a back door.

"Go to the back, behind the limestone pool where rainwater accumulates. There's a small opening that looks like just a niche, but if you go inside you can follow a narrow passage to where it opens up halfway up the cliff-face. The climb to the top will be tough with your precious cargo but doable. Now get going!"

"You want me to leave you to fight an army?"

"You've got a dragonet to protect, and I can handle myself. There's only so many that can come through at a time and the doorway's choked with corpses now. I'll be fine. If I can, I'll catch up. If not, I wish you well on your journey."

He'd buckled on his belt and noted a purse, of blue-green leather, fastened to it. She winked, and fired another arrow. "To help you on your way. Now, quit dawdling."

Saldomar had never felt so torn. This was obviously her battle, rather than his, and he certainly wanted no part of it. Nor did she seem in anyway concerned over her situation. However, leaving this woman he'd grown quite fond of to save his own hide rubbed him wrong. If it weren't for the scaly bundle of warmth in his arms, he might have stayed. But he had Weird and Cordalin was right. He could hardly fight properly with Weird in his arms.

"Don't die," he offered and sprinted for the back, hoping no one would follow him—or, if they did, she'd dispatch them—he'd like to think the escape route could save her, too.

He found it easily enough, since her directions were clear, though it was not readily discovered. Clever girl! He tried to ignore the sound of sword play behind him, the screaming. At least, so far, it was all male screaming.

The rock passage was indeed narrow and he was grateful he was a slender man. More than once, he had to wiggle his way through and the surface was sharp. He'd likely have to repair his clothes again. When he came out, he was maybe ten strides up the cliff that rose behind another outcropping of rock that likely was the cave where she was fighting. He could still hear it. He looked beyond it and his heart turned cold.

There were at least a hundred men gathered around the entrance to the cave, their horses restive as they carried the fallen away and sent more in in waves. No way she could survive that. What to do?

The army seemed intent on their prey and there was no sign that anyone had noticed him. Weird, roused from jostling, asked, _The woman, is she in trouble?_

"I think she is, very serious trouble?"

Wiser is concerned. What will you do?

Going back through the passageway seemed stupid. Best he could offer her was escape but even that was of limited use. What he needed was to help her escape while taking care of her pursuers.

"You want to do some magic, my pet?"

Weird cocked her head to one side, apparently no more surprised that she was his familiar than he was. _Sounds like fun._

"That's my girl. Hop on to my shoulder and wrap your tail around my neck. I can move better that way. Try not to strangle me but use your talons as you need to. I don't want to lose you."

You won't.

Weird more conveniently configured, Saldomar scaled down the cliff face and scrambled across the jagged surface gingerly to the largest of the holes in the roof they'd used to let smoke free. As he suspected, she was beset on all sides. Her bow on her shoulder, her sword was a blur of silver slicing unerringly to her assailant's most vulnerable parts, as graceful as the dragonet queen he'd witnessed before and with as much chance of success. Inside, he began the incantation of major power, while his hands and mouth breathed a useful little spell he hoped would serve him as well as it did when he was a lad. In response to his prompt, the coil of rope that rested near her supplies sprang to life and slithered along the floor before leaping up to the ceiling through the hole, Wiser clutched in its loops. The other end slid amongst those fighting Cordalin and encircled her waist before jerking her up and free of the battle, speeding toward that self-same hole. "Grab the rope," Saldomar called and she did, just in time to come through the hole head-first, a tight fit even then. As soon as she was through, he set her on her feet. "Do you have any arrows left? I'm going to need cover fire, because they'll be gunning for me now and I have magic to perform."

"You trying to impress a girl?" she said, arrow cocked already.

"Nether, I'm impressing myself," he answered, awed by the raw power Weird added to his own massive store. As the Convocation of the Sea Leviathan reached conclusion, he summoned a beast of water, some fifteen strides high, to crush and destroy the army.

Those inside fired crossbow bolts through the hole but could not sight them. Those outside the cave could see them and took aim, but given the height some twenty strides above the level of the beach, the distance required to spot them was too far for accuracy. Well, for a crossbow. Cordalin's aim was better. Others, Saldomar knew, were scaling the outcrop, hoping to catch them hand to hand. But it was too late for them. The water that had retreated in response to his spell returned tenfold, a monster of water born to crush, to drown, and to drag the bodies back out to sea. The horses had sensed it and some had broken and escaped. The rest would not be so lucky.

"Poor horses," Cordalin said. "What a waste!"

The screams of doomed men and their beasts were lost in the horrible roar of the sea's wrath. The rock beneath them shuddered and shook at the power of water that forced itself into the cave then reached with greedy fingers through the holes and along the sides. The sea could never be sated.

However, it accepted the offering of blood and slipped away to await its next summoning, or a time when the ocean itself unleashed it.

"Well, Mage Saldomar. I am well and truly impressed. I did not expect anything like that of mortal man."

He probably did count as mortal man, but only barely. However, that wasn't the important part. "What did you do to have the King's army sent after you?"

"Oh. That. I murdered the king's heir."

"You murdered the king's heir?" Saldomar demanded. "Why would you do something like that?"

"The king is a usurper and nears death from diseases of sex. With the heir out of the way, the rightful king can come out of hiding and take his place."

"You _assassinated_ him?"

"The heir was a letch of similar character so he was easy to seduce." She sheathed her sword and winked. "He liked them young, that bastard."

Her lovely face was nicked with just-missed sword swings. Bruises and more nicks covered her arms. One shoulder of her tunic hung free in a way that might have been enticing if Saldomar were not in a rage. He grabbed her shoulders. "How could you be so reckless, risking yourself with a child predator?"

"It's not like I let him have me. Please, I have standards. I killed him _first_." Her tone was flippant but she looked him squarely in the eye. "You're hurting me. Let go."

He released her at once with a muttered apology.

She ignored him and stared and her own wounds. "Bastet take it, I'm covered with bruises and they show so easily. How embarrassing."

"Are you listening to me?"Saldomar gestured to the carnage below. "You had a whole army after you!"

"It was a small one."

"It was large enough."

"Yeah, he really went all out. Who knew he'd give a damn about that whelp."

"Do you understand your danger? What would you have done if I had not intervened?"

Again her gaze was direct. "My _best_. That army might have killed me, but not easily and they were all loyalists to the current usurper. Now there are fewer to stand against the rightful king. I chose to take this assignment, just like I chose to take the risk and chose to distract myself with a near-dead man and an intriguing dragonet egg. Please!" and she stopped him before he could protest or offer apologies. "That's not blame. I chose every step of my path. Who are you to criticize when I did all I could to keep you from the consequences of my own actions?"

The total fairness of the question both enraged him further and left him with no line to attack it. She owed him nothing. It was her life to toss away if she chose, her life to share with a monster if she chose, to kill before or after. He had no rights in all this. He had refused to pursue her as a mate, had chosen instead his own freedom.

More fool he. He consigned his freedom to Nether along with the rest of his reason.

"Marry me. Be my mate. I don't want to sit powerless next time you try a stunt like this."

Cordalin regarded him with some surprise and blinked slowly. "You have an interesting build-up to a proposal. Perhaps I should disabuse you of the notion that being my mate gives you power over my decisions. Jenri women are property of no one. At best, a mate can share destinies with—"

"Fine, I'll take it." Saldomar snapped. "Share your destiny, do not send me again from your side if you're threatened for I swear, I will not go. Give me leave at least to berate you when you risk a life that seems far more precious to me than it is to you."

"I will probably choose the warrior path. My familiar was fifteen when I found him and he will not let me extend his life. Nor do I wish another to replace him."

"I am as comfortable with a warrior as I am a sorceress. You can do magic nonetheless."

"Yes. Do you wish to battle me here?" She tested the footing doubtfully. "I want to see if any of my weapons or supplies survived your little deluge."

Obligingly, he followed her down, scaling the sides of the outcropping. "I will not fight you," he said when they had landed.

"One can become a Jenri's mate only by besting her in combat of some form. That is the law."

"I cannot fight you."

"Are your injuries...?"

"It is not my injuries nor yours that stay me. I have seen you fight. There is no way I could win unless I were willing to hurt you and I am not willing to hurt you. So, I challenge you to a battle of wits."

He was not surprised when she burst out laughing. He had, after all, bungled the whole affair, but who could have guessed this tiny slip of a girl would win his heart entire?

"You did not even think to explore the cave," she gasped at last.

"Not, I admit, my best moment."

She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and retrieved a throwing knife. "So what do you suggest, Mage Saldomar?"

"Riddles?"

"Riddles? What are riddles? I'm not familiar with them."

"Well, they're, hmm. If you're not familiar with them, I would have an unfair advantage."

She grinned up at him and, to his shock, reached up on her toes and kissed him lightly. "I'm game. I'm a quick study and am interested in what I'll learn." She blew him another kiss, then bent to retrieve an arrow. "Besides, it's not like I'm wanting to win."

Not a Doxy

It had been a long night, but a profitable one, which was rare enough for someone in his line of work. Three targets betwixt dusk and dawn meant a hefty bonus and likely a few interludes in the arms of one or more pretty girls, and not as a favor this time. He always paid them when he could.

So, with the glow of promised riches and a measure of earned fatigue, Cristo had every right to curl up on the corner of a roof, hat over his eyes, and try to take a nap in the noonday sun. Even if it wasn't precisely his roof. Or his hat, for that matter.

"Let _go_ of me! Let go! Where are you taking me?" Her voice was strident, powerful, not the least bit cowed, though the answers she received were crude.

There were two sounds Cristo couldn't abide. One was the crying of children, especially when hungry or beaten, and the other was the fearful cries of women. Now, this woman didn't sound frightened, yet, but it was close enough that she was going to keep him from his nap. He lifted the brim of the hat just in time to watch a strange black critter creep by on silent feet. It was a cat, he was pretty sure, but one unlike he'd ever seen, without so much as a hint of tail and huge back legs like a rabbit. The "cat" didn't even spare him a glance, intent on something at street level.

The first cry had come from the marketplace, but the second, where she was more insistent they "unhand" her—who even spoke like that?—was from one of many side alleys that led to quite isolated spots. And the men responding weren't laughing. Well, not from amusement. It was pure mean.

Surreptitiously, Cristo peeked over the edge of the roof and then cursed internally. It was the mayor's personal guard, not a group Cristo could afford to tangle with. His membership in the assassin's guild was always on shaky ground, and interfering in the mayor's business would likely land him in the gallows.

They had such flamboyant garb for glorified hustlers. There were eight of them, two of them with fierce grips on the woman's arms, and several of the men carried whips. She was facing away from him so he couldn't catch anything of her except a head of lustrous black curls, a flash of amazing cleavage her outfit didn't even try to hide, and the length of shapely legs that flashed from the sides of her slit skirt.

Now he'd never get to sleep. He'd do nothing but imagine what would happen to that beauty before they were done. The thugs turned right, so Cristo could follow without jumping to another roof. He knew where they were headed: an ugly little spot behind several businesses in deep with the mayor. They could torture her for days back there, and no one would say a word.

Cristo knew. They'd done it before, though Cristo hadn't been listening those times. He doubted he could listen this time. Maybe they had something more benign in mind. Cristo's gut, smarter than he was by a couple of degrees, said otherwise.

The cat was also intent on them, though Cristo wasn't sure if it was the woman's pet, a guard's pet, or just liked the taste of human flesh and was hoping to get lucky. The cat paused once to stare right through Cristo with vivid green eyes. Cristo wouldn't put anything past that monster.

As Cristo had thought, they turned in behind an establishment that catered to soldiers with drink and loose women. The proprietor, a close crony of the mayor, was at his back door but made no move to remonstrate. "Just clean up any mess," he said. "Last time, it stank for weeks."

One of the guards grinned and saluted with his whip as Cristo's stomach did a slow roll. He _couldn't_ help, but he couldn't make himself leave and he damn sure couldn't listen. What to do? He rolled back from the edge and squatted on his heels, contemplating the rationale that led him to that particular roof to nap.

The sound of scuffling brought him scrambling back to the edge. Where there had been eight guards, now there were four, their former companions on the ground and doing a fine imitation of never getting back up again. The remaining four had the woman pinned to the wall, wrapped in whips as she glared at them with eyes of fiery black, all while grinning with strong white teeth.

"You think you four can hold me?" she crowed, with a toss of her lovely head.

They certainly looked like they could hold her. She was curvy but tiny and any one of them outweighed her by at least twice. But then, there _were_ four corpses that shouldn't be discounted when calculating odds. From the doorway Cristo couldn't quite see, the sound of slow clapping caught everyone's attention, especially the monstrous cat, who tensed up in response.

But, when the unseen man spoke, Cristo's blood ran cold.

"I knew you were Jenri. That's why I warned the mayor." The voice slithered up the walls and crawled over Cristo's skin, and he shuddered in response, rolling back onto his heels in the shadow of a chimney.

Timotel.

Timotel the sorcerer. Timotel the butcher. Timotel the monster. A thousand other names occurred to him, all of which should be punctuated with spit. How many girls had he tortured to death in the bawdy houses and the brothels, with no distinctions made between the lowest whore and the most exclusive courtesan? As the mayor's right hand and High King's sage, he could not be refused. The loss of girls was the price of business, here in this town, but that was no comfort to the girls, made mute by his magic as he sliced and burned, often over days.

Cristo, who'd grown up on the streets, was hard pressed not to vomit. It was a voice he'd never forget, even though he'd only heard it once before.

When he was seven.

*

His mother usually sent him to the kitchen when she was tagged with a customer, but now, there wasn't time, only a few seconds notice, so she sent him down to the hidden room beneath her bed. It wasn't the first time Cristo had heard his mother doing business, the grunts of the customers, her murmurs or cries, depending on what would most appeal to her "guests."

This was different. He knew it at once. His mother usually greeted men with her dulcimer voice, but now she screamed instead, and it was cut off almost at once. The bed creaked above him as she fell onto it, and then Cristo heard a flurry of smaller squeaks as if she were moving frantically on it.

_Cristo huddled in his hidey-hole, frightened and unclear_ why _he was so frightened. Perhaps because, though he heard the man's voice, he heard nothing from his mother but the occasional sounds of the bed. The man's voice was soft, low, the kind of voice that should be pleasant. Not shouting or cursing, as Cristo had heard those times his mother had been beaten. Not loud or crude as some were. He could not hear the words—the voice was too soft—but the sound crawled over him like a hundred centipedes, each one prickling his skin with the feel of its innumerable feet and the threat of its bite. Cristo knew how to be quiet, so he sat in silence, tears streaming. He didn't understand the danger, the malice above him, but he recognized it with his whole being._

Cristo stayed there four hours. The only time the man raised his voice was shortly before it ended, when he cursed, "You lousy bitch!" and then a strike loud enough to knock the bed against the wall with a crack, to make the sound of the blow to her flesh as loud as a thunderclap to Cristo. Almost, he bolted out to help her, but the rule was absolute no matter what happened to her. He stayed until she came for him or at least until her customer left.

Seconds after the slap, the man stomped from the room, calling for the mistress of the brothel. But Cristo was afraid to come out. It wasn't until one of the girls who came in soon after, screaming and exclaiming, came to fetch him out that he ventured free. They hustled him from the room, so he only got one look at the bloody remnants of what had once been his mother. Only later did he learn that she'd moved so that a cut meant to cause pain sliced her throat.

*

Cristo, hugged himself and tried to shake the memory. After more than twenty years, the voice affected him no differently than when he was a tiny boy, unused to the kind of ugliness he'd seen plenty of in the intervening years.

"I am not Jenri!" the woman's voice, entirely uncowed or in any way frightened, rang out. "I'm a simple girl of pleasure, which you can tell with a glance."

Cristo forced himself to creep forward to the edge of the roof.

Timotel was tall and well-built, not bulky like the guards, and dressed in gossamer clothing and jewels that showed off his fine body. His hand, heavy with rings, was at her chin, and as Cristo watched, he passed the hand over her black hair and a lock of her hair turned violent crimson.

"No one with any discernment would confuse you with a whore, my girl. All the better for me since harlots rarely have the stamina to satisfy me. But you, you'll be the second. The other had your look. I'm twice blessed." His voice sharpened. "Don't grow lax, guard. Hold her firmly until I have her restrained with spells. This woman can kill the four of you before you take a breath, or did your companions teach you nothing?"

One of the guards tightened his grip but ventured, "I thought Jenri were good at magic as well?"

Cristo could not see his face, but the look Timotel gave the guard must have been vicious, for the man paled and cowered. "That is the rumor," Timotel purred, "but it seems it's largely natural magic, and that's unlikely to have any effect on a sorcerer of my caliber. The first Jenri tried a number of spells, but I manage to silence her. And they seem unable to do anything without their chants."

The long fingers slid down the line of the woman's firm jaw, gripped a pointed chin and tilted her head so her fiery black eyes glared up into his face. "Your sister Jenri was fun to break, but you," and his grip tightened notably on her chin, "taming your fiery temper should be even more so, my foolish hot-blooded girl."

She hawked and spat, but Timotel dodged it, despite the speed and proximity. Whatever she spat flew past, struck the corner of the building opposite and ricocheted _through_ the head of one of her captors. He dropped like a stone and her arm was free of the slackened whip before he hit the ground. As he fell, another was also falling, an elaborate hair pin embedded deep inside his brain via eye socket, while another was crashing backwards into the wall, throat crushed by a kick. The fourth had barely registered the fate of the first three before she'd snatched the dagger from his belt and slashed him hip to opposite shoulder, stepping behind him as she moved so she didn't get so much as a drop of blood on her as he fell, his insides slopping onto the cobbled road half a heartbeat before he landed on them.

Cristo had held his breath the moment she first spat and only released it—carefully, quietly—when the last guard fell. She was better alone than the whole assassin guild. He'd never seen anything like it. Why was he so aroused by that? He hated violence.

Timotel laughed. He'd moved a few steps as she'd swept through the guards so he wouldn't be fouled by their corpses. Now, Cristo could see his profile, a fine haughty one. Timotel was as lovely on the outside as he was ugly on the inside, but the girl! She might be tiny but she fairly glowed with power. Nether, her jewelry really _was_ glowing.

"You're next," she said.

"I will not be so easy to dispatch as this rabble." He said.

"I wasn't planning on being as gentle with you."

"Perfect. Then I needn't hold back myself." He waved, his hand glowing red. "TRAP." Cristo didn't know someone could use a single word as a spell.

Her wrists, glowing from her jewelry, locked together and she couldn't pull them apart. "You think this will stop me?" She tried to leap forward, perhaps to kick him, but her feet wouldn't move, stuck to the wall behind her with the same spell.

She spat again, and again, he dodged it, moving his head the same direction as before, the same amount. Some reflexes the man he had. When it ricocheted, he stopped the projectile with a word and a gesture. "STOP." He shook his head, tossing the projectile in his hand, and clicking his tongue. "Nasty habit, my dear."

Her lips started moving silently, the glow in her jewelry too bright to look at directly.

"SILEN—" but this time something stopped Timotel. The cat, that monster of a cat, huge and black, leapt off the roof before Tiomotel started talking and landed on his head, claws out, before he could finish it. The damned cat wasn't shy about those claws either, once it got there. It was doing laps around Timotel's head, and left a trail of pain down his back that had the sorcerer lunging in a way very much at odds with his cool unflappable persona.

Behind the struggle, the girl had freed her hands—but not her feet—and was building a ball of what looked like lightning between her hands, green-blue like her tiara and her clothes.

"STOP," Timotel said with real power as the black demon moved from back to front between his legs, but the cat didn't so much as hesitate as it ran up Timotel's front, over his head, and back down again, leaving a trail of carnage. As Timotel arched back to try to reach his nemesis, his throat exposed, Cristo released one of his throwing daggers.

As Cristo expected he dodged—in the same direction, the same distance—and Cristo's second knife, loosed an instant later, sank itself into Timotel's throat hard enough that the tip slid out the other side, neatly between two vertebrae. Dead for sure, spine severed, it was all over but the funeral. Timotel crumpled as the cat leapt free. The girl made a strangled cry of rage and released her ball at Timotel's soon-to-be corpse where it danced and singed and made the body jump. Since Timotel could likely feel nothing, if he were still conscious, at most she gave him a little trauma.

The girl, her feet released with Timotel's demise, looked up directly at Cristo and stamped a pretty bare foot. "How _dare_ you!"

Cristo, a smile tugging at his lips, grabbed the edge of the roof, rolled forward and landed lightly a few strides from the girl. She was even prettier up close. "You're welcome."

Her eyes. black but filled with light, narrowed. "That," she said through gritted teeth, "was my kill."

'''Fraid not," he said, trying not to let his eyes wander over her luscious form. Too bad she _wasn't_ a prostitute.

"That...that monster killed my sister!"

His smile disappeared. "Killed my mother, too, while I listened."

"And you did nothing?" Scorn seeped through every word.

"I was a child."

Her stance softened immediately and he could all but see tears in her eyes. "Well, I _would_ have killed him."

"'Most likely," he agreed. "But you didn't. What's your name, sweetheart? And where do you come from?"

"My name's Anda," she said haughtily, then started and looked away, softening her voice. "I've lived here all my life and work in the House of Lilies."

"No, you don't. No way you're even a doxy with that attitude, not in this city anyway, but certainly not at the House of Lilies. Those girls are known for their subservience and the house master has a heavy whip to make sure it stays that way. You don't have a mark on you."

Her brow wrinkled. "Who would put scars on women they intend to seduce men?"

Cristo made no move on her. Not because he was afraid of her, though she was plenty dangerous and he knew it, but because he had no intention of spooking her. "You gotta way out of town? They'll be coming and in numbers even you'll have a hard time beating."

"I'm sure I can manage to—" but he'd grabbed her hand and pulled her to the wall.

"That means you have no plan and you're a dead girl. No way you get out of town alive without a reliable escape route."

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you a reliable escape route." He bent and clasped his hands. "I'm going to boost you to the roof, then fetch my knives and follow."

The cat hissed and arched, making no secret of its menace.

"I'd prefer to help you escape without being shredded by your pet demon there."

"Weapon, stand down." She appraised him and Cristo knew what she saw: a man with red hair, wrong side of thirty, scarred, wiry, ugly as sin, wearing belts for his weapons, ratty trousers and sandals. "Why should I trust you?"

"No reason I can think of 'cept I could move faster without you."

She stepped onto his clasped hands. "That's a really good answer." And he tossed her up high enough she landed on the roof handily. Quietly, too, which was good because he could hear people coming. Soldiers, a lot of them.

He had to get his knives or he was a dead man himself. They could identify him with those but even at the thought, he knew they were closer than they sounded, just a corner or two and they'd spot him, which was at least as bad.

Cursing under his breath, he scaled the wall and slipped onto the roof, gesturing her to follow him. The damn demon cat was on its own.

They had to move quickly and find a safe hidey-hole to lay low in until nightfall. The alley was a dead end so it wouldn't be long before someone thought of the roofs. They'd best be long gone. He knew just the place. He took a circuitous route, one with very little visibility to the bustling streets, on the off-chance they sent some sort of tracking dog. Dogs did poorly on roofs. They'd tried that before.

In the end, he'd doubled back to the court outside the keep and slipped in through a window of the mayor's stable. Cozy, warm, quiet, and no one would think to look for them there. He'd once hidden there for two months without detection. She rolled in after him and fell into the hay.

"Isn't this the mayor's stable?"

"Yeah. We're safe here." The look she gave him was not convinced. "Really! Last place they'll look. Sorry we had to leave your cat."

"You're joking, right?"

The animal in question jumped through the window as she spoke, narrowly missing adding another scar to Cristo's cheek with Cristo's own bloody knife, gripped tightly between its teeth. It dropped the knife at Anda's knee and commenced grooming itself.

"That's quite the critter you have. Not much for manners, but a clever trick. How'd it know to get my knife?"

"I asked him to. He's hidden the other one where it's unlikely to be found."

"Thanks, I think. Now, what are you doing here?"

"I told you—"

He stopped her. "Not only is there no way you're a doxy, at least not in this town where these bastards get off seeing stripes on the girls and will kill one just for lookin' at him, no way you're from here. No self-respecting citizen of this nasty place would raise a daughter like you. You'd have that saucy look beaten out of you or you'd be dead. That bastard said you were Jenri. That the red hair?"

Her pout was adorable but he wasn't moved. "Yes," she admitted.

"Is all your hair red or just that streak?"

Her brow furrowed. "Just the streak. We're all born with it. Why?"

He pointed to his own rusty locks. "Never saw anyone but my mother with red hair before." He shook his head. "If you're Jenri, what're you doing here? How did your sister get here?"

"She came on assignment and I came to kill the monster that killed her."

"And the others who came with you?"

"I came alone!"

Cristo rubbed his cheek. "I thought the Jenri were smarter than that, sending a greenhorn like yourself in here. You've no business coming here if you don't know what you're doing."

She gasped in what he thought was outrage. "They wouldn't _let_ me join the team. Said I couldn't act."

"They were right."

"Said no one would take me for a prostitute," she complained.

"Damn straight. Knew you weren't straight off."

"You don't _have_ to agree with them on everything. They were going to wait until he left, ambush him when he was summoned by the king. That might have taken weeks!"

"But it's a right smart plan," he said. "And less likely to get anyone but that bastard killed."

"Well, I showed them. He's dead," she said with a flounce.

"And _I_ killed him, or are you going to keep that little detail to yourself? You know, sweetheart, it's not a sin to listen to older and wiser heads. You survived this time, and you've definitely got some skills, but you had a fair amount of luck on your side. They might have killed you as soon as they discovered you or he might have made it so you couldn't move as he tortured you to death. Brave to come, but stupid to come alone. Now, is stupid how you're made, or do you plan to learn from your mistakes?"

"Who are you, my father?"

Cristo snorted. "Good thing. I'd be tempted to take you over my knee. You're a beautiful, precious girl. Don't throw your life away as if it's nothing. Too much of that goes on now."

Anda looked down at her pretty silver and gemstone bangles, the silk of her outfit that was made to be removed. Both were too rich for any but the most exclusive courtesans. "What's wrong with how I look? Am I not pretty enough to be a doxy?"

"You're _too_ pretty. Too healthy. Too full of life and spunk. Real whores don't have all their teeth like you or skin so beautiful."

"Oh," she said, pinking up prettily, then glanced up suspiciously. "What makes you think you know so much?"

Cristo shrugged. "Grew up in a brothel. Well, until my mother was killed. Then I took to the streets, but I know many a fine sweet woman who's still willing to keep a man like me warm at night."

Her blush deepened. "Could you teach me to be a better whore?"

Cristo found her quite attractive but his reaction to this was overwhelming. He smacked himself in the head and scooted back from her. "Sweetheart, you can't say things like that. Someone will take advantage of you! Did no one teach you anything?"

"I've never had an assignment before. They were going to make me an archivist but I tend to be, um, volatile. I didn't think it would be so complicated."

"Well, it is, and if you don't want your next assignment to be your last, you need to be better prepared. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"Old enough to know better for sure. You need to have someone looking out for you."

Her nose was up in the air. "I never said I was interested in mating with you."

He laughed. "Lot you know, girl. You very much did though you didn't realize it. I didn't know the Jenri had mates."

"We do or we'd die out. But you can't become a Jenri mate unless you beat us in a competition, combat or some other sort of contest."

"Well, that outs me. I won't hit a girl. I could never win."

"Who asked you to? But it doesn't have to be a fight. We could arm wrestle or play cards or I could show you I kiss better than you do."

"No way you kiss better than I do. You probably kiss like a child."

"I do not!" And she swarmed over him, placing two lovely—but untutored—lips on his. Despite her lack of skill, she didn't do Cristo's store of self-control any favors. When she pulled back, she said, "See?"

"Oh, for Bastor's sake," Cristo muttered, turning her over into the hay and kissing her with professional-grade abandon. So much for control, though he did kept himself to only the kiss. Mostly. She might be inexperienced, but she was a quick study and soon was responding with the same passion, so much so he broke away to save them both.

Pink, tousled, her lips swollen and tempting as Nether, she smiled groggily up at him. "You win," she said, and pounced on him.

Wait, what? He tried to make sense of it all, but he stood little chance against her.

Ten hours later, she was dressed in a far more serviceable tunic, mounted on a battle unicorn with Cristo up behind her, wearing a spare cloak. The black cat, Weapon, sat perched on her shoulder, staring back at him with clear menace. Cristo knew the damned thing could follow through, too.

But that wasn't what confounded him this time. When they'd gone to the wall after night fell, him sated and her looking smug as Nether, Jenri waited with unicorns as if they'd always known where she'd come.

"So, you finally caught someone, eh, Anda? I thought you never scouted when on assignment? Said it was unprofessional."

"Well, he caught me in mid-act and then sorta caught my eye. I just thought I'd keep up the act and see where it took me. He's a great kisser."

The other Jenri laughed at that. "Well, you would know!" said another. And they laughed again.

"Y'all are mighty unconcerned," Cristo said, disgruntled. "That wasn't just the mayor's pet but the High King's sorcerer. What if he figures out the Jenri are behind this?"

Anda's laugh was a tinkle of crystal. "Oh, he will. I left our symbol."

"And? You're not worried?"

"No. He knew that bastard's proclivities and did nothing to curb them. He knows he's lucky."

"But what if he comes after all you Jenri?"

She patted his knee reassuringly. "He won't." She turned her head just enough to give him a wink. "He knows, if he did, he'd be next." She turned back to the front, leaving her black familiar to glare at him with bright green malevolent eyes.

"Shit. Demon cat," Cristo said quietly. "What the hell did I just get myself into?"

Hidden Treasure

"Something's not right," Denra murmured, pacing. She'd been thinking it for some time, but, this time, it slipped out.

"You're just not used to assignments like this," said Gorina, the Lavona tribe archivist, in her patronizing way. Gorina was a regal beauty, currently resplendent in blue-green silk and with a cascade of silver and gems—sapphire and aquamarine—in her hair and sheeting her throat and breast.

Denra bit down on a sharp retort. True as it was, Gorina's smug tone got underneath Denra's skin as always. They might be tribesisters, but Gorina was not her favorite person. Why they had to be assigned together, she'd never know.

Well, it made sense to post Gorina on the ramparts above the city gate. Gorina's specialty was water, and the lake that made the wall inaccessible could be used by her power handily, with only the bridge and gate to defend. It did not make Gorina better company. Denra suspected she also loved the opportunity to impress. Archivists, in general, did not leave the tribe for assignments, and Gorina was preening.

That gloating would explain the impractical dress down to Gorina's ankles and the ridiculous profusion of jewelry. Gorina might have had a slim sword strapped to her back, but she was in no position to use it in a fight. What was the point of being one of the warrior-sorceress Jenri if you were not in a position to fight? Denra sighed as quietly she could as _that_ was a perfectly reasonable explanation to pair her with Gorina. Denra was known well to be as effective a fighter as she was a sorceress.

Her sigh hadn't been quiet enough. "You're probably just upset because your sister's guarding her first caravan and you're not with her," Gorina said with what was likely intended as sympathy.

That was _also_ true and Denra ground her teeth at the reminder. She _had_ wanted to go with her sister, and it mattered not at all that her sister felt differently. Instead, she'd been drafted to repel an attack on Lavon-Levy proper. Lavon-Levy may be known through all of Farrell for the wealth of its silver mine, but hundreds of years of Jenri protection had mostly dissuaded any nearby city-state from trying to attack directly. Instead, Jenri support was used to protect caravans well-laden with silver and, in return, the Lavona tribe was paid in silver used for jewelry spread among all the Jenri tribes.

But, for some freakish reason, the Simmels chose _now_ to attack and leave Denra with no opportunity to talk her way into her sister's expedition. What were the odds? She could ask Gorina, of course, who was happy to expound on any facet of Jenri or Lavon-Levy's history at the slightest provocation. Just the thought of _that_ lecture made Denra want to scream.

_I sense no one poised to attack on the other side of the bridge,_ Wonder said, her tail twitching with either her own disquiet or the echo of Denra's own.

_No, me either, though it would be easy enough to hide in the hills and forests over there. There's no moon tonight_.

Her familiar, Wonder, chuckled. _It's not like I need sight._

Denra and Wonder were well-known throughout the tribe for their ability to sense danger. Both of them definitely felt it, danger imminent, but not from the bridge. _Something is wrong._ As Denra's sense of foreboding grew, she found it harder to stand still. "I'm going to run a patrol," she decided.

Gorina raised her sculpted black brows. "Those outside say the Simmels will definitely attack tonight. What if you're not here when they attack?" Gorina said.

"Have Willow call Wonder if they do," Denra said, noting Gorina's silver tabby. "I have no doubt you and the dozen Jenri here on the ramparts can hold them off until I return."

"Serve you right if there's no one left for you," Gorina laughed. "Run your patrol. Perhaps it will settle your nerves."

Denra swallowed a hot retort and leapt nimbly from the rampart to the stable roof near the gate, rolling and then leaping from there to the courtyard. She began jogging immediately reaching out with her senses.

_Why doesn't she feel it, too, Wonder?_ Denra asked the slim black cat that shadowed her.

_Her sensitivities are different than yours,_ Wonder said. _You have different strengths._

Denra allowed herself a snort. _Don't mention it to Willow. Gorina doesn't recognize any weaknesses._

_Willow is aware of her limitations,_ Wonder said, making no distinction between Willow and her sorceress.

Denra glanced up. Lavon-Levy was surely set up with Jenri as defense in mind. The ramparts were wide to allow room to fight and there were plenty of crenels to protect archers. Did they never have the means to protect themselves?

Should have asked the Archivist.

Without hesitation, Denra turned to the left when the road forked, where the other side went to the king's keep.

_Where are you going?_ Wonder asked.

_I'm not entirely sure,_ Denra thought. _I think this is the old part of town._

Lavon-Levy was nestled in the foothill of a sizeable mountain, well protected at its back but with ready access to the mountain's depths were many metals were mined. The older part of town accessed a previous mine entrance and was surrounded by hilly treacherous terrain but the wall extended around it. Hardly a friendly place to attack.

_Stop,_ said Wonder.

Denra halted at once, barely breathing hard. _What is it?_

Pounding.

Denra slipped between two buildings and placed her hand against the wall. She willed her heart still for a second, held her breath and turned her entire attention to the feel of the wall. Beneath her fingers, a beat, and then another, a vibration, much like one would feel if a gate were being pounded with a battering ram. But it wasn't from behind her.

Denra sprinted forward. The roads were in some disrepair but still navigable and quite clean, but more haphazard than they were in the newer parts of the city. Denra stayed close to the wall, hoping to catch the sound that caused the vibration and verify what it was. She glanced up, but there was no one on the walls, no attackers, but no sentries either. _We grow too complacent,_ she thought. When she found herself in shadow, she looked up again and saw what looked like a decent sized keep up against the wall. _Don't tell me there's another gate!_

_Careless not to know,_ Wonder noted. _Surely the archivist would not have forgotten._

Denra pounded up to the large unguarded doors and pulled, expecting it to be at least locked, but it wasn't. She pulled the door to behind her and started running again, trusting her instincts to lead her to where she needed to go. She could hear the pounding, now. She would feel so foolish if there were some sort of mining operation that made the sound.

A part of her noted artwork on the walls, armor, weapons, which, when she turned the last corner, became walls full of books as far as she could see and the room was quite long. The other things she noticed was the complete lack of people. She'd seen no one since she'd leapt from her post, not on the streets, not on the ramparts, not inside the echoing—and immaculately kept—halls of this castle. It certainly didn't look like a refining facility.

The ceiling was dropping showers of dust at each pound. With every step, Denra became more sure this is where the attack was centered. To Nether with verification. _Wonder, tell Willow they're attacking here, not where we are, somewhere in this keep is a gate or something they're trying to break down._

Yes. Ahead. There's shouting.

Sure enough, Denra could hear it now, a man's low rumbling voice, thick with profanity. Definitely on this side of the wall.

"Bloody bastards! Hold off just a little longer, damn it. Do you realize how valuable these books are? And this bookcase is mahogany and beautifully carved, you soulless infidels!"

At first, Denra didn't spot him until she realized that someone was close up at the top levels of the bookshelf, perched precariously on a slab of wood suspended by a series of pulleyed ropes, which also manipulated a number of other planks. Most of them had books and the man was filling them and lowering them down with reckless abandon that somehow did not translate to roughness on the books themselves, which he handled with adoring gentleness.

The sight was so unusual, so unexpected, she halted and searched for something to say. The man beat her to it. "You there, don't just gape, pile those books carefully on the cart so they don't get destroyed. These bastards don't care what they ruin. Look, this is a first edition!"

Denra moved before she thought about it and had actually put the first load of books on the cart before retrieving her wits. "Wait, sir, you can't stay here! Is this where they're battering in?"

"Yes, yes, there used to be a gate there, but it's long been built over. Of course, that does make it weaker than the rest of the wall and these asses could come right to it since no one's ever done anything to destroy the road that leads there." The man turned and shook his fist at something behind him. "Even though I told him!" He glanced at her. "Don't stop. Get these books out on the cart. We can't let them be ruined."

"It's not safe! They could burst through any moment! To Nether with the books!"

The man, who'd turned to empty the last shelf of the affected bookcases, glared at her as he filled another plank and started lowering it. "To-to Nether with these books? Are you insane? These books are irreplaceable! I won't be leaving until every single priceless tome is safe."

_You don't have time to argue,_ Wonder noted. _I've told Willow but she's having a hard time convincing the archivist. Should I tell the other familiars?_

_Yes! I can't hold the whole horde back by myself for long._ Denra found herself loading books on the cart as, after all, there was little else she could do, and she needed to get the man out of the line of fire.

As soon as the last books landed softly, the man came down himself with considerably more dispatch. Good thing, as there was splintering sound coming from the bookcases. The man somersaulted on landing, and, only then, did Denra realize he was a double amputee.

"Let me help you—" she began but he cut her off.

"You get those books loaded and push them out of the way. I can take care of myself."

_Well_ , she thought, _he certainly seemed to be handling himself well._ He had maneuvered himself to a sort of three wheeled cart and pulled himself onto it.

After she gave the books a good push, she returned intending to send him on his way as well. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked her when she grabbed his cart.

"You need to leave," Denra said, too startled to be angry. "I'll hold them off so you can escape."

"Escape? Leave my books in the hands of these _heathens?_ Nothin' doin'!" He eyed Wonder with a squint. "You a sorceress?"

"Yes."

"You got anything that'd shore up the wall, maybe keep the wood from breaking. I hate to lose those bookcases."

"Bookcases? No, I'm sorry, friend, but I'm not going to lose sleep over bookcases, just human lives. You need to get to safety. Evacuate as many others as you can from the area. If I fail to hold them off here and they get out into the city, many more people will get hurt."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "Can't ever teach 'em anything practical." Then he set his jaw in a look of stubbornness she felt sure was natural for him. "Then I'm not going anywhere. It's not like you'll protect my books. But, you're right about one thing. We have to hold 'em here. Half the folks in old town are in the keep for safety. If I let those invaders past, those folks, including women and children, will all be at risk. So, we're not letting 'em get past." He heaved a massive sigh and picked up a couple of long staffs made with heavy wood and indicated the shuddering bookcases with his head. "Got anything that can slow them down? I assume they didn't just call one Jenri to save us all. Or maybe they did. You that good?"

"We may be finding out if the rest don't get here soon," Denra said. "I might be able to slow them down." As she spoke the head of the battering ram breached, then tangled briefly in the shattered remnants of the bookcase.

As the soldiers pulled it back to allow men through, Denra stepped forward, hands and gems glowing, lips muttering as she built up a bright yellow ball of light and, when the battering ram finally cleared the hole, sent a horizontal column of brilliant flame into the breach.

Her effort was rewarded with screams.

When she stepped back, he said, "Nice. You can stay. Can you do it a few more times?"

"Maybe twice more, but they'll probably catch on soon enough."

"Give 'em a few minutes. Let 'em think it's all you got. You know, no one's going to be excited about leading the pack after that, right? Maybe let a couple in and then blast 'em again. Only stand behind me so they don't see what you're doing. I'll move forward." He used his poles to maneuver himself easily halfway across the room, then moved his hands down to halfway on each pole and swung them using just the muscles in his hands to good effect. "They're coming, sweetheart. Got a flame a'building?"

She'd followed, her hands cradling another ball of light. "Almost there. I'm making it a bit bigger but narrower so it will reach back further."

"That's my girl. Keep 'em guessing."

_The Jenri are coming at last,_ Wonder said. _Why not use a lightning booby trap after this flame?_

"That's a good idea, Wonder," Denra noted, already formulating the spell in her mind.

"Here they come. Get ready... Now!"

She stepped around him to the surprise of four armored men who'd tumbled through the hole and were roasted alive in their metal skins for their trouble.

"Well, that's going to stain the carpet," the man said. "They'll be a bit more reluctant to come through again, so if you've got any other bright ideas, I'm all ears."

"I'll make a ball of lightning and leave it just outside the hole. It will cause lightning to strike every third soldier for maybe a dozen or so. It will be hard to convince the third man through the door."

For the first time, the man's craggy face broke into a smile that transformed it into something approaching beauty as he laughed long and hard. "Perfect." Denra tried not to be distracted from her lightning booby trap. When it was maybe the width of her waist across, she sent it floating. _Wonder, see if you can place it for me. You can get closer to the hole without notice._

Yes.

"Now what?" the man asked.

"Now I ready my bow and some knives to throw. Do you have anything to defend yourself other than those poles? Those aren't particularly useful against armored men, you know."

The man lifted a brow and winked at her. "You might be surprised. But, in case I'm wrong, what's your name, darlin'? If we're going to die together, I'd just as soon know your name. Mine's Klaveron."

"I'm Denra. And I intend to find out more about you after this is over so I would prefer it if you don't die."

The man laughed again. "Reason enough to make the effort right there. Oh, looks like some brave soul's going to chance it."

"If they rush it _en masse_ , some will die from the lightning but several will likely get through, perhaps more than I can account for," Denra warned.

"Just give me enough room to swing these without worrying about hitting you or your lovely cat. You get what you can and I'll see what I can do to keep you from having to loose that sword."

Denra stepped aside and back as two men climbed through the hole. The men turned, distracted as lightning took out the third with brilliant flash of light and a wavering scream. They were dead, arrows through the throat, before they had a chance to turn back.

Disconcerted shouts from the other side were met with hearty laughter from Klaveron. "That's right, you bastards. Get ye gone before you tromp through my lovely treasures and remember not to come back."

"I don't think that will actually dissuade them," Denra said, dryly.

"You're most likely right," he said. "They didn't seem that clever."

_They're gathering for a rush,_ Wonder said.

"Wonder says they're coming. You ready, Klevaron?"

He grinned. "I'm always ready."

_Guess we'll find out,_ Denra thought. She tried not to think about the likelihood of a legless man being an effective fighter. She couldn't let any get past the two of them, but that gave her limited leverage to protect him personally. Not that _he_ seemed worried about it.

The attackers pounded through, shields forward, knocking down more of the wall, allowing more in at a time. Her booby trap caught several more, but the shields protected some and there were plenty more that made it past.

Denra ran through her whole quiver of two dozen quickly, shooting each arrow before the previous had landed, going for quick-killing eye socket shots, but more pushed the bodies out of the way and rushed forward. She only had half a dozen throwing knives on her, so she decided to save them to try to help Klaveron if he were in danger, and then take out any others that got past him with her sword.

But Klaveron had not been exaggerating his abilities. He was wicked accurate with his poles and extremely effective bashing and striking. The poles were obviously heavy yet he wielded them one-handed with skill and surprising force. She soon realized that the staffs were weighted with metal spikes embedded on either end. Helmed assailants smacked on the head went down and stayed down as did those poked in sternum or throat. He took full advantage of his reach advantage so sword after sword clattered to the ground, unbloodied.

As the mob grew around him, though, Denra sent a few to their grave with thrown knives and was just wondering how many they would lose before retreating. Surely they had lost fifty at least, and were unlikely to have a force of more than a few hundred. They showed no signs of it, though and Denra was nearly out of knives. Just as she tried to figure out the best way of fighting at Klaveron's side without being bashed by mistake, a hail of arrows took out an entire wave.

_The Jenri are here,_ said Wonder.

_I guessed._ More than two dozen Jenri women and their mates stampeded into the fray, swords high or magic ready. Klaveron rolled back out of the way and leaned on a pole to watch.

It didn't take long though for the melee to spread over more of the room than Klaveron cared for judging by his curses and exhortations. Gorina came in last, hampered by her foolish dress. She hesitated, at something of a loss without a water source to work with and might have been taken down by a stray soldier if Denra hadn't sliced him in two instead. Unfortunately, that did not spare the dress a drenching in blood.

The tide turned quickly and the battle quickly became a rout, with men scrambling out with even more haste than they'd entered. Denra tagged four Jenri to call their war unicorns and follow them. "Find out their remaining numbers and make sure they return to their home. If they circle back to Lavon-Levy, notify us immediately by way of familiar."

"War unicorns on my hand-woven carpets?" Klaveron complained but his eyes were twinkling.

Denra rolled her eyes and ignored Klaveron as she retrieved arrows and knives. "Are you alright, Klaveron? Any injuries?" He was breathing heavily, his skin glistening with sweat and smears of blood here and there.

"Nothing of note, a nick or two here or there, perhaps. You fought very effectively, Denra. I'm grateful for your care and your calling of reinforcements." He gestured with his long, well-muscled arm. "Though it will be quite a chore cleaning up this mess."

"Denra, how dare you," Gorina jumped in, trying to wring blood from her sodden dress. "What are you doing fighting here instead of at the gate?"

Klaveron's smile evaporated. "Who are _you,_ young lady?" he said in censure. "Do you suspect Denra enticed them here? No, they chose their own attack point and her sharpness and determination allowed her to be here to keep the invasion from being successful. Where were you? Why did not you not have lookouts at every potential entry point?"

Gorina pulled herself to her full height. "I am Gorina, the Lavona tribe archivist, and they were _supposed_ to attack the main gate."

On his cart, Klaveron was half a head shorter than Gorina but he was far from cowed. "Eh, archivist you say? Then how did you forget this former keep or the gate that once stood here or the road that still leads to it? Happen that the enemy wasn't quite so willing to step into an ambush as you thought they were. More fool you to not be prepared for it!"

Gorina sputtered, clearly at a loss for a good retort. "As for your dress, mayhap you could find some water friendly sorceress to get that cleaned up for you. Stupid thing to wear to a battle anyway. Look at Denra here, no less beautiful with a modest assortment of jewels and a tunic that's easy to maneuver in instead of looking like she wants to attend the king's ball. Now, stop deliberately pouring blood on my carpet." Klaveron turned deliberately away from the fuming Gorina and back to Denra. "Do you know a water-friendly sorceress? These carpets are a mess."

Denra shouldn't have laughed but she couldn't stop herself.

Gorina stomped off in a huff, perhaps to find a more sympathetic ear just as pounding feet and rattling armor heralded the arrival of more soldiers, but from the town not the breached wall.

"Uncle!" shouted the soldier running in front, unhelmed, his crown askew. Lavon-Levy's king was surprisingly youthful.

"Radel, you fool! Didn't I tell you to post sentries? Block the road? Look at my broken bookcase!"

The young king slammed into Klaveron with surprising force, wrapping his chain-mailed arms around his uncle and dislodging his crown entirely. "I'll have a new one built."

"You will indeed, young fool. And listen to your elders as your father should have instead of getting himself killed and nearly me as well by venturing forth without proper support."

The king looked up and sniffled. "I know you blame him for losing your legs."

Klaveron snorted. "I don't resent losing my legs nearly as much as I resent losing my brother. Some things can't be prevented but others can be if you're smart, if you listen to advisors, if you learn from history." He gestured to the vast walls of books. "The history is here for you. You just have to take it in."

"I'm sorry, Uncle."

Klaveron stroked his king's hair. "It's acceptable to make mistakes as long as you learn from them. We've all done it. Now, there's a whole horde of scared people in the great hall and the ballroom, thinking you abandoned them. Go apologize to them and let them know you still treasure them. That you'll do better and that the danger is past."

"Yes, Uncle."

"And pick up your crown and wipe your nose. Be regal. Enjoy it."

As he was speaking, Denra had quietly suggested the other Jenri take up positions along the city wall in case of more surprises. Gorina ignored her, but Willow apparently convinced her to go back with them because she followed the other Jenri out.

Young King Radel set men to cleaning up the dead bodies, before leaving with a token entourage. Denra drifted back to Klaveron who ordered his nephew's men about without hesitation. Not a surprise there, since he'd done the same with a Jenri.

"So," she asked, with a half-smile. "What now, librarian?"

"I suppose I'll have to doss down here on the floor until I can get the wall patched up."

"I have some bedding I can share with you."

Klaveron lifted one of his mobile brows. "That sounded amazingly like a proposal, sweetheart."

"Didn't it?"

"I couldn't give up taking care of this establishment. I meant what I said about preserving history."

"The Lavona tribe has existed here on a permanent basis for hundreds of years. As for history, the Jenri take that quite seriously ourselves. I can share some of ours with you if you're interested."

"I am indeed, though not enough to marry a woman I didn't care for."

"There's no reason to marry a woman you don't care for, but we're not in that situation, are we?"

His lips twitched. "I can't say we are. I'm a very difficult man."

"I noticed."

"There aren't many women willing to take on half a man like myself. Not that I wouldn't do my damnedest to satisfy you in every way possible, but..."

She hoisted him off of his cart and placed him on a table, so that their faces were at the same height. Then, when he grinned, she kissed him and he returned it with great enthusiasm. "Oh, I think we can manage just fine," she said several minutes later, her body plastered against his.

"Hmm," he said in what she took as agreement. "But there's still the little matter of combat. You Jenri have very strict rules and I'm not willing to brain you with one of my staffs. Nor do I think I could do so successfully."

She placed her hands on his shoulders, well developed from years of hauling his body about without legs, then slid them down his well-muscled arms. "I was thinking of challenging you to an arm-wrestling match. Interested?"

Not Quite a Knight

_Damn zombie attack! Damn horse had to get bitten! Damn himself for being caught off guard!_ This should have been a routine cleansing of the area, like so many he'd performed before.

Riko had never hated his armor so much. Probably half a dozen times, he thought of peeling it off and leaving a trail, just picking it up when he headed back, but he refrained. It had, after all, saved him at least once. But it was _so_ heavy and _so_ hot. He'd only run five miles. He was getting soft.

_Don't be tempted to take off your armor, boy,_ Sir Golan said in his mind. _You're no match alone against all that's out there._

Sir Golan had been his teacher and taught him many useful things before dying by being thrown into a marsh—in full armor—trying to goad his horse where it would not go. So, perhaps Riko should take Sir Golan's advice with a grain of salt.

For comfort, and to avoid being blindsided again, he'd been running in a shuffling jog, the best his armor would allow, with his helmet under his arm. When he heard the unmistakable sound of fighting, he stopped just short of the tower and took cover in a patch of brush. Following the sounds of mayhem, he spotted the fracas and approached carefully. A team of unarmored women, with swords and bows, was fighting monsters as powerful as any he'd seen before. Perhaps demons. Perhaps ancient creatures brought back from the dead. Not the kind of foes a band of women was equipped to beat back. And they were definitely beset.

His helmet was on his head in an instant and he took a moment to retrieve the shield on his back and unsheathe his ensorcelled sword. From the leather belt slung crosswise, his fingers found the talisman for Bastet's blessing and slid it into the receptacle of his sword to infuse it with Her Holiness. Whatever those ugly critters were, they weren't on _his_ side of holy.

He breathed in, calming his hammering heart, pushing his aching shoulders and itching, sweaty back out of his mind. He got but a single breath before one of the monsters, a hideous oversized variation on harpy, spotted him. Already sprouting several arrows, she swooped down to attack, talons out and screaming curses, but he batted the filthy claws aside with his shield and sliced up, hip to shoulder, not enough to cut her in half, but enough that she collapsed to the ground, allowing Riko to behead her from behind.

Riko pushed through the brush behind the women and set upon one of several chimaera that each had portions of various mighty beasts. In this case, a head with a squat horn and the body of a huge panther with feathered but undersized wings. The woman the creature attacked was skillfully fending off strong strokes with its squat horn against her slim sword, but the monster pushed her slight form back with each attack. Riko noted her skill in passing as he sliced the beast's front half from its rear.

The chimaera was not killed and turned its attention to Riko. However, it could no longer move forward with only two legs. Instead, it lashed out at him with one set of claws, balancing on the other leg. The woman took advantage of the distraction to slide her sword into the creature's eye socket, finally killing it.

Riko was already running past them both for the next mismatched animal, this one with functional wings. It swooped in for the kill, but Riko sliced it from head to tail instead and was doused with its black blood for his troubles. He struggled to remove his fouled helmet so he could see.

"Shoot the eyes!" the woman said behind him, just as he wrestled his helmet off. "They seem unaffected by other strikes!" As she shouted, three arrows from the woman's bow whizzed past Riko to strike others of the monsters, each shot dead-on in an eye socket. The other two women used their swords accordingly or shot arrows targeting the eyes of the remaining beasties with the same accuracy, sometimes both in short succession. In the space of a score of heart beats, the remaining dozen or so creatures shuddered their death throes. Only one escaped. The beast made for the tower near at hand, of course. Riko's "simple" cleansing task no longer appeared to be routine.

He turned to the woman he rescued and bowed slightly. "Young miss, I'm afraid it's danger—"

The tip of her sword was barely a finger's width from his chin. "Who are you? Why did you interfere?"

Riko liked to think of himself as even-tempered, but he was hot, tired, sweaty, and coated with truly noxious gore. His voice sounded distinctly sharp. "You mean, why did I save you? Because I am a gentleman."

"Did I solicit your aid?" she responded, her sword never wavering. "I can care for myself."

Riko pointed at one of the halves of the last monster he killed. "That is a monster. I am not. For that reason, I will not trudge by without aiding women—or, in fact, any traveler—beset and in need of help."

"What makes you think—?"

"Kena, give it a rest," another of the women spoke, a sharp-featured woman with brown hair and a strange lock of red. "He did indeed help us. A word of thanks is not too much to expect. Another sword is always welcome since _Tander_ was so slow and missed it all."

Kena bowed her head and lowered her sword, face red. "Yes, Layla," she said with no sense of really meaning it.

"And whose fault is it Tander was left behind?" the third woman, asked, older than the second one, with silvered black hair but for the same streak of brilliant red. " _You_ must learn patience, Layla. This young man meant only the best by interfering, but he would hardly have needed to if you had waited for your own mate a few minutes until Tander had tethered the unicorns."

"He takes too long, Beltora. He must learn to work faster."

The older woman shook her head "Patience, Layla. He is your partner, not your servant and you must learn to work together. You've seen him. He's still uncertain around their horns. He has not been raised with them as you have."

As the women argued, Riko spared the first girl a glance, noting she was clearly the youngest of the three, her lip still out-thrust in a pout, and saw she also sported the red streak though it was less noticeable in her strawberry blond braids. She was ignoring him now, retrieving arrows.

Riko wished his armor would allow him to bend low enough to wipe his helmet on a clean patch of grass to get the worst of the foul-smelling blood from its visor. Better yet, he'd like a clear pond to wash the whole set, but the only water in the area was marshy and equally foul. Instead, he cleared his throat. "I need to ask you ladies to leave. This area is very dangerous as you've seen."

All three women stopped and turned to stare at him before bursting out laughing. Even the youngest one laughed, the freckles on her nose wrinkling.

Not the reaction he was expecting.

Not the reaction he wanted.

While he stood there, sticky, sweaty, muscles aching, very much not looking the hero he wanted to be, Riko heard the heavy footsteps of someone trotting up behind him. He turned and swung without hesitation only to have his sword parried, with no apparent effort, by a sheathed longsword held loosely by the largest man he'd ever seen. The man, with brilliant blue eyes and long black hair tied back in a tail, grinned in response and made no move to attack, instead focusing in on the brown-haired woman.

"Hey, Layla, what did I miss? And who's the excitable armored kid?" He raised a brow at the carnage. "You girls had a party without me? Without _me_?"

"You're slow," the one called Layla replied, all humor gone.

The big man faked a forlorn expression without the twinkle in his eye abating even slightly. "I kept being attacked by pointy things. I think those unicorns like me _too_ much. They keep trying to nuzzle me." When Layla didn't crack a smile, his fake look crumbled and he grinned again. "I will get you gals a sense of humor yet. You were laughing it up when I arrived, admit it. And who's the kid?"

Riko found himself confused, as if there was a whole world of meaning that he was missing. That did not help his temper, already narrowed to a thread. "I am _not_ a child. I am a guardian of this area and it is my job to eliminate these monsters. You are all in danger and should leave at once."

Riko was almost surprised, given the man's obvious good humor, that he didn't laugh. Instead, the man said, "See how you've upset the kid? And he was obviously trying to help. Poor soul, he's going to be glued to a solid if he doesn't get rid of that fouled armor. If the smell doesn't get him." He suited action to words and took an exaggerated step away.

Tander seemed to turn everything into a jest and it reminded Riko of Brother Fransen, whose dancing eyes and mischievous antics had frequently frustrated his fellows, and enlivened many a cold dark night. _Take this Elixir of Light to protect you, Riko_ , he'd said, laughing even then. _Much of what you'll battle is darkness, and your light, your happiness, your goodness, can dispel and disarm it. Blessings to you_.

Layla was berating Tander. "Tander, don't tease him. I think he took a blow to the head. He somehow thinks _we_ are in danger and _he_ could take these creatures on alone."

Riko breathed in, nearly coughed on his own growing stench, and then said, "I am the local paladin from the nearby Eastern Monastery of Bastet, tasked with eliminating unclean beasts and those who would use them in this area. You all, while obviously capable warriors, are ill-equipped for the kind of fighting you'd face if you ventured further. Please, for your own safety, you need to leave this issue to me." Riko stepped forward in what he'd intended as a confident manner, but the grinning man was right about his joints stiffened with gore, and he fell over his own feet instead.

Blushing furiously, which he hoped wasn't visible on his filthy face, he struggled briefly and unsuccessfully to turn himself over. Getting to his feet he already knew was futile without help. For the first time since the monks had found him on their doorstep nineteen years before, Riko had no idea what to do next.

A hand reached below him and turned him over. He blinked in the sunlight, until the huge man squatted down beside him, blocking it. "M'name's Tander, and I've got good news and bad news for you," the large man said kindly. "The first news is you're not going anywhere in that armor. It's all but useless for an unmounted knight anyway and more than useless in its current state. What you need is a scrub brush, a bunch of friends, and several buckets of water to clean it, preferably after you'd taken it off, but we don't have most of that. And even pristine, you'd only kill yourself trying to fight in a helmet and that clunky skin while climbing the steps of that tower, which is where we need to go. Where I'm guessing you're going, too, right?

"The second bit of bad news is there is no way, no how you could talk these women, who happen to be Jenri, out of moving forward. They've decided the threat merits their attention and there's nothing in this land as stubborn as a Jenri who's decided such. And there are three of them. The good news is that they _are_ Jenri and there is no one better equipped and better suited to use that equipment than Jenri. So, you have a choice. You can take your armor off and come with us. I'll let you use my waterskin to make yourself as comfortable as possible. Loan you a pair of boots. Or you can stay here to find out how long it will take you to die, whether you die via a random wandering monster digging through your shell as if you were a walnut or you just sweat to death as the day progresses. I will check by to see if you survived on our way back, assuming _we_ live through this adventure."

"Don't be stupid, Tander," Layla said. "I have no intention of dying."

"That hardly guarantees my own safety," he replied. "So, kid—what's your name? What's it going to be?" Riko was still watching Layla and was surprised when she turned and ran off, silently.

"I say we go on. I don't see him being much help," said the blonde girl. "And he really does reek."

The older woman shook her head. "You're ungrateful, Kena. He only reeks because he took out a beast attacking your back. His skills with a sword are decent, and we honor those who worship Bastet. But he needs to decide quickly. We've already wasted too much of the day. I do not wish to fight what we will face after nightfall."

Just like Brother Ko, always practical. _Rules are not more important than good sense._ _If they stand in the way of your conscience or doing what makes most sense, they should be discarded._ Riko remembered feeling torn between the instructions of Sir Golan and the many monks who were not always consistent in what was the "right" thing to do. _You've a good heart, Riko. You can hardly do better than to follow it. If you do, Bastet's blessings will always be with you, as will mine._

Riko managed to undo one gauntlet and let it fall to the ground, then held out his hand to Tander. "Will you help me remove my armor?"

"Gladly." Again the man suited actions to words, and obviously had more than a passing knowledge of armor, for he had Riko stripped of his plate in minutes. Riko's padding beneath the armor was as badly fouled and Tander recommended removing it. Riko objected as he wore only a loincloth beneath, but Tander waved it away. "These women will not be offended by nudity nearly as much as they will your scent. I'd offer you a tunic as well as my boots, but I doubt it would do more than fall off you."

Since Tander stood half a head taller and was the broadest man Riko had ever seen, Riko had to agree. Still, to stand in front of women wearing only a loincloth, Riko would have preferred the ground beneath him to have opened a pit for him to fall through. A life fighting in armor meant his body, though pale, was built well enough, but hardly so broad as Tander's. Riko knew his face was unremarkable, even when it wasn't striped with festering black blood, and his hair wasn't pasted into crazy patterns with monster goo. And, had he mentioned, he was nearly naked?

To distract himself, he fished his sling of talismans and potions from his fetid garments, his sword, and his shield. His talisman belt was pretty badly contaminated, and without his armor, he wasn't sure how best to carry the sword and shield. Perhaps he'd have to carry them in his hands as Tander did.

A touch on his back almost made him cry out, he was so startled. "Where did you get this?" the youngest girl asked him, her fingers tracing the scars on his back that had just missed his spine and had gouged his lung.

That wound had nearly finished him. It would have if not for the healing of the monks and the quick work of his mentor, Sir Golan. "Manticore." Sir Golan had slain the manticore with a single slice and carried Riko back, weeping to Riko's shock at the time. Sir Golan had not let him venture forth without armor after that.

"And what is that belt in your hand? Does it hold your sword?"

"These are talismans from the monks that infuse my sword with different powers, and potions for revival or attack."

She wrinkled her nose at the smell but looked interested. "Infuses your sword, like a spell?"

"Sort of. I don't have any magical skills, but these talismans are infused with magic from the monks and I can use them to fight the undead or demons and the like." He was finding her freckles and wrinkled nose ridiculously adorable. Maybe he _had_ hit his head. "What is your name?"

"Kena, back off," Tander said. "Give the boy some air. You've plenty of time to ask him questions. Lots of fighting left to do today and he wants to be clean." Tander hefted a large waterskin, but it was hardly large enough to cleanse Riko. Tander winked at Kena. "He's not used to beautiful women, just monks and stuff. You'll make him blush."

Riko was very much afraid he'd been blushing for some time. Tander chuckled. "Let's get you cleaned up, Riko, is it? You'll feel much better after that. Smell better, too. Hey, Beltora, can you give us a hand?" A long haired black cat with startling green eyes had wandered up to Riko and regarded him with interest. The older woman, Beltora, came to Tander's side.

"Why Beltora?" Riko found himself asking. These people were puzzling on so many levels.

"Well, I'll tell ya. Beltora's a sorceress, so she'll make sure we get the full advantage of this tiny bit of water, if she and her kitty are willing. Now, hold dead still."

The cat sat down at the edge of Riko's vision and Riko could have sworn it blinked at him, one eye and then the other. When Tander started the trickle at the top of his head, Riko closed his eyes. He wasn't sure what to expect. A deluge, perhaps. Instead, the water seemed to wend its way with agonizing slowness down his body. The oozing sensation was fairly unpleasant but he stood as he was told until Tander clapped him—hard—on his shoulder and told him to don the boots. They needed to get going.

When Riko glanced down, he could not spot so much as a drop of the previous gore, not even on the talisman belt slung over one shoulder or his loincloth.

"Water magic," Beltora said with a pleasant smile. "If you don't have enough water, do your best with what you have. Hurry up, now."

Riko dropped and donned the boots Layla had returned with—slightly big but workable—and, when he got up, Layla handed him a harness that appeared to have been reconfigured from whatever it had been to something that he could sling across his body and that would hold both the shield on his back and the sword at his hip. He'd barely put them in place before the other four took off running toward the tower.

Either the beast that had escaped had warned the others or the defenses were already alert for intruders, for hideous creatures attacked them the instant they climbed the ladder into the first level of the tower. The first were demons with fire skills and his talisman served him well, but his blows were off somehow until Tander yelled at him he was compensating for his armor. How embarrassing! He thought he'd overcome the problem by the end of the battle, but how differently it would have gone if he'd been alone.

When Beltora's first fireball failed, she moved instantly to different magical attacks and Tander and Layla's effective swordsmanship made up for any lack in magical oomph. Kena chose to focus on her bow work and, without prompting, added some sort of cold spell to the arrows that seemed to slow their foes' movements. She was smart as well as beautiful.

Apparently, he said that out loud without meaning to.

Kena, a tinge of real color on her cheeks. "You needn't sound so surprised. I'm not a child. I'm a Jenri warrior."

He managed to bite down on saying she looked like a child, but his face must have said it for him. "I am eighteen," she added. "I doubt you have so many more years than I."

Riko was only twenty. "Maybe not years but experience. I've been fighting the demons and other summoned creatures in this valley for four years."

"In that armor?" Layla asked, having come up behind him, soft as smoke. "That you are still alive says much for your skills despite your youth."

"Well, yes, but I'm usually mounted. And I've not seen so many strong creatures at one time since the first year I fought at the side of Sir Golan. And then they were not so concentrated."

Tander, having wiped his sword, was gesturing onward. "Was Sir Golan a knight?"

Riko had no problem walking and jogging forward as they wandered through the labyrinthine level. "Yes. Or so I assumed. I was just a foundling the monks raised, but Sir Golan came to the monastery seeking redemption for sins that weighed on him. Until then, the monks had barely held the monsters and demons of this area at bay with their talismans and blessings. Sir Golan changed that."

"What sins were those?" Kena asked. She seemed the most curious of the lot, but he had no chance to answer her before they were beset with the next crowd of monsters.

Each discussion, still on the run, was interspersed with battles. Once the group had the knack for a particular lot of nasties, the battles, while tiring and often involving a score or more of creatures, became more routine. They'd fight a dozen demons and then return to the conversation as if nothing had happened while they ran looking for the stairs to the next level

Riko thought back while fighting and, when done, admitted he never knew what sins Sir Golan had wanted redemption for. Sir Golan had never said and Riko had never asked.

Kena made a strangled sound like that disappointed her.

Tander looked thoughtful. "What I want to know is why were you scampering around in armor like that? You always done that? Shouldn't you have a horse?"

Riko was saved an immediate answer when a door opened onto a room of horrific goat-headed creatures.

But, as they cleaned the black blood off their weapons and sheathed them, Tander prompted, "Well?"

"I _had_ a horse, of course."

Tander's brow went up.

Riko sighed. "On the way here, my horse and I were attacked and I, well, I... I lost the horse."

"Lost, as in misplaced? Did it throw you?" Tander asked.

"No, it was bitten by a zombie so I had to kill it before it turned on me."

"Wasn't that armor heavy without a horse?" Kena asked.

Riko shrugged. "Well, yes."

"And hard to maneuver in?" Layla asked.

"Somewhat, I suppose."

Kena nodded. "I'm not surprised you missed an attack. Who could see with that foolish helmet on?"

Riko blushed. "I suppose so. Ah, the stairs!"

As they climbed to the next level, Riko was chagrined that Tander and Layla had taken the lead he felt was his due.

"So, here is what I don't understand," Kena said. "If you lost your horse, why not go back for another?"

"There was only Sir Golan's steed trained to fight with armor and it was very old." Also, of course, Riko was ashamed to admit his failure among the monks, but this girl didn't need to know _every_ detail.

Layla shrugged as they climbed the stairs. "It's not like the horse could have climbed the ladder anyway, but I don't see why Riko didn't dump his armor immediately."

Layla and Brother Ko were clearly kindred spirits.

Riko could not deny the task would have been impossible even in pristine armor, with his vision impaired. And alone, he likely would not have made it past the flock of creatures they'd met outside, certainly not past the first level in the tower. He barely kept up with them as it was.

His companions could not have been better suited for this battle, though they were sadly uneducated on the manner of monsters they faced. Not all the demons they faced were impervious to fire, and Riko was usually the first to find their weaknesses, but his companions were versatile and caught on quickly.

On the third level were spirit creatures, impervious to mundane strikes. As Tander sliced fruitlessly through the first, Riko switched his talisman to light and his sword struck the dark spirits fatally. His cohorts understood immediately and Layla and Kena were spelling their arrows with light within seconds. Beltora finished the remainder of the spirits with a single spell, lightning that forked out and destroyed each spirit in brilliant flashes of white light.

With each new set of foes—and these monsters were as diverse a group as Riko had ever seen; some creatures he'd only heard stories of before—Riko pulled out the proper talisman or amulet, and the Jenri women would adjust accordingly with devastating effect on the enemy. Tander provided mundane skills but often stepped aside when something requiring magic enhancement was called for.

There were so many horrific creatures and they were all so powerful, increasingly so rather than tapering off, that Riko found himself confounded. So much power and evil after years of just the occasional zombie, demon or spirit. Someone here was either tapping into a well of real power or they had brought a lot of raw power with them. Maybe both.

Once again, he was using his Holy talisman against demons, his strokes now sure, and properly gauged for fighting without armor, but he could feel the tiredness, the nicks and shallow slices that, while not fatal, where slowing his reactions and making even his lightweight sword feel like lead in his hands. Still, despite the increasing power of their enemies, they were prevailing readily. Really, all of them were amazing fighters, even the girls who seemed to use skill rather than brute force and, therefore, looked hardly winded at all.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Tander said as they cleaned off the caustic gore again. "That's not a typical knight's sword, is it? I mean, it's only got one edge and it's a bit short for mounted combat."

Riko rocked his head on his shoulders and willed them to stop protesting their overuse. "This was a relic of the monks, intended for killing demons or so I was told. See how it has a receptacle for talismans to enhance power? Sir Golan didn't have a spare sword so I learned to fight using this, and, when he was gone, well, I was used to this one. So I learned to use it even on horseback."

Probably why he didn't have the reach to take out that zombie earlier, but it had certainly served him well in the tower. He doubted he could have lifted Golan's sword by now if he'd brought it.

So it was as they slogged through what seemed a dozen levels, they fought past brutalized corpses of farm animals stolen by the monsters and, sadly, the occasional human. Blood sacrifices became more common, and the demons and creatures they fought more powerful and sneakier, often coming out from hiding to attack from the side, from behind, and, once, from above.

As they stood near the door to another level, panting, recovering from the climb and the many skirmishes, Kena touched Riko's shoulder. "I can heal the worst of your wounds if you will let me."

"You have the power to heal?" Riko leaned heavily against the wall next to one of the narrow windows found only on the stairs. His muscles and hands ached from exertion, his body slick with sweat, blood and gore, some of it his own. His eyes and throat burned from some of his own poisons and those he'd been exposed to. To his previous nicks and slices, he had added a few bites. Perhaps his nudity had made him appear tastier.

"I have a knack, though it will not likely be perfect," Kena said.

Riko could feel it already, that cooling soothing power unique to those who heal, like this girl, like Brother Len, whose soul shone with generosity and care and whose powers put them into practice. Riko had never known a mother, but had often seen Brother Len in that light. It wasn't the healing—many of the monks had those skills, though not to Brother Len's level—but that he was always available with a kind word, would take the time no matter his duties if Riko were scared or angry or lonely. The Monastery was a sanctuary and Brother Len was the living embodiment of that thinking.

Riko looked out the window and over the countryside, past the marsh and a patch of forest, to the Monastery. He was amazed that it was still daylight. He felt like they'd been fighting for days. Brother Len would be worried, would have a meal ready to be warmed when Riko returned, would soothe his hurts as this girl was doing now. He hoped the wards that guarded the monastery could withstand if any of these creatures ventured in that direction.

"Let us all take a moment to recover and replenish," Beltora said. "Whatever we came to fight, it's in here. This is the center of the power I've been feeling. And it's strong. Someone there, in spirit if not in body, is definitely Callyn's heir."

"Callyn?" Riko asked, feeling his many stings ease with Kena's touch. Quite a fine knack she had indeed.

"Callyn the Soulstealer. She was a sorceress who made a pact with a high-level demon and fed the demon blood while she drank the souls of children to maintain her youth and power. She lived nearly three hundred years before our ancestor killed her in this very tower," Beltora said.

"Really? Why did you not mention that before? And who killed the demon?"

Beltora frowned. "The demon? I don't believe anyone killed it. Or, if they had, I've never heard."

Riko sighed. "Well, that's the problem right there. If he were still bound to this place, but his summoner lost, he's been trying to entice another since. That's why there's so much dark energy and foul beasties about."

"Which means...?"

Kena was quick, Riko had to admit. "We now have to kill the summoner and deal with the demon itself."

Riko nodded. "And pray the demon hasn't tricked the summoner into freeing his bonds."

"What do you mean?" asked Layla.

"The demon has been trapped here, you say for centuries?"

"Thousands of years," nodded Beltora.

"Right, so he's been trapped and powerless for a long time, and what he'd really like is to be freed so he can wreak havoc on this world at will. If that happens, these monsters will be everywhere and I don't know how to stop them."

"And if he's still bound?"

"He will still be hard to kill. Magic works best but I have to see what kind of demon to suggest an attack. And he'll need to be slain with a demon-slaying sword."

"Well, where do we get one of those?" said Tander.

"Actually, this is a demon slaying sword," Riko said. "Forged by demons to fight against their own kind."

Tander winked at him. "Damn good thing you're not a real knight, now, isn't it? You'd have the wrong sword."

If it rankled a bit that Riko's calling was the butt of Tander's jest, it was also true enough that Riko swallowed his complaints.

"So, everyone rested and ready?" Beltora asked, "We are facing a magic user of great power backed by the strength of a high-level demon. This will not be easy."

Everyone nodded in response, hands clenching on swords, bows, and one shield. Beltora, her hands glowing with ready magic, nodded to Tander to open the door.

Tander burst in but it was anticlimactic, just an anteroom with a strange empty doorway that swallowed light. Behind it, they could hear a loud bass drum of a voice, "I will create this beast for you to control. In return, you will free me from my bonds!"

"I swear," a woman answered. "I will release you with my own blood!"

"It is a pact!" the low deep voice answered with obvious satisfaction.

Riko could feel the power, so overwhelming even the Jenri women and Tander seemed frozen in place, instinctively shrinking from the darkness of the doorway.

Well, Riko hadn't come all this way to let some power-mad sorceress unleash a high level demon on the countryside while he gaped from the doorway. "What in Nether are we waiting for? We have to get in there!" He used his shield to push past them and, without any hesitation, burst through the doorway, ignoring the blast of bone-shuddering cold.

The room was a large square but without the twists and turns of the previous levels; it was open with columns holding back the high ceiling and, amazingly, floor-to-ceiling openings on each wall so that the room was well lit by the sinking sun and a number of torches besides.

In the middle of the room was a large round cistern with a bottom that sloped toward a center where a figure stood within a pentagram carved into the surface of the floor. The cistern, though slick stone, had clearly recently been full with blood and, behind the cistern, a number of corpses were piled against the wall. Many were animals—cows and goats, some deer, a bear. But there were human corpses, too.

Inside the pentagram, the demon, deep red, tall, with black horns and the legs of a goat, opened his arms, his deep basso chanting filling the room with power. Just outside his prison, something huge and red was forming between him and the woman standing outside the cistern, her own arms and hands glowing with power.

Riko's study of the room didn't even slow him, as he made it automatically from his first step to the second, lifting his shield and his sword as he ran toward the woman.

An arrow flew past him with the same destination but the newly summoned creature, a blood-red drake, formed in time to bat the arrow away with its wing, then opened its scaly maw to blast them with fire. Riko turned and sheltered those behind him and himself with his shield. Fortunately, they all caught on immediately and grouped closely so no one lost any hair even if they got a bit warm.

Good thing the pair had only managed to conjure a drake. If they'd managed to summon a dragon, Riko and company would already be dead.

"Throw down your weapons, or I'll have my minions destroy you!" the woman screeched, her voice old and sharp as broken glass.

"You mean like the ones below?" Tander said. "If you were certain of success, you'd just kill us."

"You! Knight!" the demon called from the cistern, his deep voice resonating in Riko's bones, his sword responding to the call of a demon. "You bear tools of those foolish monks, don't you? Perhaps you don't fear for yourselves. Perhaps you can fend off my drake, but can your monastery?" Riko felt his heart clutch. "Throw down your weapons or Laforsa will send the drake to destroy them all." Riko's hand burst out with sweat, his throat closed as he tried to breathe.

_Blessings to you, my child,_ Brother Len said in Riko's mind, tears in Brother Len's sightless eyes and on his plump cheeks. _As you use violence to stop the violence that destroys without conscience or satiety. Yours is such a hard road. May you find your peace in protection of the most vulnerable._ Riko's grip tightened on his sword and he swallowed his anguish.

"Yes!" the woman said, her seamed face alight with pleasure, her eyes bright with madness. "I'll kill them all!"

Riko refused to hesitate and rushed the large sinuous beast, his sword swinging for its neck, but the drake used its wings to fend him off, and blasted at him with its weak flames. Arrows rained in and he saw Tander attacking from the other angle toward the head. Tander got a good blow on a wing with his sword and the drake roared its anger.

"Go, my beast, go and kill the monks!" the woman, Laforsa, shouted as Riko lunged but missed the killing blow as the drake recoiled then sprang into the air and flew out the windows.

"Riko!" Kena gasped at his elbow. Perhaps his face spoke more of his heartbreak than he cared for, so he clenched his jaw and pushed it from his mind.

"Kill the sorceress! If she dies, perhaps the drake will be destroyed as well."

Kena and Layla obediently bombarded her with arrows, but she had already surrounded herself with more of the same demonic minions they had fought throughout the tower while she chanted and readied her own magic. Minions fell, but she remained untouched.

She'd fallen back behind the cistern, letting her creatures fight Tander, Layla, and Beltora, but Riko circled around the cistern from the other direction, hoping to catch her from behind.

When the demons were thrashing their last and her magic called in spirits, Tander fell back, his mundane sword useless against them as Layla and Beltora adjusted accordingly. Not with light—the room was awash with it—but with other magic. Tander stepped into a lever reaching waist height. As Riko poised to strike the sorceress, the floor fell away, dropping the corpses and the sorceress—and Riko. Riko leapt for the edge and just caught it. Kena, who had apparently followed him, grabbed at his shoulders to keep him from falling and nearly got pulled in herself, when the sorceress caught Riko's leg.

The sorceress was old but tenacious and tried to climb up his body despite his kicks. He nearly kicked her away, but she grabbed onto his talisman belt and tried to use it to pull herself to safety. Layla came up behind Kena and cut the belt off his shoulder, sending the belt and the sorceress down to the distant ground.

Layla helped Kena pull Riko from the edge, retrieved the sword and shield from where Riko had flung them, and restored them to Riko's shaking hands.

"Curses!" the demon burst out, making it clear the sorceress was indeed dead.

"Are you alright, Riko?" Layla elbowed Tander as he pounded up, having restored the floor. "You almost took out Riko, too, with your clumsiness."

"She's dead, isn't she? I never get credit for anything."

Riko shook his head and steadied his breathing. "I'm alright. Scared. Shocked. And my belt! My Scarab of Thorns! My Elixir of Light! My Jewel of Venom!"

"You don't need them," Tander said. "Your knowledge was what really saved us, time and again. Everything the monks gifted you is inside you."

"You grieve for a belt of useless trinkets?" the demon shouted, apparently disliking being ignored. "While I've wasted away in this insignificant realm for more than two thousand years! And so close to freedom this time! Now you've killed the tool who had sworn to free me!" The demon, yellow eyes blazing, sneered. "If you must grieve something, why not the monks who even now lie dying at the breath and talons of my drake!"

"No!" Riko breathed. "When she died—" He looked around the room but her minions were gone.

"You fool! _She_ didn't summon that drake. _I_ did and gifted it to her to buy my freedom. You've cheated me of that, but I can console myself with the last cries of those paltry humans who thought that they could thwart me! And you are their murderer, choosing to fight when you could have saved them."

Riko wanted to scream, to tear his hair, to weep at the senseless deaths of those who had raised him with kindness, with care. But he couldn't. His job was not done, not while the demon still threatened their realm, threatened the vulnerable common folk in the nearby towns and villages. "You lie, demon. If I had relinquished my weapons, I would have been killed, and you would have sent the drake to kill them anyway."

"True." The demon grinned with pointed teeth. "But that lousy bitch would still be alive and I would be free by now."

"And now you will never be free," Riko said. "I swear it."

"Another will come, however long it takes, perhaps after your bones have turned to dust and your oath with it. There is always another hungry for power. I am immortal and you cannot touch me here."

"This bastard is really pissing me off," Tander said. "What are our options?"

Riko blinked at Tander, and realized that he wasn't alone and that everyone was looking to him for guidance. "What do you mean?"

"He's right. Someone will come again so leaving him here to call another magic user doesn't sit well with me. "

"Agreed," Layla said. "If Jenstra had known, I'm sure she would have tried to, well, do what? You spoke of slaying him before. Can he be slain?"

Riko took a few breaths to center himself. The demon's words had struck him hard because they rang of truth. He didn't doubt the monastery was under attack even then, perhaps already destroyed. Nothing Riko could have done, or could do now, would change that. The monks would not have forgiven him if he'd chosen differently. He knew that, too, just as they would expect him to do everything in his power to neutralize the threat of the demon. It was his duty.

If his cheeks were wet, his eyes were dry and his voice did not waver when he said, "We cannot attack him directly while he is bound inside the pattern while we are outside it, nor can he leave. We have three choices: perform a cleansing ritual that will send him back to the realm he came from, release him and try to kill him before he escapes, or I could project myself inside his enclosure and try to kill him in the limbo where he resides. The first option is easiest and poses no direct threat to us."

"But?" asked Kena, observant as always.

"But he's been trapped here a long time, trying to escape, and the barrier between his world and ours has become thin and porous as a result. That's why he and the sorceress could summon so many powerful creatures so easily. Since we don't know his true name, we can't banish him forever, so it's not impossible that he could find a means to break through again, and unbound, wreak havoc on this realm, intent on revenge. Demons do tend to be a vengeful lot. And being sent back against his will is a humiliation."

"If you try to send me back," the demon said, clearly able to hear their whispered conversation, "your bones will never turn to dust. I will devour you and every other human of your family, your villages. I will lay waste—"

"Yes, yes, we get it. So, nix that," said Tander. "What a vindictive bastard! That's no better than leaving him to try again another day. So, what about the other two options?"

"I would not willingly release him," Riko said. "We _might_ prevail but demons are extremely powerful and we would need every shred of skill and luck available and even then, the odds do not favor us. He doesn't need to kill us, just escape. And, if we fail, there will be no one to stop him."

"Which leaves?"

"And that leaves going astrally into his limbo and attacking him. He has great power there as well, and the odds aren't good. But, just as he is powerful, one's spirit determines one's own power against him. And I'm highly motivated to kill him."

"I believe that," said Layla. "Why is this better than releasing him?"

"Because the demon is still trapped, even if we fail," Kena said, her mind leaping ahead again.

Riko felt it, his neck tingling and he turned, his shield at the ready, just in time to prevent the drake from drowning them in flame.

"This critter has got to go! Tell us how to kill it, Riko," Tander demanded.

"Arrows to the eyes, cold spells or paralysis if you have them, slice off its wings to ground it, its head to kill it."

"Riko, you and me on slicing," Tander said. "Beltora, hit it with whatever magical whammy you wish. Kena and Layla, you keep pumping arrows into every vulnerable cranny you can find."

Beltora, patting out a fire on her cat's tail nodded, her eyes grim. Layla and Kena had already readied their bows. As soon as the fire petered out, Riko and Tander leapt to attack.

Arrows flew at an impossible rate. The drake's eyes sprouted multiple arrows almost at once. The drake screamed and Tander went to work trying to slice off the wing they'd damaged earlier. Riko used his shield to defend against the blind buffeting of the other wing. The drake opened its mouth for another fire blast and found its jaw frozen open with Beltora's ice spell. Riko used the bent foreleg as a step and scrambled atop its neck at the base of its skull.

"For my brothers," he whispered and jumped down, bringing the blade to bear, slicing clear through the neck, totally severing its head from the rest of it.

Tander caught him when he stumbled in the blood and steadied him. "Good work," he whispered, then looked over Riko's shoulder toward the demon. "You're next, you ugly bastard."

The demon let a wisp of smoke filter from flared nostrils. "I'll kill you slowly, feast on your entrails while you watch—"

An arrow sliced through his head as if it were made of smoke.

"You can't kill him that way." Riko's exhaustion and pain was really hitting him but he couldn't rest, not yet.

"I know," Kena said. "I just wanted to stop him from talking. What do we do next?"

Riko, now outside the pool of drake blood—the Jenri had instinctively kept the blood from spilling into the cistern and feeding the demon—collapsed and sat cross legged. "I need to project myself and battle him. He's gorged on blood so he's strong, but creating that drake while still bound had to have taxed him. I have no better moment."

"You look terrible, totally worn. Without blood, he shouldn't get stronger but you could. Why not rest first?" asked Kena.

Riko shook his head. "Still bound, he should not have been able to create the drake in this plane. Lend the sorceress power to do so, perhaps, but not summon it himself. I fear the bonds are not going to hold and he knows it. I dare not risk it." Riko also feared for his resolve and his mind when the shock wore off and his losses became real. "My physical body is not the issue. It is my mind that must be powerful, my spirit, for that is how I will battle him."

Tander and Layla shared a look. "Sounds logical, though your spirit has taken a pounding today as well. What do we do?"

"You? Stay here. If I die, if you have friends, others you could call into to battle, you should summon them and perhaps try to follow me, or release the demon and attempt to slay it. If I prevail, I will return on my own accord and the demon will be gone."

"You intend to go alone?" Kena asked, aghast.

"Better than to risk us all."

"No!" she said with her adorable pout.

He took it upon himself to touch her cheek lightly. "Please. I have learned to love and respect you all. I have lost everyone else I love today. I could not bear to lose any others." Her pout remained, so he said it again, looking at all of them in turn. "Please."

Layla would have said something but Tander stopped her with a raised hand. "If you wish to go, we won't stop you. You are entitled to carve your own fate."

"Thank you. Now, stand back and don't touch my body."

"Will that bring you back?"

"No."

Riko closed his eyes and relaxed as the monks had taught him, relaxing each muscle individually, letting the weariness sink into the floor beneath him, and his mind cleanse itself of all that might impede his mission. His sword, the essence of which he must bring with him, was stretched across his legs, his hands resting on its cold surface. _Follow the cold and find the demon's limbo, let the cold pull me in,_ he thought. _Follow the sword into the world between worlds where a demon chomped at the bit for the flesh of a paladin and strained against his restraints, impatient for freedom and mayhem._ The sword, forged of demon fire, knew where to go, resonated at the feel of demon-kind so close. Riko need only follow where it led.

When he opened his eyes, he was _there_. This limbo swirled at first with no form, nothing firm but, as his own sense of self solidified, the world around him became a surreal forest, devoid of leaves, heavy with mist. He glanced at himself and noted his sword was comfortable in his hand, his arms and body covered with chain, allowing more movement than his former plate. He carried a small shield as well and he saw the Scarab of Thorns hanging from his neck. He felt strong, could feel the power coursing through this body-that-was-not-a-body.

He swung his sword in a circle to feel the resonance, the vibration that would tell him how to find the demon.

"That's a different look."

Riko spun on his heel and dropped his sword at once when he found himself confronting Kena. She was taller, older, firmer, but undoubtedly Kena, her bow larger and more powerful than he remembered.

As he tried to formulate some sort of reprimand, she touched his mail shirt. "I kind of like that on you, not that I had a problem with you in your loincloth."

"What are you doing here?" he asked. How could he blush in limbo?

Tander, built up to even more massive size, materialized behind Kena. "Same thing you're doing. You didn't want to risk us. You didn't. We're doing it." He lifted his massive hand, much as he had with Layla earlier. "You seem to think you have less value to us than we have to you. You mistake the matter." Tander's sword, scabbard-free, was longer than Riko was tall, but easily manageable by the behemoth Tander.

Riko was not surprised when Layla followed an instant later. Riko glanced around, but Layla told him, "Beltora waits for us and will bring reinforcements if we fail."

"How did you know how to follow?"

Kena shrugged, then smiled, wrinkling her nose which was still freckled. "You told us not to touch you."

Of course. Kena was certainly quick enough to figure out touching him would allow them to follow since it wouldn't bring him back and he'd told them not to.

Layla, also sporting a more powerful bow and several other weapons besides, asked, "Where's the demon?"

"Good question. Let's face outward so he can't catch us by surprise. My sword should be able to lead us to him." He wanted to protest more, but it was pointless now. They were all committed. A part of him was definitely comforted to have people he trusted at his back. A part of him he'd ignored had assumed this was a suicide mission. All it once, it no longer seemed impossible.

The sword thrummed, as if thirsting for demon blood it could actually sense. Riko followed, the others close behind.

"Above!" Kena shouted and Riko lifted his shield just in time to avoid being sliced in two with the demon's flaming sword as he leapt down from a tree.

Arrows pierced the demon and he responded with a roar, his eyes literally ablaze inside a body easily twice as large as he'd appeared in the cistern and considerably larger than even Tander.

Riko lunged and was parried, then buffeted with a huge red fist to his head. Riko's head swam with pain, but the demon howled again, discovering first-hand the power of thorns as the talisman delivered some of the damage the demon dealt back to him.

When Riko shook his head to clear it, he saw Layla and Tander were both fighting the demon with swords now, but Tander's huge sword, more a bludgeon than a blade with its mass, bounced off the demon's tough hide and left Tander open to the burning blade the demon carried.

Layla was harder to catch with fist or sword, but her slender sword left wounds too shallow to even gain the demon's notice. Only the arrows, so far, could penetrate. Kena was back further and had cost him one of his eyes with her magic-bound missiles. The demon pulled a small hand axe from his belt and threw it at Kena, knocking her down with its force though she'd tried to block with her bow.

Riko realized they were losing.

The demon hadn't even unleashed magic yet, and if he did, they'd be helpless. He was toying with them. What they needed was the highest level magic and their magic user was not there.

Riko could not let the others die, not on his quest, not ever. He was no magic user, but he had to overcome with his spirit and... Wait, what was it Tander had said? "Everything the monks gifted you is inside you." And, at that moment, Riko, realized it was true. Brother Ko, Brother Fransen, Brother Len had all given _him_ their blessing, not the stones or tokens, just as Sir Golan had gifted his knowledge, not so much the armor. They had shared everything they were with him, every bit of their knowledge, their worship of a benevolent goddess, their lore, their honor, their generosity, and their kindness with him. It was all there.

He only needed to tap into it and channel it through his sword, feed it all their magic and blessings and wisdom so the demon would not be able to counter. Here in this _unworld_ , he breathed in and felt it, felt the power and love and gifts they had given him, felt them fill him, heal him, strengthen him.

When Tander was backhanded and crashed into a tree, Riko sprang in, beating back the flaming sword with his shield and taking his sword, glowing with all his blessings, with _their_ blessings, to slice through the arm the demon would have used to crush his head.

Layla kicked the severed arm away and stood back. Riko, his light and incredibly sharp blade dancing and twirling, dodged the flaming sword and sent the demon's other arm, twitching, to the ground.

The demon screamed, his magic hampered without his arms, no longer in a position to attack by any means. Tander and Layla attacked his legs, Layla the tendons behind the joints, Tander pounding away on the other knee. When the demon fell, as he must, to his knees, Riko was there for the final blow, severing that ancient head from its body.

And in a rush, Riko was back in his body, tired and aching and drained. He rolled over, ignoring Beltora's questions—let Tander and Layla explain—as he crawled to Kena. _Don't let her be dead!_ When he lifted her to his lap, his shaking fingers at her pulse, she cuffed him for his troubles.

"Don't go thinking I'm so easy to kill," Kena told him, then hugged him around the neck. "You did it!" she whispered. And he felt her tears on his neck. And he let his own fall as he wept for those he had failed to save who had saved him once again.

"Damn it, boy, you won! This is no time to be sobbing."

"Hush, Tander. This is his first chance. He did what had to be done, the mark of a true warrior. Now he weeps for those lost," said Layla.

"Right. Sorry." But Tander was irrepressible. "Beltora, you should have seen this kid. First he gets a blow to the head that would kill a lesser man, then he comes flying in, his eyes and sword glowing with power and cuts that demon to pieces—well, cuts his arms off—leaving him pretty helpless. Layla and I knocked him down and Riko finished the job."

Something about Tander's words, perhaps with Riko's tears, was lightening the burden on Riko's heart. True, he had no idea what he would do now. This area's borders with the demon world was healed whole with the demon's death, and Riko likely had no home and no family to return to. But he was alive and had done his duty. The monks would be proud.

"Not to break things up," Tander said, "but the sun is just about set and I don't want to spend longer in this stupid tower than we have to. Let's get going."

Riko tried to stand and found himself swaying with no resources against his exhaustion in mind and body.

Layla shared a look with her husband. "Tander, you stay and help Riko down the stairs. Kena and I will go down now and fetch the unicorns."

"I'll help Tander," said Beltora.

The trip down, with no battling, seemed to go so much faster than the way up, but that might have been because Riko kept passing out. Riko, stricken with guilt, suggested several times that they leave him to rest, and he'd get out on his own. Tander, it turned out, could be deaf at will.

When they emerged, the sky was dark as it was still before moonrise, though the stars were bright. Layla and Kena had set up a camp with their unicorns at the foot of the tower.

Kena came up to Riko, face grim. "We rode to the monastery, but there were none to save. It looks as though the monks retreated to their chapel and the drake burned it down. The flames caught. Everything... I'm sorry, Riko. There was no one to bury."

Only then did Riko realize that they'd left early to see if they could save anyone, or at least spare him from seeing the carnage. He found himself grateful, for facing what the drake had done to his home—to those he loved—was what he'd dreaded most.

"Do you want to go back?" Layla asked. "We would understand."

Riko shook his head. "Better to remember them as they lived." What was best about them all was already inside him, their gifts to him.

Tander slapped him on his back, painfully. "Good thought. They gave you so much and helped you become a great man. Honor them by living the life they helped you forge."

With not much more to say, and exhaustion that everyone was feeling, they slept soon and deeply, Riko on a borrowed blanket.

The next morning, as he opened his eyes, he was amazed by the lack of pain he felt. He expected to be quite sore, but he detected no twinge, no stiffness. In fact, he felt very well. And his back was delightfully warm despite the morning chill.

Something warm against his back shifted and sighed. He pulled away and turned, aghast, to see Kena where she'd cuddled up against him.

_Warmth,_ he told himself. _She's still an innocent girl._ _Couldn't blame her for wanting a little warmth._

Riko climbed to his feet, still feeling remarkably well, and then caught Tander's eyes from a nearby blanket. Tander winked.

"How do you feel?" Kena asked behind him.

"Oh, surprisingly well. It's like I never strained myself... Oh! You healed me, didn't you?" He'd felt a little flattered before that she had curled up next to him. Now, he just felt foolish.

Kena smiled. She had a wide mouth he thought well suited for smiling. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

The others were also waking and Riko, still in just his loincloth, not even Tander's borrowed boots, began to feel awkward. "Please friends, I'm sorry I failed to express my gratitude yesterday, for helping me, for fighting alongside me, checking on my brothers, er, healing me. If I still had my steed, I'd escort you back to your home to ensure you don't run into any more undead or leftover creatures... Oh! Yes, well, I suppose you could get rid of them yourselves quite handily. Ahem. Well, good journey to you all."

"I've never fought demonic creatures while mounted," Kena said. "Perhaps you should ride with me and you can give me pointers."

Tander literally rolled his eyes.

"Well, of course, anything I can do to repay my debt," Riko, said, both touched and a little scared of riding in close contact with a girl for however many hours it required.

"Kena," Layla reproved. "Don't be coy. You'll just confuse him. He hasn't dealt with women before."

"What?" Riko asked, wondering if he might still be suffering from one too many blows to the head.

"Riko," Layla said. "You have lost your home and your friends, but you have found another home and a new family if you choose it. Someone with your skills and spirit would be welcome in the Jenri camp." She glared at Kena. "And you need not take a mate to be considered a brother."

Riko couldn't wrap his mind around it. Why would strangers take him in just as the monks had so many years ago? "You don't know me."

"Yes, we do," Kena said, wrapping her arms around one of his arms. "And just because you don't have to choose a Jenri as a mate doesn't mean you can't."

"I don't understand," Riko said, but pulled on boots obediently and let her lead him to a huge unicorn that tossed its horn with considerable spirit.

"I'll explain it," she told him. "You'll have to beat me in some sort of contest."

"Contest?" Riko said as he swung up behind her. "You mean, do battle with you? I couldn't."

"Oh," she said. "I'll think of something."

About the Author

"We're all mad here." - Lewis Caroll

My name is Stephanie Barr and I write books, fantasy and science fiction and combinations thereof. A lot of them. My website (with my list of books available) can be found at stephanieebarr.us. I'm also a rocket scientist, raising my two autistic children as a single mother, and herding a bunch of cats. I have three blogs, which are sporadically updated: Rocket Scientist, Rockets and Dragons, and The Unlikely Otaku. Anything else even vaguely interesting about me can be found in my writing since I put a little bit of myself in everything I write—just not the same piece. Those pieces are all parts of my characters such as:

**A four hundred year old shut-in who reads fortunes and a care-for-nobody demon with a scruffy cat** [Tarot Queen]

A **mercenary swordsman cum sorcerer and a rule-abiding self-assured sorceress/warrior who never asks for help, and, of course, six snarky telepathic kittens**. [Curse of the Jenri] or

**A clever thoughtful young man who thinks he's weak who can turn into a dragon and a sweet generous young healer who knows her own worth and wields a dangerous wooden spoon** [Beast Within \- Bete Book 1] or

**A pugnacious firebrand who can think well in a crisis but feels in the shadow of his foster brother and a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued engineer with a lightning temper and even quicker mind with even more snarky telepathic kittens**. [Nine Lives \- Bete Book 2] or

**A clever teen pursuing an older woman finds himself and all his friends captured by unfriendly natives who rip his powers away with their potions so he'll have to use his brain to escape as a self-righteous snake finds his notions challenged first by a tiny psychic kitten, then by a native of indeterminant gender.** [Twice the Man – Bete Book 3] or

**A teenage technological genius, short on social skills but long on dedication to those he loves and a scrappy girl who punches first and asks question later** [Saving Tessa] or

**A by-the-book analyst finds herself on the wrong side of the government she's always worked for and, with her crazy companion, takes it down. **[Ideal Insurgent **]** or

**A dragon-raised hermity mage who's given up on the world and a former slave who doesn't know the meaning of the word impossible** [Taming of Dracul Morsus] or

**A rocket scientist who finds a moment of anger turns into changing the world and she needs to do more or it will fall to darkness and she has a number of crazy men to help her** [Catalyst] or

**A repressed scholar finds the ultimate treasure, a library where the books can literally take you into other words. Coming back, however, is something else.** [The Library at Castle Herriot] or

L **iterally dozens of other characters in my anthologies** [Legacy and Conjuring Dreams: Learning to Write by Writing] **and my book of poetry** [Musings of a Nascent Poet]. **And many more feline friends to find in** Pussycats Galore **, another anthology.**

Website: http://stephanieebarr.us

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/stephanieebarr>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/stephanieebarr>

Smashwords: <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/786144>

My blog: http://stephanie-barr.blogspot.com

Or sign up for my newsletter: <http://eepurl.com/dqUBxn>

Preview of Curse of the Jenri

Song of the Jenri

I sing the magic incarnate.

I call the earth to my will.

I harness senses insensate,

Powers that murder or heal.

I dance the swordwielder's ballet,

A courtship of crystal and steel.

I strum the song of the archer,

A demon in gemstones and teal.

I am the mist of the shadows,

Invisibly, silently screened.

Mine is the bite of the viper

Unnoticed, unheard, and unseen.

I am the sword, the Avenger,

Known by my title: Jenri.

Mine is the role of Protector,

Defending the right to be free.

One – Introductions

One should never make an enemy for gold. Gold will eventually disappear, but an enemy can be forever.

—The Lore and Wisdom of the Jenri, _by Klavaron Jenri_

"Watcha lookin' at, Melded?"

Melded spun around, the spear he'd been leaning on instantly at his assailant's throat. Years of experience held back Melded's hand before he actually killed Timon. "What in the name of Bastor's black heart are you doin' sneakin' up on me? Y'wanna get yourself killed? And it's Captain Melded to you."

"Ah, Melded, don't be sore. You've been standin' out here for more than an hour. Me and the boys just wanna know what you're lookin' for."

Melded paused, considering several rude and vicious responses that included a well-deserved buffet on the head. Instead, he shrugged. Timon was his recently-killed brother's only boy and, if he hadn't the smarts of a local fern, he was skilled with a dagger. Melded turned his eyes back outward, through the iron gate. He searched the outlying wooded areas again, his ears straining for the sound of an errant footfall, his nose sampling the air to detect an odd scent. All he smelled, of course, was his unwashed nephew. He sighed. "I'm lookin' for _her_."

Timon peered between the bars at the green blur of forest beyond, empty of anything but trees. Given Timon's eyesight, he might not even see the bars. "Who?"

Melded clouted him on the back of the head with his fist. "Timon, why're we here?"

"Raylee paid us."

Melded shook his head. "No, stupid. Do you remember us snatchin' that big, hulkin' son of a bitch and bringin' him here?"

"That bastard! I wish Raylee'd let me kill him."

"Well, yes, you saw how easily he killed four of us," Melded reproved, still inwardly amazed. He did so _after_ Merlo had all but knocked him out with a spell that killed Krikee just standing next to him. And the behemoth was drunk off his gourd at the time!

"It was damn dumb luck, that's all. He killed my pa with a dirty blow. He cheated."

Melded stared at Timon, dumbfounded. True, Melded was a mercenary, but he could not see how their victim could have "cheated" by defending himself when he'd been blindsided by magic and set upon by more than twenty rogues. It was too much like thievery or something equally dishonest for Melded's tastes, but you can't eat if you don't get paid. And Raylee paid pretty well. "My point is that bastard can fight like ten regular men, if not more."

"So?"

"So, he ain't alone. He's married _—_ married to a Jenri. Raylee don't think she'll come to get him, but me, I _know_ she will."

"So what? You ain't afeard of no female, are ya?"

"Like Nether, I'm not! If you had any brains in your head at all, you'd be scared shitless yourself. Didn't you hear me, idget? She's a _Jenri_. You saw how he can fight and you can bet his wife fights just as well, if not better."

"In a pig's eye."

Melded shook his head and resisted the urge to clout him again. No sense in shaking up his miniature brain any more than strictly necessary. "Timon, don't you know nothin' about the Jenri?"

"Them old wives' tales..."

"Do I look like an old wife t'ya? Let me tell ya, they fight worse than demons and they sling spells like sorcerers. They can come up behind ya, soft as smoke, and loose five arrows afore the first strikes, and not miss wit' one of 'em."

"Ya may not look like an old wife, Melded, but ya sure sound like one," chortled Timon, only to have his laughter cut off with Melded's blow. Perhaps sloshing that puny brain might be of some use.

"You really don't know nothin', do ya?" Melded asked, shaking his head. "When I was young an' stupid, though pro'bly not as stupid as you, I saw four Jenri come to th'fair. At first, I didn't see nothin' but their lean bodies and short tunics, just like all t'other young fools. But they didn't have t'fight no crowds to reach no vendor an' the mos' hardened huckster slashed his prices without haggling.

"I thought I knew everythin', that all those stories were hogwash. Some say th'Jenri'd know a lie when they heard it. Some say they'd kill a man for pleasure. Some say their souls were sold to the dark forces an' that's why they was cursed with no sons for a hunnerd generations. Some say their souls were sold for coin alone, assassins for whoever parted with silver. I scoffed at mos' of 'em. Then I saw them fight in exhibition for gold, Jenri against Jenri, their blades flashing like fireflies too fast to see, women in blue-green leather, their jewelry glowing as they danced with steel in the sun..."

Melded halted his reverie and noticed he had finally gotten Timon's attention. "I didn't know what's true, what ain't. Still don't. But I knew I didn't want no Jenri for an enemy."

Timon furrowed his low brow in monumental concentration. "And now ya got one?"

"You think I don't know that, ya dip? Why in Nether do you think I'm out here, peerin' out into nothin', hopin' to get some inklin' of whether or not that Nethercat is comin' to cut my balls off?"

Timon seemed taken aback by that. "They cut your balls off?"

"Oh, for Bastor's sake, will you get back inside? You're makin' my head swim with your foolishness, and I have to have a clear head."

"Alright, Melded, alright," Timon demurred, backing off. "But mark my words, there ain't a bitch born yet that I'm afeard of."

As Timon's footsteps faded away on the uneven cobbles, Melded sighed and shook his head. "Idget. We're screwed if she comes alone. Bastor himself couldn't save us if she brings other Jenri to help her."

Once more, Melded scanned the landscape, hoping for a sign that she was there, that she watched. But there was nothing, so he turned and stomped back to the barracks. She _—_ _they_ _—_ would come.

Beyond the gate, dappled with sifted sunlight, there was only the unbroken sea of green, just ferns, trees... and Layla.

Silent suede boots of signature Jenri blue-green, shifted in the underbrush without disturbing the delicate froth of ferns. Layla crouched, an integral part of the landscape, indivisible and unseen, though in full view. Her senses fully alert, she waited motionless, her whole attention on the tall iron gate thirty or so strides before her, her eyes following the old soldier as he turned from it.

Brushing back the strange Jenri streak of red hair from her eyes, she knelt soundlessly to wait for dark, the hem of her soft leather tunic just touching the ground. The tunic was deep amethyst, but it was crossed and belted with the same Jenri color as her boots. Silver glistened in the rune-worked shaft of her sword, and the grips of her throwing knives and dagger. Even the length of her bow writhed with silver symbols. Her silver headband was studded with aquamarines and disappeared into her thick brown hair. More aquamarines hung at her throat, now as always, the sign of her Clan. Silver and aqua proclaimed what she was; she wore amethyst for what she loved: purple was her husband's color.

It was for him that she came.

As the shadows lengthened, she became a shadow herself, another purple shape in the underbrush. In the lee of a tower, she scaled the crumbling wall of the castle unnoticed, unheard. She came up just below where guards kept watch in the turret, sliding beneath them on the battlements, in the shadows, and slipping soundlessly into the keep itself.

As she descended toward the dungeons, she heard the snores of the guard before she was close enough to silence him with a quick twist of his neck. The body slid noiselessly to the ground, neck broken. There was no blood on the floor around it, no blood on her.

She trusted her nose to bring her to wherever they had taken Tander. There would be a smell of old smoke and past burnt flesh, urine and feces from those forced to remain trapped or tortured into a loss of control. She knew that the smell would most likely be part of the dungeon proper, not that of her husband specifically _—_ at least she hoped _—_ but that would be where she would find Tander.

Her nose led her true. She found Tander at the end of the torture hall, bathed in the red glow of a smoke-blackened fireplace. There was no need for a cell. Thick chains were attached to manacles on his wrists, his ankles and the crude collar around his neck. They had taken no chances with a man who left five bodies in his wake. And it was well known that only a man who could best a Jenri in some test could be her mate. That made him doubly dangerous.

"Tander." Her whispered word was barely louder than a breath, lost in the soft clinking of his chains, the tired creaking of the staples straining against his gentle movements. There was no indication he'd heard her. He did not lift his head.

She moved forward, distressed to see her proud mate listless, defeated. His long black locks hung, unwashed and greasy, over his face. They had stripped him of all but his loincloth, and she could see the lash marks on his back and shoulders. Blood seeped in thin rivulets to show where he had struggled against his chains. But he was not struggling now.

"Tander," she whispered again, reaching a hand to lift his face to her hungry eyes, but was forestalled with the sound of a rattling snore. She could not help but smile. Only Tander could sleep in a position like that. She reached out and touched his cheek. "My proud warrior. What have they done to you?"

"Layla _—_?" The word was a question from his cracked lips, but when he opened his eyes, they widened in surprise. The shocking blue eyes glared at her for only a moment before he grinned, "What took you so long? Where are Riko and Kena?"

"Probably where I left them, in Arkona."

"You came here alone? Layla, are you daft? These people are dangerous."

Layla stiffened. "Aye, and your point would be what? I am dangerous myself."

He turned the full force of his startling blue eyes on Layla and even she flinched at their intensity. "'Tisn't funny, Layla! These men have no honor. They are scum, and they were able to take me. They have resources, magic and weapon. Leave and return with help."

"And leave you in this discomfort while I scamper back two days there and two days return? Aside from the exhaustion we will all feel? I think not."

"Layla, you can't take on a castle of mercenaries and magic-wielders alone!"

Layla smiled. "Can't I?"

Tander pressed his lips together, but was forced to smile at her determination. "Bastor damn me to Nether, Layla, but you're stubborn."

"Aye, I know that as well. It is not as though I make a secret of it." A smile touched her chiseled features, a smile only he could bring. "Tander, don't fret. I am well able to handle all that I might come across here, never fear. You were drunk and set upon when you weren't looking _,_ I assume anyway. I knew exactly what I was getting into."

"Did you? They wanted me, but I fear for what men like this will do to you if you are captured. Do you think I want to be your downfall? That I want you hurt in your attempts to rescue me? Go back and get help, Layla. I'll figure a way out of here." He pulled on the chains to demonstrate his intentions, but winced as they rubbed raw flesh.

"More foolish talk like that and I will clout you on the head. Content yourself that I stay. There is nothing in this castle I fear."

Tander, ignoring pain, flung himself forward fruitlessly, cutting further into his flesh with the iron bite of his manacles, then hung against them, limp with defeat. "And if you're wrong, I will have your fate on my conscience. Some protector I turned out to be."

She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his while his hands strained against the chains to reach her. She didn't know whether it was to hold her or push her away, but he did not tear his hungry mouth from hers.

"Your days in chains have affected your mind. Since when have I needed a protector? You underestimate me—" She ran a finger along a lash mark and her voice hardened, "—and my anger." She could see the relief in his eyes at her touch, the turquoise glow of her necklace reflected on his sweaty skin as the pain abated.

A voice behind her startled her. "In my entire acquaintance with Tander, I have only found reason to envy him."

She spun around, crouching, a throwing dagger instantly in her hand, hearing the clank of chains behind her as Tander strained again against his bonds. She flung the dagger unerringly into a guard's throat, but was forestalled from throwing another by a strange lethargy that immobilized her muscles and spawned an odd pain in her midsection. She fell to her knees and then collapsed sideways against a stone block. She saw the red glow on her skin and found the strength to spit with a mouth still under her control. Magic!

Facing her was a man, obviously lord of this ill-kept keep, flanked by a slight balding sorcerer on one side and a thick-lipped guard on the other. The leader was only a few inches shorter than Tander, but just as broad. His chest was bare, but he wore a wool cloak clasped with a copper brooch emblazoned with the figure of a jackal. At his side dangled the well-worn hilt of a sword. The copper band in his red-gold hair proclaimed his gentle birth, belied by the ugly curl of his lip.

The sorcerer, dressed in shabby green silk, look dismayed at Layla's grimace of pain. He tried to get the attention of the leader. "Lord Raylee, there is something wrong. She should not be in such pain!" Layla spat again. Amateur. His sorcerer status was tattooed over his nose: fifth level. Odds were his teacher was disreputable, else this bungler would never have attained that rank.

Raylee ignored his hired magician.

Layla mouthed her own counter-spell, her jewelry glowing with preternatural light, and managed to gain enough control over one of her hands to reach into her belt and pull a second throwing knife. Pain notwithstanding, she flung it perfectly into the remaining guard's throat, to the shock of the sorcerer. The sorcerer swallowed convulsively and mumbled again, increasing the stasis spell, and to a greater degree, the pain in her midsection. Layla managed to smile wickedly at his fear. "You're next, spell-slinger."

Raylee laughed at this. "Fine talk, Jenri witch. Someone told me you'd be foolish enough to come. I would have expected a Jenri to be smarter than that. But, as you can see, I was prepared with Merlo, here."

"Incompetent dabbler," Layla managed through gritted teeth.

Raylee laughed again. "How brave your words, yet you are trapped within his spell. Although I have to admit, I expected him to be more useful in the capture of the King of Amerland. I'm not complaining. We have sent messengers off to get a ransom for Amerland's absent king. I suppose we could expect some recompense for his lovely bride, as well." Raylee walked forward and crouched, grabbing Layla's chin in his hand and looking her over carefully. "You will be more entertainment than Tander here in the meantime. And if they don't come through, slavers might find you worth a coin or two."

With Tander straining at his chains again, Raylee stroked his hand along her cheek to her lips, smiling a smile that dissolved into the rictus of extreme pain when she clamped her teeth on his finger, biting down so hard he heard the bone snap. His high-pitched scream echoed deafeningly through the dank dungeon as he yanked and pulled on his hand, only releasing it at the expense of his finger's top knuckle, which Layla smugly spat out.

"They might not find me that valuable after all," she said.

Raylee pulled his sheathed sword from his belt and swung it furiously, smashing it into the side of Layla's face and knocking her head painfully into the stone block. Tander threw himself violently against his chains, managing to yank the staple holding one chain to the wall part way out with his exertions. "Why don't you come pick on me, you bastard? Her locked in a spell, you have the balls to strike a woman! I'll show you how a man fights! Layla, are you alright?"

Layla, her eyes focused perfectly on Raylee's, said softly. "This walking corpse cannot hurt me, Tander. Trust that his life is all but over."

"Always with the brave talk," Raylee hissed, tearing a sleeve from the sorcerer's robe to bind his wounded hand. "You won't be so smug when I'm through with you, little witch. But I'll wait a bit for that. Right now, I'll settle for relieving you of your jewelry." He gestured for one of his guards to come forward, but then recalled that both of his guards lay dead, throats destroyed. He sneered. Careful to avoid her mouth, he slid his hands around her neck to undo the silver clasp of her necklace. The necklace, glowing with magic, only shocked him in return, so that again, he howled in pain. Layla's smile widened.

Raylee pulled his hand back as if to backhand her. "Release your spell, witch."

Layla managed to raise an eyebrow. "It's tied to your magician's spell. Until he releases his, I cannot release mine."

"You lie!"

Layla couldn't shrug, but the sentiment was clear. "Your trained, semi-magical monkey can confirm what I say, as if I cared at all."

"Merlo!?"

"I-I-It's certainly possible, and I suspect, t-t-true," Merlo stuttered. "Besides, my lord, I think the spell has gone awry, else she would not be in so much pain. Really, sire, I beg you allow me to release it."

Raylee snarled, scowling. After a moment, his brow cleared. He walked past her carefully and unsheathed his dagger, resting the tip against Tander's throat above the band. "I can kill him in a heartbeat if you dare try anything. Merlo, release your spell. Then, you, Jenri witch, you will remove your jewelry and leave it on the floor in front of you."

"Don't be daft, you pathetic excuse for a fungus! She'll kill you without thought," scoffed Tander. "Layla, don't worry about me. This idiot probably couldn't figure out where I keep my brain anyway. Toss a knife into his gut. Raylee, you honorless scum, thrust away, go on, I dare you! My fleas have more courage than you!"

The red glow about Layla ceased and, obediently, her necklace also stopped glowing. Layla, breathing hard, collapsed to the ground. A part of her noted that the pain in her midsection had gone, but had left behind a throbbing ache that she found disturbing. After a moment, she managed to pull herself to her hands and knees, still not looking at Raylee and apparently still recovering. Raylee smiled at her submissive posture.

Without the slightest preamble, she spun on one knee, her other leg swinging around in an arc that caught Raylee in the ankle. He fell sideways, his dagger arm flinging outward for balance, his other scrabbling against Tander to keep from falling. Layla, in the process of coming to her feet, slammed a slim blade she had braced between her fingers into his nose and thence his brain. Raylee crumpled, dead. Layla avoided the weight of his body when it fell.

Still half-crouching, Layla took an instant to check the lack of pulse, then smiled. "You underestimated Tander, but you respected him. Pity you weren't smart enough to do the same for me." She pulled his dagger out of his hand and then flung it across the room before adding, "Not that it would have made the slightest difference in the end result."

