Sagira and Luka barely had time to scuttle back before Tamara and Sylviana clashed blades. The other three women of the troop who were watching from just outside the battle kept their distance.
The two warrioresses were evenly matched. Both were skilled with the heavy swords they wielded. Both had trained under the tutelage of expert battle mistresses. Though Sylviana was stronger than her opponent, she carried more body fat and was quicker to wind than Tamara. By the fifth collision of the blades, she was breathing heavily—by the tenth, she was panting and beginning to sweat profusely, her ripe body odor causing several of the women to cover their noses.
The sand beneath the feet of the women churned as they struck and parried, lunging at one another, jumping back to avoid the deadly thrust of the other. The music from the steel rang out over the desert air, punctuated by grunts and hisses escaping the throats of the combatants.
Sylviana caught a hit low on the blade of her weapon and the screech of steel meeting steel vibrated through her arm as Tamara came nose to nose with the older woman.
“You are jackal fare,” Tamara promised, and with relative ease pushed against her sword to send Sylviana stumbling backward.
Sylviana nearly lost her footing in the loose sand but managed to right herself. With a bellow of rage, she came at Tamara, intent on bowling the younger woman over, sending her to the ground where she could skewer her with her blade.
But Tamara stepped aside, and it was Sylviana who stumbled past, once more nearly crashing to earth. Instead, she spun around, her lips drawn back from her rotting teeth.
“I will take your head, you worthless slut!” Sylviana screamed. She pulled her arm back, raising her blade to shoulder height then arced the weapon over her left shoulder.
“Sylviana! Lower your blade!” Lanoi cried out.
Tamara grinned. She knew Sylviana was beyond rational thinking and that expertise with the blade meant nothing once fury took over. Getting a firm grasp on the pommel of her own sword, she waited for the enraged warrioress to run at her, knowing Sylviana meant to swing the blade toward Tamara’s neck in an attempt to lop off her head. Flexing her knees, she angled her weapon slightly.
Roaring with sheer ferocity, Sylviana rushed her opponent. She tried to stop as the tip of Tamara’s sword pierced her belly but her forward momentum carried her to the weapon’s hilt. She shuddered, feeling the agonizing burn of stomach acid spilling into her abdomen.
Luka turned away, as did Sagira. Both were Sylviana’s friends—her only friends—and had no wish to see Sylviana’s last moments. As they did, their gazes fell on a silent witness to the battle and they screamed, scrambling back over one another in an attempt to get away.
The three other women who had been watching the fight turned to see what had frightened their Sisters. They, too, screamed in terror and ran for their horses, Sagira and Luka close behind.
Sylviana’s lips parted and blood bubbled out of her mouth. She sagged to her knees, grunting as the weapon buried in her gut sliced upward through her chest cavity. With her last breath, she looked up at Tamara but the younger woman was staring behind Sylviana, her face as pale as the dying woman knew her own to be. The last sound Sylviana ever heard was an Akkadian name spoken with a mixture of fear and relief. Turning her head, the last sight Sylviana ever saw was the Akkadian walking toward her. A squeal of protest wiggled from the dying woman’s throat and she pitched forward, her eyes wide in horror, never to rise again.
Chapter Three
Tamara could not take her eyes from the Akkadian. He sat across from her and shivered, his hands held out to the blazing fire he had bid her stoke. Though she was sweltering inside the tent, his flesh was pebbled beneath a wicked sunburn.
“I cannot get warm,” he said, and his voice sounded hollow, as though it came from beyond the grave. “I keep imagining myself naked and I cannot get warm.”
Nothing had changed about his appearance save the redness of his flesh and, when he looked at her, a strange spark seemed to have settled in his amber eyes. He was as handsome as the night she had first met him, as strong-looking and as virile, but there was now a quality about him she could not put her finger on and it was this strangeness that troubled her.
“Their names were Tashobi and Jabali,” he told her. “Had they not come along, I would have died. As it is, I felt as though I had, and I told them as much. My cock was as raw as fresh meat from what those bitches did to me but somehow or other Jabali healed me.”
“He laid hands to your…”
“He healed me, wench,” Evann-Sin snapped. “Let it go at that. The Magi were helpful in what they told me.”
“What did they say?” she asked, thankful two nomads had ventured upon the Akkadian and untied him.
He shook his head. “That I should be glad your queen did not have a chance to drain me dry. I am only partly of the Blood, whatever that means.”
Tamara shuddered. “Aye, that is a good thing.”
“They also told me they were Magi,” he said, “and could raise the dead so had I succumbed, they would have brought me back.”
“They lied. No magic known to man can bring someone back from the Realm of the Dead,” Tamara said.
“Jabali boasted that he could.”
“How dare he make such a claim? When a Liln, a demoness of the abyss, draws the lifeblood from a man, that man is lost forever!”
“They told me there are creatures in this world more powerful than Liln, wench,” Evann-Sin said. “I believed them.”
“The sun has poisoned you, warrior,” she said, and was somewhat relieved when her companion did not turn his alien eyes to her. “You must not entertain such troubling thoughts.”
“I asked if they could bring my friend back,” he said. He pulled the robe she had given him to help warm him tighter around his shoulders. “They promised me they would.”
“Your friend?” she questioned.
“When those Hell Hags attacked, I was on my way back from Samarkan where I attended the funeral of a friend,” he said and shivered, his teeth clicking together.
“I am glad they gave you clothing,” she said to take his mind from his dead friend.
He nodded. “How they had the right size puzzles me for both were smaller than me. It was almost as though they went to my home and took what they thought I’d need.”
“Will you return to Nonica, Evann-Sinn?” she asked.
He shrugged listlessly. “Where else would I go? That is my home.”
“You need to be somewhere where you will be safe from my Sisters…”
He turned his head toward her, and those strange eyes glowed with a crimson spark that held her riveted, unable to look away.
“Think you I will allow myself to be violated like that again, wench?” he asked, and there was evil in his dry voice. “They will rue the day they dared lay hands to this warrior.”
A tremor of fear rippled through Tamara. “You will go after them?”
The Akkadian laughed and the sound made the hair stand up on Tamara’s arms. She watched him throw back his head and the strong column of his neck was revealed. “Go after them,” Evann-Sinn repeated. “As surely as the sun rises will I go after them.”
Tamara winced. “What will you do to the women who…” She stopped, seeing the crimson spark in his eyes flare.
“Who raped me,” he finished. “Who took me against my will?”
“Aye,” she whispered, mesmerized by the vengeance hiding in his gaze. “What revenge will you take upon them?”
He ignored her question. The robe she had given him was too short and his legs were bare from the knees down. He stood, tugging at the robe, growling with frustration that it did not cover him properly.
“I rather like looking at you almost nude,” Tamara giggled.
Evann-Sin glanced around at her then arched one dark brow. He held out his hand. “Will you come to me?”
Something in the warrior’s voice touched Tamara and she did not hesitate. She placed her hand in his, allowing him to draw her into his embrace. With her face pressed against the coarse fabric of his robe, she snuggled against him.
“We need to think here a moment, wench,” he said softly. “My feelings for you have been strong since the first moment I looked into your eyes. In my heart of hearts, I have claimed you as my own.”
Tamara smiled. “As I have claimed you.”
He frowned then looked away from her. “Can you accept me as your lover now?”
“Nothing,” she stressed, “has changed between us. Am I cringing in disgust here in your arms?”
He smiled gently. “But will you accept me?”
“With all my being,” she pledged.
He circled her tightly within his strong arms, his firm body pressed closely to hers. “Then, let’s divest ourselves of any impediments.”
The Akkadian lowered his hand to the cincture at her waist and tugged at the cord. It untied easily so he pushed aside the ties, the ends falling to either side of Tamara’s trembling body. Slowly he eased his palm beneath the opening of the robe, smiling softly at his lady’s quick intake of breath as his bare hands touched the top of her undergarment.
“Have you known a man before now, my sweet one?” he asked as he reached out to pull her down with him to her pallet.
Tamara felt a tremor of anticipation ripple through her lower belly at his words. “I am not a virgin, warrior,” she replied.
Evann-Sin sensed the apprehension in her answer and shrugged lightly. “It matters not except I would prefer to know how firmly and deeply my sword can thrust before I would cause you pain.”
A little groan of excitement pushed from Tamara’s throat. His gentle voice—low and mesmerizing—made the hair at the nape of her neck stir and the buds of her nipples harden. The coolness of his hand through the muslin of her undergarment as his fingers grazed the tops of her breasts filled her with growing need.
“So soft,” he said with a satisfied sigh, trailing his fingers from the top of one orb to the other, stroking her, soothing her.
When his strong sword hand dipped beneath the edge of her undergarment, Tamara tensed. Se drew in a breath as he pushed the material down to bare her breast. The firmness of his palm cupping her, weighing her, lightly squeezing, created heavy moisture at the juncture of her thighs and she groaned again, caught up in the heady anticipation of what was to come.
Releasing her, laughing huskily at her protest at being denied his touch, he divested her of her robe, made quick work of the undergarment then came to his knees on the pallet, ridding himself of his own coarse robe.
Seeing the wide chest thickly pelted with dark curls, the pectorals that looked hard as rock, the ripples of honed muscles stretched across his abdomen, Tamara sighed deeply. This man was not only pleasing of face to look upon, his body was a marvel of manhood—taut and powerful, sleek and defined, as a warrior’s body should be. His arms were sculpted with years of sword practice and—she had no doubt—weight training. His belly was flat, the navel sinking beneath a spiral of wiry curls that traveled downward to a commanding thrust from which she could not take her eyes.
“It has been awhile since my weapon has been sheathed in so lovely a scabbard,” he said, drawing Tamara’s gaze to his.
His words thrilled her and she reached for him, her arms aching to feel those broad shoulders, her body throbbing at the need to experience the weight of him atop her.
The Akkadian caught her hands, and pressed the palms together as though he bid her pray. He placed a feather-soft kiss on the fingertips then released his twin captives, stretching out to lie beside his lady, turning so his body touched hers from chest to toe.
“It has been awhile for me, as well,” she told him.
Evann-Sin placed his lips to her ear and blew his breath lightly inside. Even as she quivered at the invasion, he used his tongue to lap at the sensitive inner surface, sending spirals of warm heat along the tender flesh. Another ripple of pleasure traveled through Tamara’s tense body. “Turn over,” he whispered.
She did not question his command nor hesitate. He moved back as she eased over to her stomach, her arms to either side of her head, gripping the pillow that held his scent.
“Spread your legs, my sweet.”
Tamara opened her legs, reveling in the feel of him as he stretched out atop her. The demanding rigidity of his manhood pressed against the cleavage of her rump, sliding upward until it lay nestled along that fleshy valley.
“You smell of jasmine,” he said huskily, and nipped at the sweep of her right shoulder, his teeth sending shivers throughout her lower body.
“Does that scent please you, warrior?” she asked breathlessly, for his tongue had replaced his teeth in traversing the plane of her shoulder.
“It does, though gardenia is my favorite scent,” he answered, shifting his weight so he could plant tender kisses down her spine. His manhood dragged down her leg, leaving a slight wetness behind as he pushed lower in the bed.
“Jasmine is an aphrodisiac,” she said, and sucked in a quick breath as he nipped at her side, clutching the indention of her waist between his teeth.
“It is working,” he said, and there was amusement in his tone.
Nothing could have prepared Tamara for the invasion of his moist tongue between her cheeks. She tensed, clenching the muscles of her rump together, but she soon found that was no guarantee of protection from his questing mouth for he used his fingertips to spread the cleft.