Warrior Prime Page 3

  She nodded. Yes, you’ve told me that a hundred times.

  He left and shut the cabin door behind him.

  She let out a long sigh, relieved to be free of his company. Even if only for a little while. She was glad Kayman had his own cabin. At least she could escape from him in sleep.

  Her name was Zayda Yond, or at least it used to be. Her betters still called her Zayda, but her new masters told her that her family name now meant nothing, and it would do her well to forget it. Indeed, mentioning it at all would bring harsh punishment. That was her old life. It had been erased in favor of a new one. A life as a slave.

  She tried—and mostly failed—to comfort herself with the fact it could be worse.

  Much worse.

  Zayda was keenly aware she was not unattractive. She’d been told so by the men who’d traded her and debated how best to sell her. When her parents had fallen into crushing debt, it would not have been unheard of for her father to sell her to the brothels. She wanted to think he was a better man than that, but thankfully he hadn’t been put to the test. It had hurt her father enough to see her taken away by the prince’s men. He’d wept openly. She wanted to think her being dragged off to a life of prostitution would have been too much for him.

  Zayda had only the vaguest notion of what her father’s business entailed. He owned warehouses on the riverfront, and various trade goods would come and go, her father speculating when the price was right to buy or an opportune time to sell. They had lived the comfortable upper-middle class life of a prominent merchant. Zayda had been wonderfully spoiled, had, in fact, only recently become aware how spoiled she’d been.

  A series of bad business decisions followed by a fire in her father’s warehouses at the exact wrong time had ruined him, and the moneylenders had gouged him beyond recovery. To risk losing everything and become beggars in the street had been too much for him. Selling Zayda had allowed him to save the family home and start fresh.

  She reached inside her clothing and tugged at the metal collar. It was not, she had to admit, especially uncomfortable. Simply the fact of its existence galled.

  The collar would never come off. Not as long as she lived. It assured complete obedience to her masters.

  She touched the back of her neck. The tattoo still seemed strange, and she thought she could feel it, the ink humming just below the surface of her skin. It was an illusion, a trick of the mind. The wizard had told her in time, she wouldn’t even think about the tattoo, but for now it was all she could think about.

  Zayda had been made to understand that although she was being enslaved, she was also being given a high honor. Few were suitable, but she’d been tested—a process of spell casting she didn’t understand at all—and Zayda had been selected to receive the Prime.

  The memory of the old wizard remained vivid and unpleasant. Zayda had been bathed by servants, old women resigned to their lot in life. Then she’d been toweled dry and taken to the wizard. She’d stood before him naked and humiliated, but if he’d had any lewd interest in her, he’d kept it hidden. She’d been ordered to turn around, flinched at the feel of his dry, coarse hands on her back. She’d been chastised sharply and told to keep still. If Zayda moved in a way that ruined the inking of the tattoo, then it would all be for nothing, and they would have to find another use for her.

  The stings of the inking needle were like fiery fly bites, and by the end, her legs and back were sore, muscles burning. But she hadn’t dared move.

  And then it was done. The Prime had been inked down her back and the collar fastened around her neck.

  She’d known in that moment there was no going back. Her life had been changed forever, although to what extent she could only guess.

  Then the wizard had instructed her on tapping into the spirit.

  Zayda hadn’t understood. The term was not familiar to her. The wizard had been surprisingly patient. He’d said to close her eyes, to reach out with her mind.

  It was only difficult the first time, groping within herself, trying to connect to something that seemed just out of reach. Finally, she found it, the deep well of power stored within herself.

  Zayda tapped into the spirit.

  And immediately the way she perceived herself and the rest of the world changed in a way she could not possibly have imagined.

  She seemed to live within the world at a higher level. When the soldiers had attacked her at the blooding, they had looked ridiculously slow, as if she were being besieged by drunken toddlers. By contrast she had a perfect awareness of her own body, could sense the blood in every vein. And with awareness came control. She understood the limits of the shell of flesh that contained her, knew how to push those limits.

  And she could banish any unwanted emotion that might hinder her. The men at the blooding were simply problems to be eliminated. When she’d released the spirit, the knowledge she was now a killer flooded in, sickened her. Zayda tried to take heart in the fact the men had deserved it. Murderers and rapists. She took confidence in knowing she could defend herself. She was a living weapon.

  Zayda told her body what to do, and it obeyed.

  Even now, aboard the Pride of Klaar, she felt a tinge of seasickness and knew she could make it go away. She could tap into the spirit and command her stomach to calm itself, keep the queasiness at bay.

  But the old wizard had warned her not to rely on the spirit for mundane things. The behavior could become addictive. She could latch on to the spirit and refuse to let go and burn herself out. It had happened to ink mages before, or at least that’s what she’d been told.

  At the same time, the wizard had told her that tapping into the spirit was like a muscle. It could be exercised and grow stronger.

  Zayda would have to find that balance for herself.

  For now, she was glad for the silence. Solitude was in short supply these days. She lay on the narrow bunk, a long sigh leaking out of her, and closed her eyes. She was more tired mentally than physically. She tried to clear her mind, to forget who she was.

  She tried to forget her entire existence.

  At last she dozed, walking the tightrope between sleep and wakefulness.

  Peace. Quiet.

  Then a slam so hard, it bounced her out of the bunk, the earsplitting crack of timber. She hit the deck hard. In trying to right herself, she discovered the floor pitched at an angle. Muffled shouts and screams coming from above.

  Zayda reached for her scimitar.

  The splintering crack of wood brought Peyne out of a sound sleep. He stood abruptly, bumping his head on the low ceiling.

  “Fuck!”

  He bent over, rubbing his head, blinking the stars from his eyes. He stood, took a step, and went down.

  Was the floor at some strange angle? He was drunk again. That must be it. Where was he?

  He remembered. Aboard ship. He was sober.

  Peyne pulled on his boots as he listened to sailors shouting above. The all too familiar clang on clang of sword blades sent a stab of panic through him. He strapped on his rapier, dagger hanging from the belt on the other side, and rushed up the steps two at a time to the main deck.

  Lanterns and torches cast flickering light over the chaos on deck. Another ship had smashed broadside at an intercept angle up against the Pride of Klaar. Black-clad men with scimitars boiled over the gunwale, leaping down to the Pride of Klaar’s deck to clash with Arnol and his crew. The attackers’ faces were wrapped in black cloth, with only a narrow slit for the eyes. The two groups collided with the ring of steel, shouts of rage and pain as men went down on both sides.

  Peyne drew his rapier but made no move to join the fray. He found himself torn between wanting to be helpful and the desire to save his own skin. He watched Arnol lead a line of pikemen into the mass of attackers, attempting to drive them back. Pikes pierced throats and chests and limbs, the blood spraying so thick over the deck, the men were slipping in it.

  No, Peyne definitely didn’t want any part of that.

  He backed toward the quarterdeck, intending to climb the steps and put himself above the fighting. He never had the chance. The tide of battle shifted, and a wave of bodies slammed into him. He was knocked to the deck and lost himself among the legs. He tried to rise, but bodies crowded from every direction, sending him back down again.

  Somebody tripped over him, fell on top. This caused a chain reaction, and more bodies piled up on top of the others. The din of battle still raged all around, but all Peyne could see were legs and feet.

  He pushed his way out of the pile and crawled fast across the deck. When he reached an opening in the melee, he lurched to his feet just in time to see one of the black-clad attackers rushing at him, sword raised, screaming a savage war cry.

  Peyne brought up the rapier for a parry. Metal rang. He readied a thrust, but again the throng of combatants washed over him. Arnol’s pikemen pressed in, looking to stem the tide, and Peyne was caught up in it. A pike slid right past him and sank into the belly of an attacker. A different attacker swung his scimitar.

  Peyne ducked, and the blade raked the face of a sailor behind him. The man screamed agony and dropped his pike, hands going up to staunch the blood spraying from his face.

  Peyne backed away, bumped into somebody behind him, turned, and saw it was another of the attackers. He was too close for a proper blade thrust, so he punched hard with his sword hand, the knuckle guard smashing into the man’s face. Peyne heard and felt teeth and bone crack. The attacker staggered back, eyes crossing.

  The battle swirled around him, knocking him back and forth until by dumb luck it spit him out near the steps up to the quarterdeck. He ran toward them, looked up when he heard a woman’s voice shouting in fury.

  Emma stood with her back to the ship’s wheel, a long dagger in each hand, fighting gypsy fashion. Rips in her clothing, braid pulled loose. The helmsman hung limp over the wheel, blood dripping down his arms. Two of the attackers moved cautiously toward Emma. A third lay dead at her feet. She obviously had no intention of making it easy for them.

  Peyne flew up the steps to the quarterdeck.

  One of the men in black leapt at Emma, scimitar slashing. The other turned on Peyne.

  Emma caught the blade of the scimitar with crossed daggers, blocking it past her as she sidestepped, spinning with surprising grace and speed, slashing across the man’s throat just under the ear. Blood splattered as the man screamed and stumbled back.

  The attacker approached cautiously, scimitar up and ready. Peyne took up the stance his fencing instructor had taught him years ago for receiving an attack. Peyne had little experience in battle. Men pressing in on him from every direction was one of the most disorienting experiences of his life. He felt slightly more confident one on one.

  Slightly.

  The clash of blades rang across the quarterdeck as Peyne and the marauder exchanged thrusts and parries. Peyne was playing his game now, and it was one of patience, watching and waiting for an opening. A quick thrust caught the man on the wrist. Another parry and thrust, and he jabbed the man a shallow gash on the shoulder. Within ten seconds, the man bled from four different wounds, all infuriating insect stings.

  The man in black lost any semblance of poise, screamed, and charged wildly, swinging the scimitar at Peyne’s head. The exact lapse in discipline Peyne had been waiting for. He ducked underneath the scimitar and thrust, extending fully, his thin blade sinking deep into his opponent’s belly.

  The man grunted, slid off the blade, and crumbled to the deck.

  Peyne glanced at Emma. In the time it had taken him to dispatch his opponent, Emma had killed another three, the bodies in a semicircle around her as she brought up her twin daggers, eyes darting for the next attacker. Peyne considered. Perhaps sport-fencing tactics were not the most appropriate for actual combat.

  An earsplitting scrape and splintering crack drew their attention, the deck lurching under their feet. Was the ship breaking apart? A row of men on the enemy vessel used long wooden poles to push off from the Pride of Klaar.

  Three short blasts on a horn, and the men in black began a fighting withdrawal toward their ship.

  Emma scanned the scene, eyes intense. “We’ve got to take their ship.”

  “Take their ship?” Peyne said incredulously. “Let the bastards go, I say, and good riddance.”

  She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him nose to nose. “Idiot. Their battering ram is below the waterline. The sea is filling the holds right now. The other ship is the only thing holding us up. They withdraw, and we go down.”

  “Then we should probably take their ship,” Peyne said.

  “An astute observation. Pass the word to Arnol. I have to make sure everyone is out of the upper cabins.” She left at a run, not waiting for his reaction.

  Peyne looked at the mayhem on the main deck below. He wasn’t eager to reenter the fray, but that’s where Arnol was, and Peyne didn’t want to go down with the ship. He sped down the stairs and skirted the edge of battle until he found Arnol, egging on his pikemen.

  “Emma says we have to take their ship,” Peyne shouted over the din of clashing arms.

  “I’ve already given the order.” The captain gestured to a group of sailors aft.

  They were casting lines onto the other ship, grappling hooks catching against the gunwale. Sailors lined up to haul on the lines, drawing the enemy ship closer. Men in black rushed to cast off the grappling hooks almost as fast as they flew across from the Pride of Klaar. Crossbow bolts flew back and forth. An agonized scream whenever one of the bolts found its mark, bodies tumbling over the side, splashing into the gap between vessels.

  Some of Arnol’s men swung on ropes out of the rigging to land among the men on the other ship, blades flashing. Slowly, the sailors manning the grappling hooks pulled the opposing ship within a few feet.

  Out of nowhere, the sailors produced a half-dozen wide planks, laying them across the gunwales of both vessels as makeshift bridges. The other ship was lower in the water, and the planks angled downward.

  “Now, now, now!” screamed Arnol. “Everyone goes! Get the lead out of your backsides! Nobody stays!”

  The sailors swarmed across, screaming desperate war cries. Three seconds later, Peyne stood alone on the main deck. No. Not quite alone. The mortally wounded quivered and moaned around him. He wondered briefly if anything could be done for them. The deck was thick and slippery with blood.

  A scream of pain caught his attention. He turned and saw one of the attackers being stabbed by a shorter figure. The man clutched at his guts, staggered back, and fell.

  He recognized the shorter figure as the Fyrian woman. A dozen dead men in black lay in a circle around her. Blood splattered across her face and hands. None of it appeared to be hers. She stood calm, uninjured amid the carnage.

  Peyne noticed the other Fyrian’s body lying among the dead. He’d been a rude asshole, and Peyne couldn’t summon any remorse at seeing his corpse. But if the girl had been his consort, then his death might be disorienting for her.

  “Come on,” he called to her. “We’ve got to get off this ship.” Not that he was eager to board the other vessel. He could only hope Arnol and his men were winning.

  The woman ignored him, went to the body of the other Fyrian, and frantically searched through his clothing.

  Peyne took her by the arm. “We’ve got to go now!”

  She jerked away, jabbering at him harshly in Fyrian. He didn’t understand a word but recognized the tone.

  He backed away, forced himself to speak calmly. “We can’t stay. The ship is going to sink.” He gestured at the vessel around him, then mimed with his hand the ship going down.

  She looked at him for a long moment, face blank, then turned and jogged away.

  Peyne blinked. “Hey!”

  She took the stairs down, disappearing below the deck. A voice in Peyne’s head said, Leave her. If she wants to drown, that’s her business.

  But he found himself running after her, calling for her to come back.

  He followed her footfalls two decks down, came off the stairs into knee-deep water. He found her slamming a shoulder against a cabin door.

  “Forget it,” Peyne told her. “It’s locked, and there’s nothing in there worth drowning for anyway. Can we please go?”

  With sudden rage and frustration, she slammed her sword blade into the door. A scream that was half-growl tore from her throat.

  Peyne stepped back, startled. She turned to him, eyes so fierce Peyne thought she might take a swipe at him next. She held the hilt of the scimitar with a death grip.

  Her gaze fell to the dagger at his belt, her hand darting out and snatching it before Peyne could even blink.

  He grabbed at the empty sheath. “Hey!”

  She’s fast!

  She turned back to the door again, bent to work the iron lock with the dagger tip. Peyne opened his mouth to object again, but the ship groaned and creaked, the deck tilting under his feet.

  A small utterance of triumph from the girl as the lock clicked open. She pushed the door inward.

  A rush of water tore through the corridor and slammed into them. Peyne lost his footing and went under, the water sweeping him into the girl. They tumbled together into the cabin. There was a brief moment of disorientation, Peyne trying to figure which way was up. He surfaced at last, sputtering and coughing, salt water stinging his eyes.

  The water was chest deep. It there hadn’t been a whale-oil lamp hanging from the ceiling in the corner, they would have been in total darkness. The thought of being belowdecks and blind on a sinking ship terrified him.

  Enough. I’m leaving and to blazes with her.

  She surfaced near him, gasping for air. She grinned, relief in her eyes as she held up what she’d been looking for, the small scepter thing Peyne had seen before in the other Fyrian’s possession. She risked her life for that? A trinket?

  Now that she had what she wanted, she seemed just as eager to depart as Peyne. She struggled against the current, the water still coming into the cabin, up to her chin now. Peyne followed. They climbed the stairs to the deck, the water foaming up after them. It rose faster now. The Pride of Klaar wouldn’t last much longer.