swayed with natural grace as she picked up a discarded cloth to cover her nakedness.
I gestured the rapier.
“The commander?”
“Oh, Lango is in there with his painted boys. You will have no trouble with him. Your men will destroy this army with ease.”
“Mayhap,” I said. I went across to the inner opening which was fastened with more cloth-of-gold. The girl picked up a rapier and by the way she handled the blade it was clear she had used weapons before. She smiled at me.
“But, I think, Jikai, you will let me deal with him.”
“He is of concern to me only as an enemy of Vallia.”
“So ho! A patriot. I had thought all patriots long since fled. Your name, Jikai?”
“As to that, I have been called Jak the Drang. And you?”
“Lahal, Jak the Drang. You may call me Jilian.”
“Lahal, Jilian. Now, for the sweet sake of Opaz, let us get on and do this Lango’s business for him.”
The close atmosphere with the lamps shining evenly, the long lines of drapes against the tent walls, the gold and silver goblets spilled across the rugs and the wine soaking into the priceless fabrics, the stink of blood, the sprawled bodies of the men, clung about us. Her coolness both amazed and amused me — the amusement a genuine feeling, the amazement stupid in a world where I had already encountered Jikai Vuvushis — Battle Maidens.
I noticed without comment that Jilian selected from among the pile of tumbled clothes a red length of cloth to wrap around herself, ignoring the lustrous golds and silvers, the greens and blues.
She called me Jikai, which in the connotation she used meant great warrior, and understood that I commanded men. She would get a shock, I thought, when she discovered I had merely three cavalry regiments with me. But all that must wait. We moved together toward the inner opening.
Her face was pale. I thought that to be a natural part of her beauty and not brought on by the circumstances. There was color there, a palest tinge of rose along the cheekbones. Her face was artfully formed, low-browed, wide, with deep eyes that appeared in the lamps’ glow to burn with the desire to exact revenge. Well, there were red and angry weal marks on her buttocks and thighs, and I did not doubt she felt she had good cause to give back what had been taken out on her body.
Her dark hair reached low over that broad white forehead, adding a luster to the eyes, giving an air of intenseness to her whole face, the features clear and pleasing, the mouth warm and red and mobile. She moved with grace. We stood together by the entrance and from beyond the muffling drapes of cloth-of-gold the sound of light laughter reached us.
Jilian’s rapier flickered like the tail of a leem.
“They laugh, those rasts. But now we will smoke them out.”
“We must hurry. There is a whole army encamped about us and there will be many guards.”
Her dark eyes flayed into me, and I could feel the pressure of her thoughts.
“And do you, Jak the Drang, Jikai, fear an army?”
“Assuredly so — when I have other irons in the fire.”
She reached out and ripped away the cloth-of-gold.
“Then let us heat this iron, together, and soon!”
Chapter Eight
Kov Colun Mogper of Mursham
Wherever Jilian had sprung from, the people there had taught her swordplay. Also, and this I found highly intriguing, she stopped to pick up the thick black whip the slave-master had wielded. When we burst through into the inner tented enclosure of the army commander, Fat Lango, it was the whip which, cracking out like a striking risslaca tongue, barbed, lashed him into painful movement. He shrieked. The lash coiled and lifted and struck, and again Fat Lango shrieked.
Jilian laughed.
Her teeth were very white and even.
The guards here were apim, slothful, over-dressed and arrogant to the point of stupidity. They did not interfere as Jilian lashed Lango.
And, still, I carried the Krozair longsword scabbarded over my back.
The painted and perfumed
I gestured the rapier.
“The commander?”
“Oh, Lango is in there with his painted boys. You will have no trouble with him. Your men will destroy this army with ease.”
“Mayhap,” I said. I went across to the inner opening which was fastened with more cloth-of-gold. The girl picked up a rapier and by the way she handled the blade it was clear she had used weapons before. She smiled at me.
“But, I think, Jikai, you will let me deal with him.”
“He is of concern to me only as an enemy of Vallia.”
“So ho! A patriot. I had thought all patriots long since fled. Your name, Jikai?”
“As to that, I have been called Jak the Drang. And you?”
“Lahal, Jak the Drang. You may call me Jilian.”
“Lahal, Jilian. Now, for the sweet sake of Opaz, let us get on and do this Lango’s business for him.”
The close atmosphere with the lamps shining evenly, the long lines of drapes against the tent walls, the gold and silver goblets spilled across the rugs and the wine soaking into the priceless fabrics, the stink of blood, the sprawled bodies of the men, clung about us. Her coolness both amazed and amused me — the amusement a genuine feeling, the amazement stupid in a world where I had already encountered Jikai Vuvushis — Battle Maidens.
I noticed without comment that Jilian selected from among the pile of tumbled clothes a red length of cloth to wrap around herself, ignoring the lustrous golds and silvers, the greens and blues.
She called me Jikai, which in the connotation she used meant great warrior, and understood that I commanded men. She would get a shock, I thought, when she discovered I had merely three cavalry regiments with me. But all that must wait. We moved together toward the inner opening.
Her face was pale. I thought that to be a natural part of her beauty and not brought on by the circumstances. There was color there, a palest tinge of rose along the cheekbones. Her face was artfully formed, low-browed, wide, with deep eyes that appeared in the lamps’ glow to burn with the desire to exact revenge. Well, there were red and angry weal marks on her buttocks and thighs, and I did not doubt she felt she had good cause to give back what had been taken out on her body.
Her dark hair reached low over that broad white forehead, adding a luster to the eyes, giving an air of intenseness to her whole face, the features clear and pleasing, the mouth warm and red and mobile. She moved with grace. We stood together by the entrance and from beyond the muffling drapes of cloth-of-gold the sound of light laughter reached us.
Jilian’s rapier flickered like the tail of a leem.
“They laugh, those rasts. But now we will smoke them out.”
“We must hurry. There is a whole army encamped about us and there will be many guards.”
Her dark eyes flayed into me, and I could feel the pressure of her thoughts.
“And do you, Jak the Drang, Jikai, fear an army?”
“Assuredly so — when I have other irons in the fire.”
She reached out and ripped away the cloth-of-gold.
“Then let us heat this iron, together, and soon!”
Chapter Eight
Kov Colun Mogper of Mursham
Wherever Jilian had sprung from, the people there had taught her swordplay. Also, and this I found highly intriguing, she stopped to pick up the thick black whip the slave-master had wielded. When we burst through into the inner tented enclosure of the army commander, Fat Lango, it was the whip which, cracking out like a striking risslaca tongue, barbed, lashed him into painful movement. He shrieked. The lash coiled and lifted and struck, and again Fat Lango shrieked.
Jilian laughed.
Her teeth were very white and even.
The guards here were apim, slothful, over-dressed and arrogant to the point of stupidity. They did not interfere as Jilian lashed Lango.
And, still, I carried the Krozair longsword scabbarded over my back.
The painted and perfumed
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