Chapter Nine

Faelan couldn’t comprehend such savagery. Blood and burning flesh fouled the air, overpowering her wolf senses. Why had her people done this? She padded through the wreck of Duncan’s camp and found him inside his ruined tent. While his men struggled to secure the canvas, Duncan cradled a body dressed in cadet livery. He laid his cadet gently on the ground, stood, and stalked into his chamber. Faelan darted after. No one stopped her. Why would they? She was the field marshal’s dog.

Duncan stood in the center of a storm of spilled paper and overturned furniture, still as a statue, brittle enough to break, his hands fisted so tight his knuckles whitened. He smelled different. His scent had undergone a subtle change, a burning primal ferocity, Faelan couldn’t identify. Smoke shimmered in the air around him as if the fire came from within his body. Sudden dread consumed her.

She must have made some sound because Duncan’s head swiveled in her direction, his striking sapphire eyes blazed. For a moment, the wildness in his searing gaze threatened. Faelan’s ruff stood on end. A whimper slipped from her throat. Duncan blinked. The wild menace in his gaze evaporated. He dropped to his knees and gathered Faelan in his arms.

“Azure,” Duncan whispered into her dense fur. “I feared I would find you dead.”

His voice cracked. Great wracking sobs shook his shoulders. Faelan fought the urge to change. Her enemy touched her heart as no one else. She longed for hands to smooth his hair, for arms to hold him. Most of all, she longed for lips to kiss away his tears. She licked his salty cheek instead.

Duncan sniffed, released Faelan from his fierce embrace, and scrubbed both fists over his eyes. He hesitated, opening and closing his mouth several times. “You are right, Azure.” His voice shook. “Weeping does no one a service.”

He stood, tugged the hem of his jacket down, and touched the hilt of his saber, a nervous ritual Faelan had watched Duncan perform many times. She followed him outside where four soot-smeared cadets all wearing identical lost expressions waited. Blue-jacket troopers stood alongside lathered horses. Infantry crowded in around them. Duncan’s body tensed. He drew a sharp breath and straightened his spine.

One of the blue-jackets shouted, "When do we ride, sir?"

Irritation burned across Duncan’s fine features so fast only Faelan noticed. He made eye contact with the trooper who had called out to him.

“We do not.” Without a hint of his usual verbal hesitation, Duncan overrode their protest. “We do not ride. It is what they expect. We will exact retribution for today’s atrocity. But our enemy will not dictate our actions. I made a mistake in judgment today.” He waved his hand encompassing the wrecked camp. “I will not do so again.”

Silence answered. Faelan saw respect replace anger on the faces of men gathered around Duncan’s tent. Whatever dissatisfaction these men had held him in before from this hour they were Duncan’s men.

“Our enemy will taste our justice, but not today. Today we will honor our fallen. We will set our camp in order. We will go about the business of a disciplined army, not an assemblage of knee-jerk reactionaries.”

“Colonel Isem," Duncan snapped. "Where is General Rickman?"

The young Ionian colonel stepped forward. Blood and soot stained the man’s uniform. He coughed into his hand clearing soot from his throat. “I’m not sure, sir. He left camp soon after you did. Said he was going hunting. The raiding party must have cut him off.”

Duncan stared at the man for several seconds, his jaw worked while he chose his words. “Your actions today are commendable, Colonel. I will mention you in my day book. Take charge of the reorganization, please. Our strike force returns with our wounded at any moment. They will require food, shelter, and medical assistance. See to it.”

“But, sir, General Rickman—" Colonel Isem’s protest melted under Duncan’s glare.

“Bird.” Duncan turned to the blue-jacket sergeant major. “Triage the wounded, please. Catalog and memorialize the dead for reading at a mass bonfire tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lady Bird, take some men and round up the horses and any livestock you can find, please.”

The woman gave Duncan a crisp two-finger salute, hauled herself back into her saddle, and nudged the horse into motion.

“Eamon.” Duncan glanced at the elf’s wounded arm. “Can you inventory provisions?”

“I may borrow a cadet.”

“Take two if you need them.” Duncan glanced around at the surrounding knot of men. “Direct all reports to Colonel Isem, please.”

Duncan crossed to his surviving cadets, unbuckled his saber, and handed it to Roland. “Roland is your senior, now,” He said to the boys. His voice lost the stern edge. His fiery gaze cooled. “Obey him as you would me. Roland, assign someone to assist Eamon, please.” Duncan turned toward his tent. “And see I am not disturbed.”

Faelan followed Duncan into his quarters. He righted a table and chair, and fished around in the rubble until he came up with several pieces of paper. More rummaging yielded a pen and inkpot. Dipping the nib into the ink, Duncan attacked the blank page. Faelan curled up on the corner of his half-off the frame mattress, rested her head on her paws, and watched.

Night fell. Roland tiptoed in carrying a tray of food, but Duncan paused in his frenetic scribbling only long enough to set the tray on the ground.

Morning dawned. Another tray came and went followed by another and another. By the evening of the second day, word had spread through camp. The field marshal was not eating. Anxious soldiers gathered around the command tent. Allied generals demanded audience. Roland stood strong. On the morning of the third day the boy’s determination wavered, but Eamon and the Red Fist arrived reinforcing the cadet’s resolve.

Faelan stayed by Duncan’s side. She missed scheduled meetings with her brother. She didn’t care. Something in Duncan tugged at something deep and instinctual within her. She couldn’t ignore it. She didn’t want to ignore it. Once in a while, she’d put her paws on his desk and peek at his work.

“Down, Azure,” he would say, and Faelan would curl up on the edge of his mattress until the steady scratch of his pen lulled her back to sleep.

On the morning of the fourth day, the absence of the pen’s scratching startled Faelan awake. She leapt up. Duncan sat at the desk massaging his temples with ink-stained fingertips. She padded over to him. His eyes were feverishly bright, but he reached out to her. He smiled when she licked his hand.

“I finished.” He sounded weary and euphoric. “And this time it will work.”

Rolling up the pages, he stood, stretched, and stepped outside. The crowd around his tent had grown into hundreds. Duncan blinked against the sunlight and glanced around surprised.

“D-D-Do you not all have things to do?”

From his spot near the entrance Bird drawled, “After setting the camp aright, sir, your orders were—sketchy. So…no, we don’t.”

Duncan blinked. “Isem?”

“I’m here, sir.”

“I expect a report in three hours, please. Roland, wake me in two.”

Duncan caught an apple Eamon tossed him and bit into it. He scanned the crowd. Spotting the corps head blacksmith, he crossed to the smith and thrust the roll of papers into his hands. “Can you build this?”

“If you can draw it, I can build it.” The smith unrolled the plans, frowned. “What the hell is it?”

****

Faelan stole from the allied camp at dusk. No one paid much attention, but she made sure the soldiers saw her sniffing around the trees near the edge of camp before she loped into the woods. Quinn must be frantic. What explanation justified missing meetings? Could she tell her brother their peoples’ raid on Duncan’s camp sickened her? Could she say she couldn’t bear the sight of them? It was true, but it was not the truth. The truth was nothing could tear her from Duncan’s side. He needed her.

Mentally and physically exhausted Duncan fell asleep the moment his head hit his pillow. Four days without food or rest left dark bruises under his bright blue eyes. Dirt and blood streaked the uniform he had worn since the day of the raid. But unwashed and ripe as he was, Faelan’s need to press her body against his until their bones melted into one another nearly overwhelmed her. It took all her strength of will to leave his tent.

Her attachment to Duncan grew more dangerous every day. In the beginning, Faelan lusted after Duncan pure and simple. But things had changed. Events changed them. In the face of a tragedy that would have left her chief-men raging, Duncan proved himself a superior sort of man. A man Faelan longed to know.

She had once thought her people could stop Duncan’s army by disrupting his supply lines. How naïve she’d been then. Nothing short of death would stop him. Deep respect bordering on love swelled her heart when his fiery blue gaze held hers. Duncan’s death was no longer an option, not for Faelan.

Her own behavior felt ridiculous. How could a mature woman fall in love with a man who did not know she existed and never could? Night after night, the need to betray him warred with her desire to kiss his lips, slightly parted in sleep, and brush the tangled sun-bleached hair off his brow.

Forced to remain in wolf form, Faelan settled for licking Duncan’s cheek. He smiled in his sleep. She told herself he dreamed of her, the other her. Then she felt jealous of her dream self. Ridiculous! Deep in her soul, Faelan wanted Duncan to know her, the real her. The realization terrified her.

Duncan promised his men justice. What did justice mean for him? Faelan’s experience did not extend to men like Duncan. Somehow, he believed his drawings represented justice for his people, but how could pictures exact punishment?

It was dark by the time Faelan reached the appointed meeting place. A small fire burned near the cave’s mouth. Nicholas squatted beside it, turning a spitted rabbit over the flame. The scent of roasting meat drifted to her nostrils making her stomach growl, but she trotted past Nicholas into the cave. As she shifted back to human form, Nicholas stole up behind her, resting his hands on her bare shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Faelan stepped back, not retreating, but not caring for his touch. “Where is Quinn?”

“He’s hunting rabbits. He can’t carry more than one at a time and he thought you might be hungry. I told him he was nuts with all the food our enemy has, but you know Quinn. He’s a nurturer.”

Nicholas closed the distance Faelan had put between them, dropped a kiss on the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. “I’m here because I’ve missed you.”

Faelan stepped out of his embrace again, reaching for her robe, but Nicholas reached it first. He held the robe out so she could slip her arms in. The silky fabric whispered sensually over her skin cool where Nicholas’s hands were warm. He slipped his arms around her waist pulling her against his hips. His arousal pressed against her buttocks.

“Feel how much I missed you.” He nuzzled her neck, nipped her skin. “Their camp…was so easy. Almost no resistance at all, just sick men and a bunch of half trained boys. You were right about everything.”

Faelan twisted out of his embrace. “You attacked his camp? Why?”

“His.” Nicholas’s face darkened. His lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “Don’t you mean the enemy? I’ll tell you why. They have food. We’re starving. This is war, Lannie. Did you forget?"

“Since when do the Descendants make war on invalids and children?”

The muscle in Nicholas’s jaw clenched. His eyes glittered. “Some of the men got a little out of hand. It happens.”

Faelan bet it didn’t happen in Duncan’s army.

Grabbing her by the sash, he hauled her toward him. Crushing her against his chest, Nicholas captured her mouth in a brutal demanding kiss.

“This enemy commander has turned your head, turned you against your own people. Any fool can see that, but I know you.” He fumbled her robe open and squeezed her breast pinching the nipple almost painfully.

Faelan didn’t think. Her hand snapped out landing with a satisfying smack.

Nicholas shoved her away. “You faithless bitch.”

Faelan struggled to her feet. “We are over, Nicholas. Do you hear me? Over. If you touch me again, I will change for you. I’ll change and rip out your throat.” Cinching her robe tight around her, she stalked out. Nicholas growled something sounding very much like “the hell we are,” but Faelan didn’t care. Let him have his delusions.

Quinn glanced up and offered her his calm smile. He must have overheard her argument with Nicholas, but there was no reproof in his gaze. “I was worried about you.”

Faelan hugged herself chafing her hands up and down her arms. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get away. Come run with me?”

Her brother came to her, pressed a kiss to her temple. “You’re too much in wolf form. What do you say to a walk?”

It was nice walking on two legs. Faelan watched her brother out of the corner of her eye. Some Shifters believed being in beast form harmed the mind. No one knew for sure, but Quinn was a true believer.

“Look at those stars,” Quinn said, gazing up into the bejeweled night sky.

Faelan followed her brother’s gaze. She drew a deep cleansing breath. God, she missed Quinn’s easy acceptance. “Do you ever wonder which one is Earth?”

“I’ve studied the ancestor’s star charts. I don’t believe these are the same stars he traveled.”

“We have star charts? Why don’t I know about star charts?”

“You’re a woman.” At least Quinn had the grace to look embarrassed. “It’s written.”

Quinn considered her question for a moment and shrugged. “It’s written that the witches on gods’ hill hold the key to the stars. They have to be the same women as these Great Ladies.” He pulled his gaze from the stars to meet her angry stare. “What kept you away from us so long?”

“I couldn’t leave. Not after what Nicholas did. How could Uncle sanction raiding Duncan’s camp?”

Unable to meet her eyes, Quinn’s gaze strayed to the surrounding forest. “Our people are starving. You spoke of pens filled with livestock. It didn’t take much convincing. And I have to admit, we are eating better.”

Faelan raked her hands through her cropped hair. “Do you know what Nicholas did?”

“He got results. He—”

“Murdered children,” Faelan glared at her brother. “Boys so young they couldn’t raise fuzz on their cheeks. He burned invalids in their beds.” She went still and whispered. “He wept.”

“Nicholas?”

“Aimery—Duncan—the field marshal, wept for those poor dead boys, for those terrible charred bodies. I couldn’t believe my people committed such an atrocity."

Pulling Faelan into his arms, Quinn plucked a stray leaf from her hair. “You call him Aimery now?” he asked as if none of the rest mattered.

Faelan nuzzled against Quinn seeking the comfort of touch. “The raid was a mistake, Quinn.” The blue-jacket cavalry are professional soldiers sponsored by the Great Ladies. This was just another job to them until Nicholas made it personal.”

Quinn’s hands began kneading the tight muscles in her back. “So they work for the witches? Tell me about the field marshal? Does he have weaknesses we can exploit?

Faelan winced as her brother worked the kinks out of her back. “The infantry resents the cavalry. Their generals resent Duncan’s youth and his detached manner. They balk at his commands. But since the raid, they’d march into hell for him.”

“Detached in what way?”

“Don’t misunderstand. He’s acutely aware of what goes on in his camp.” Faelan gave a small shrug. “But he gets lost in his thoughts, and he never stops thinking. Although he loves his men, he has trouble remembering their names. Even within his inner circle, he listens more than talks, and he suffers none of the usual male vices. In fact, he lives so circumspectly his fellows make sport of him. Taken together, these differences make him seem unapproachable.”

“And boring.” Quinn racked his arms in a theatrical yawn.

“I don’t find him so.”

He chucked her under the chin. “I’m sure you don’t.

“Oh. I forgot.” Quinn favored her with his best superior male look. “I know something you don’t. Nicholas brought back one of the field marshal’s fancy maps, and guess what’s on it. You never will so I’ll tell you. Right smack in the middle marked in red there’s a place called Elhar.”

Faelan gave him a blank look.

“Elhar means gods’ hill in an old earth language.” Excitement danced in Quinn’s eyes. “This is the best part. Our location is marked too. Thanks to the field marshal’s notes, we know where the real enemy is. We’re going to slip around the allied army and lay siege to Elhar. Then we’ll force the witches to give us our birthright.”

“I don’t believe in the witches.”

Quinn made a face. “Whatever. My real worry is that your Duncan knows or suspects our goal. It looks like he’s been using his army to push us away from this Elhar right from the start. And of course, I worry about you.” Quinn took her arms and turned her to face him. “You don’t need to spy for us anymore.”

“Don’t be stupid Quinn. If we’re stealing a march on Duncan, we’ll need inside information more than ever.

“No we don’t. Kill him while he sleeps and come back to us.”

Turning away, Faelan whispered, “I…can’t.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say. Look. Prearranged meetings aren’t going to work once we’re on the march. I’ll find you as I can.” Quinn came up behind her and squeezed her shoulder. “We’re going to home Earth, Lannie. Just you think about that.”

Faelan had thought about it, and the more she thought the less she believed. If these Great Ladies knew how to travel in the stars, why had they stayed on a world so far beneath their own?

Quinn’s head snapped to the left. His nostrils flared. “Do you smell that?”

Faelan turned, smiled. “Mmm…deer.”

“Makes my insides itch.” He grinned. “Do you still want to run?”