Part 7 (1/2)
Smoke filled the room. Above her, the ceiling groaned a warning just as one of the supporting joists cracked. Perfect. They'd survived a demon's machinations only to be killed by a collapsing roof.
She slid her hands under Silhara's arms and dragged him toward the door, uttering a stream of curses that would have made him applaud if he'd been conscious. The curses changed to coughs as smoke filled her lungs and obscured the cottage's interior. She aimed for the gray light of the open door, barely visible in the haze of smoke. Silhara was a slender, muscular man without a speck of extra padding on him, but he was dead weight unconscious and harder to drag than an anvil through mud.
Her shoulders clenched in protest, and sweat soaked the s.h.i.+rt she wore, as much from the exertion of dragging her husband through the door as from the heat of the fire. The fetid air smelled almost sweet when she finally got them both to safety and just in time.
A final booming crack, and the cottage roof collapsed in a giant cloud of dust and smoke, smothering the flames inside. The flattened structure revealed Acseh standing in the distance, staring at the ruins. She rubbed her eyes as if disbelieving of what she saw.
Shrouded in a fine coating of dirt, Martise dropped to her backside next to her p.r.o.ne husband and exhaled a long sigh. She lowered her hand so that it hovered just above his nose and mouth. His breath tickled her palm, and she breathed another relieved sigh, this one accompanied by tears.
Her blow hadn't killed him even if whatever Megiddo had done to him almost did. She'd take the image of the powerful Master of Crows reduced to a screaming, thras.h.i.+ng cipher to her death, certain neither old age nor mind sickness would lessen its clarity. She'd never made the mistake of a.s.suming him invincible. Their battle with the lich years earlier had confirmed that, but a man who could defeat a G.o.d seemed invulnerable in many ways. A demon king had shown her otherwise, and she'd hate him beyond immortality for it.
She jumped when Silhara groaned and reached up to gingerly touch the side of his head. ”What is wrong with you?” he said in a voice so scratchy he was almost incoherent. ”First you try to emasculate me by kicking my b.a.l.l.s into my throat and then you bash my head in.”
Martise's dry chuckle turned to outright laughter mixed with tears. He'd come back to her-beaten, b.l.o.o.d.y, exasperated and snappish. Very much the man she loved with all her heart.
She stroked his hair away from his face and temples, careful to avoid the swelling knot where the skillet had kissed him. ”You're a filthy mess,” she told him. He frowned at her, and somewhere in that black, black gaze, Martise saw a glimmer of something that made her s.h.i.+ver-horror. He blinked and it was gone, and a part of her hoped she imagined it.
”And you're beautiful,” he replied. ”Dirt suits you. So does my s.h.i.+rt.” He sat up with her help and felt the spot where she struck him. ”Ouch! Did you have to hit me that hard?” His scowl faded when he caught sight of the cottage. ”You knocked the house down too?”
She grasped his hand, laced her fingers through his and kissed his dusty knuckles. ”You and Megiddo did that.” She saw it again, that flicker of aversion she'd never seen before Megiddo's enchantment. ”What did he do to you, husband? I found you entranced, completely unaware of your surroundings. When I touched you, you went mad.”
Silhara's harsh features grew even harsher, colder. He stared at the deep scratches he'd inflicted on his arms and felt the ones on his neck. ”There is memory, and there is nightmare,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”Did I hurt you?” She shook her head, and his shoulders slumped a little before stiffening once more. ”Did he say anything to you?”
She shrugged, desperate to banish that strange look in his eyes but unable to figure out how, especially when he was as cryptic as he was now. ”Only that he gave you his story, and when you revived to call his name. He'd come to you.” She clutched his hand. ”Silhara, you can't battle him yet. Whatever he did surely weakened you. Maybe enough so that we can't escape here yet.”
He stood and lifted her with him until she rested in the circle of his arms. His beautiful hair was as matted and dirt-encrusted as hers was now. Never before had she wanted so badly to be in their bed at this moment with her sitting cross-legged behind him, combing out his long locks. If they made it back-when they made it back-she planned to spend hours doing just that and thanking kind G.o.ds for the chance to indulge in so simple and so fine a thing.
Silhara brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, and his lips tilted upward a little. ”Smears over smears. Somewhere under all that grit is skin I plan to taste when we return home.”
”Promises, promises,” she teased. She liked that he was as certain of their return as she was. Like her, he didn't allow himself the defeat of a ”no” or even a ”maybe.”
He gently patted her tangled hair. ”I won't need to fight him. Not anymore. Not with what I know.”
”What do you know?” Martise frowned. He'd retreated back to cryptic remarks. She regretted her question when his face paled.
”That cruelty is immeasurable.” He said it in almost the same hollow voice Megiddo possessed, and Martise recoiled in his arms. Silhara patted her back to rea.s.sure her. ”He said I only need to call his name?” She nodded.
He released her and stepped to one side. ”Megiddo,” he said in a low voice.
Martise almost leapt out of her skin when the demon spoke behind her. ”I am here.”
Silhara slowly turned to face Megiddo. The two eyed each other in silence, neither moving. Martise's mouth fell open when her husband suddenly inclined his head in a gesture of sincere respect. ”Megiddo Saruum,” he said in his ruined voice. ”I am Silhara of Neith, Master of Crows.”
She uttered a strangled gasp, too stunned to form sounds into words. Less than an hour earlier, they'd threatened to kill each other and the women trapped with them. Now, her husband not only greeted the demon with a deference he didn't bother to show G.o.ds by calling him King Megiddo, but voluntarily offered up his own name. Her earlier question bore even more significance.
What do you know?
Megiddo returned the gesture and added a salute, shocking Martise into further speechlessness. ”You're a worthy adversary. As I said earlier, my brothers and I could have used your help. Will you help me now?” His glaze slid to Acseh who refused to draw closer. ”Help us?”
Martise put her back to the demon king and stared hard at Silhara. ”What is going on?” she demanded in a furious whisper.
He gazed at her. ”The accounts are wrong. All of them. He was a man once, never a demon; only one who fought them. A brother in arms to four others. The historians lied about them, made demons of men who sacrificed themselves for the unknowing, the uncaring, and the ungrateful.”
She gawked at him. ”Are you sure?”
Silhara nodded. ”We trust the tomes too much sometimes. Remember Zafira's story? Amunsa almost destroyed the northern monarchs because of Berdikhan's betrayal, but their historians told a different tale.”
”But you controlled him with the sword.”
”That's because it's ensorcelled with necromantic magic stained by demon blood. I thought the greater magic was goetic, but it's necromantic.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the silent Wraith King. ”He's dead?”
Silhara followed her gaze. ”It would be a mercy if he was. He's only partially alive. A man split three ways with one part still lost.” He turned Martise back to face him. ”Do you trust me?”
She didn't hesitate. ”Always.”
He snorted at that. ”You know that isn't true.”
Martise arched an eyebrow at him, thrilled to see him more and more himself after the awful moments inside the cottage. ”I trust you when it counts most.”
He kissed her forehead and blew away the layer of grit coating his lips. ”A bath for us both when we return home.”
She clasped her hands behind her back to keep from clutching him and stopping him from drawing close to Megiddo. Silhara's magic was formidable, and he could easily defend himself, but Megiddo's sword was far more lethal than just a sharp edge wielded by a skilled fighter.
Silhara pointed to Acseh who'd approached cautiously, wary as a deer and ready to flee at the slightest twitch. ”Call your woman here.”
”She isn't mine.” Martise's eyebrows rose at the hint of longing in Megiddo's voice. Mistress of earth and heaven indeed. ”And she fears me now.”
”Not nearly as much as she fears me. Summon her. She needs to hear this.”
Acseh refused at first, backing away and shaking her head. Impatient with her antics, Silhara invoked a spell that sent his rough voice booming across the gray flatlands. ”Do you want to leave here or not?”
Martise hid her smile behind her hand when Acseh suddenly sprinted toward them, stopping just short of their gathering to hover behind the Wraith King. Her husband's methods weren't always subtle, but they were effective.
”Kind of you to finally join us, mistress,” Silhara snapped.
”Kind of you not to try and kill me, sorcerer,” Acseh shot back.
He grinned. ”Not from lack of trying. Thank your protector there.” He indicated Megiddo with a thrust of his chin.
Both he and Martise watched as Acseh edged a little closer to Megiddo, out of reach of the writhing robes but close enough to demonstrate her willingness to be near him, wary and guarded though she remained.
Silhara answered Megiddo's earlier question. ”I can cross you both to our time.” He held up a hand at Acseh's sharp inhalation and turned all his attention to Megiddo. ”You need to consider this. If you end up in my time, there's no guarantee either of us will ever find your body.”
”Find his body?” both Martise and Acseh said in unison.