officers to meet to discuss the battle strategy.”
“Oh,” Cyrus said. “Right. I’ll need a few minutes to get dressed and I’ll be right along.” The young boy nodded and ran off down the hall, while Martaina stood still. “I thought I told you to get some rest. Were you out here all night?”
“Yep,” she said, backing herself against the wall opposite his door. “Aisling was with me at first but …” The elf’s face tightened and her eyebrow raised in amusement. “She left after your first round of … nocturnal calisthenics.”
Cyrus froze. “You heard … She heard it too? Damn.” He felt a sharp stab of guilt. “I suppose I’m going to have to deal with a scorned dark elf at some point.”
“I doubt she’s murderous about it,” Martaina said. “But I would say she is disappointed. The Baroness, on the other hand, sounded very pleased-”
“Oh, stop it,” Cyrus said. “Just because you’ve appointed yourself my bodyguard doesn’t mean-”
“I’m your bodyguard?” Martaina laughed. “I’d be hard-pressed to protect you from all the threats you face, let alone the wife of an enemy you killed last month whom you just invited into your bed. I’ll do my best to watch out for threats, but if I’m your bodyguard, I demand you make my job easier.”
Cyrus pasted a fake smile on. “If you’re not my bodyguard, why are you lurking outside my door at all hours? Are you some sort of gratuitous peeper?” He looked down at the door handle. “Should I hang something over the keyhole in order to get some privacy?”
Martaina let out a noise of faint amusement. “Unless you plan to stuff a sock in both your mouth and the Baroness’s, I’ll still hear you.”
“Thanks,” Cyrus said. He shut the door and paced back into the bedroom, snugging the blanket around his shoulders. He opened the door and found the Baroness waiting for him, a white sheet lying across her lower body. She jumped in surprise when she saw him, and he noted again the series of scars that ran across her arms and chest, rises in the flesh that looked as though skin had been torn in strips from her arms. Wide cuts crisscrossed the surface of her stomach, angry red lines that looked out of place on her pale belly.
“Was someone at the door?” she asked.
He let the blanket slip to the floor and slid into bed next to her. She remained sitting, giving him a full view of her back, which was wretched in its appearance-great patches of skin and meat seemed to be missing, as though parts of her flesh had been torn out, ripping the musculature from underneath as well. He ran a single finger down her spine and she stiffened, and he saw her shoulders shake as she exhaled. “Please,” she said, “don’t touch me there … don’t look. It’s horrible.”
“Have you looked at mine?” He sat up and leaned forward to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder. She turned her head to see him and he leaned forward further. “I’ve been in a fight or two in my life that left me with scars.”
He felt her hand upon his back as it slid down below his shoulder blades. “These … what are these from?” she asked.
“From whippings,” he said, and felt himself tense at the memory, “from when I was at the Society. It’s how they disciplined you when you got out of line or defied orders.” He reached out and took her other hand in his. “Or when you ran away.”
“Ran away from what?”
“From battle.” He stroked her hand with his, intertwined his fingers with hers. “From the Society. From anything, really.”
“You ran away from the Society?” He felt the cool touch of her fingertips go lower, still brushing the thicker scar tissue. There was quite a lot of it.
“Once.” He rubbed the palm of her hand with his fingers, felt the smoothness of it save for a few callouses that had formed in the last month. “The first year I was there. I got quite a few of these whipping scars that year.”
“How old were you?” She leaned in and put her head on his shoulder.
He felt her warm breath on his neck and he wrapped his arm around her. “Six.” She jerked her head away and looked up at him, pity in her eyes. “I was six when I went to the Society.”
She leaned her head back down on him. “How long before your meeting?”
He ran his fingers down her side, causing her to shiver. “I could leave at any time.”
She pulled her head off his shoulder, her long brown hair loose and framing her face, flowing down either side of it. He caught a sparkle from her green eyes. “Any time? Meaning in an hour?”
“I could wait an hour,” he said, and caressed her again. “Easily an hour.”
Her hand slipped below the sheets and he felt the heat, the pressure. “My, my,” she said with a cluck of the tongue, “you do seem to be a man of infinite vigor.” She kissed him again, briefly.
“It’s been a while,” he said. “I doubt I could keep going at this pace forever.” She kissed him again, and he broke it off after a moment. “Although, I confess that I’m feeling enthusiastic enough to try. I had forgotten how much fun this could be.”
“Mmmhmm,” she said, tracing a line of kisses down his shoulder. “But if you never leave this bed, won’t your army eventually leave without you?”
He felt a slow smile spread across his face. “I am the General, you know. My army doesn’t move without me.”
She leaned closer and kissed his lips gently. “And if the Count sends for you again?”
“Martaina will tell them to go away,” Cyrus said, letting her kisses consume him, returning them with all the passion and intensity he’d had for her last night. He turned his shoulders and bore her gently to the mattress, letting his desire for her carry them both away again.
Chapter 16
“General Davidon,” Count Ranson said brusquely as Cyrus walked into his war room an hour later. The Count stood behind a table in the center of the room, some of the other Sanctuary officers-Longwell, Curatio, Terian and J’anda-as well a few of the Count’s lieutenants were scattered around him. “I hope you don’t mind, but we did start without you.” Cyrus noted just a hint of contrition in the Count’s pronouncement.
“I don’t mind at all,” Cyrus said. “I apologize for my tardiness, but it has been a rather long … uh … journey.” He shot a look at Martaina, who snickered behind him. “Anyway, why don’t we get to it?” Cyrus walked to the massive table, a circular one that had a diameter greater than the height of a man and looked down at it. Painted on the surface was a map of the Kingdom of Galbadien, along with parts of Actaluere and Syloreas. The map ended at the beginning of the peninsula that contained the Endless Bridge back to Arkaria and also cut off the land of Syloreas above a mountain range. “Very impressive,” Cyrus said. “I bet it would also be good for setting up a dollhouse in the middle and then playing-”
“If I may,” the Count said tightly, bringing a long stick out to point to the open plains above Vernadam, which was marked on the map with a small, carved stone castle roughly three inches tall. It was a remarkable approximation for the size, even sitting on a small, green-painted rise on the table. “They are encamped approximately here. They will meet us in battle tomorrow, as it has been arranged,” he swept the stick down an inch, “here. The whole of the plains is relatively flat ground, as such things go-some sloping hills but nothing too disagreeable for fighting.”
“What kind of tactics have the Syloreans been using?” Longwell asked, his eyes focused on the map table.
“Less of the usual,” Ranson said. “They haven’t been engaging us on horseback nearly as much as they have in the past, preferring to use their footmen-infantry, I believe I heard your men call them,” he said with a nod to Cyrus, “and leading with their bloody magical mercenaries.”
“How has that played against our dragoons?” Longwell asked, the fingers of his right hand resting on his chin, deep in thought.
“Not well,” Ranson went on, “thanks to that bloody half-man. He holds his hand out when the dragoons charge and half our number are blasted from the backs of their horses, and their animals tend to go into a rage,
