Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 16

Zahirah stood on the very edge of the roof terrace, watching in helpless frustration as the caravan departed. The groaning calls of the camels, the creak of cartwheels burdened with their heavy loads, and the jangle of the soldiers' armor, had all since fallen into silence as Sebastian and the supply escort left the city and started off on the ancient trade route that would lead them to Darum. She watched them until they were out of sight completely, until the dust left in their wake had blown away, leaving naught but an empty stretch of road as far as the eye could see.

And, still, she stood there . . . watching, worrying.

She tried to tell herself that for the sake of her mission, she had done the right thing by letting Sebastian go. That she had no choice. She tried to tell herself that he and his soldiers were not in grave danger, that Halim's intent was to stop a shipment of supplies, not needlessly slaughter the men who were carrying it. And even if the ambush were to escalate into something worse, Sebastian would survive. She had seen his skill with the sword, and knew of no one in Sinan's army who could match him steel for steel.

But still, fear niggled at her heart, cold and unrelenting.

She heard a great clap of thunder in the distance and realized it was raining. Her tunic and trousers were already soaked; her veil hung, sodden and limp, at her chin. The air had begun to churn, dark clouds wheeling overhead, gray and roiling, fat with rain. The tiles of the roof terrace had grown slick with water. It ran between her feet and over the ledge in rivulets, smacking hard as it spilled onto the stones of the empty courtyard below.

It was a sign, surely, this freak, violent swell of rain in an otherwise arid season.

Perhaps it was the voice of Allah issuing a warning, a portent of evil soon to come. But if it were, did the message bode ill for the fate of the Frankish caravan, or for her own designs? She waited, contemplating the fury of the gathering storm, and praying for guidance. God gave her nothing, save the steady pound of the rain and the grim crackle of lightning above her head.

A huge crash of thunder followed, shaking the building beneath her. Zahirah turned and ran for the shelter of the balcony. She sluiced off the chilling wetness that drizzled from her hair and nose, then dashed inside the palace, heading for the warmth of her chamber.

But as she neared the room, her feet would not slow. They carried her past her private apartments, then past Sebastian's quarters, too, and down the corridor, to where the colonnade leading to the palace outbuildings was located. She was running by the time she reached the stables.

“I need a horse!” she shouted to the stable master, her accented lingua franca echoing in the cavernous building. “Please, I need a mount at once!”

When she started inside, her eyes looking past the sturdy Frankish destriers to find a horse bred for speed, the gray bearded guard stepped in front of her. “Now, wait just a moment, girl,” he sputtered. “These beasts belong to the king—”

Zahirah pushed him aside with a cry of impatience, hastening to the stall of a sleek black Arabian mare. She unlatched the gate and quickly walked the beauty out. Her saddle and tack were draped over the far wall of the berth; Zahirah retrieved them and began readying the horse for riding.

“What is this about?” demanded the stable master. He grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her away from her task. “Horse-thieving is a serious offense— ”

“I'm not stealing it,” Zahirah hissed. “Please, you don't understand! They're in danger—I have to warn them!”

She twisted loose and went back to the mare, dropping to her knees to cinch the saddle, then dashing up to fit her with the bridle and bit.

“Warn who, girl?”

“Sebastian,” she told him, stepping into the stirrup and slinging her leg over the mare's back. “The caravan is heading into an ambush. I have to warn him!”

“God's blood,” swore the old soldier. “Let's get you out of here!”

He whistled to call another knight to mount up and accompany her, then ran ahead to order the guards to lift the palace gates and let them past. Zahirah jabbed her heels into her mount the instant the huge wooden doors opened, charging headlong into the rain and setting off at a breakneck pace for the road to Darum, praying she would reach Sebastian and convince him to turn the caravan around before Halim and his assassin raiders struck.

~ ~ ~

Some two hours into their trek, the rainstorm that had been threatening all day finally broke. It swept down on the caravan from out of the north, a dark wall of fast-moving clouds, alive and churning with the slash and crackle of lightning, and the raucous clap and boom of thunder. The rains, once they started, were swift and furious, a blinding onslaught that made travel difficult for a lone horse and rider, but near to impossible for the lumbering bulk of the supply caravan.

Sebastian had wanted to make the eight-hour journey to Darum by dawn, a plan that had meant pushing the van on past midnight. Now, riding at the head of the sodden escort alongside Logan, he cursed as the water began to gather and run on the road, turning the hard paved track into a small, but racing, river. His white warhorse, indignant from the start of the laborious march, tossed its head in protest of the inclement weather. Its hooves splashed in the rising water as it sidled away from the camels, which were tethered and bunched in a tight line behind them on the road .

Thunder rolled above, bringing with it a sudden, violent gust of wind that buffeted the group from the back and rattled the tarps that covered the supply carts. A rope on one of the loads came loose with a snap, lashing about wildly in the spitting gale. Sebastian gave the signal to halt and waited as Logan and two of the caravan's attendants sloshed through the deep puddles in the road to secure the strap.

While they worked to batten down the cargo, Sebastian motioned for the chief caravaneer. “Is there someplace safe for us to camp along this road?”

The portly Saracen foreman nodded, his white tunic sleeve dripping water as he pointed into the distance ahead. “There is a place in the next village that might shelter us. The owner is Muslim, but he is also a merchant. For a price, he'll give you space to wait out the storm.”

“Excellent,” Sebastian shouted over the roar of the storm. “You can show us the way.”

He was about to give the call to resume the march when something on the road behind them caught his eye. Far off yet, little more than a dark and growing splotch in the midst of the storm, was a rider—two of them, he corrected, watching as the one in front galloped toward the caravan as if to outpace the devil himself.

“Riders coming,” Logan advised him, returning to the head of the caravan. “Could be trouble. Should I take a couple of the men down to see what they're about?”

Sebastian shook his head, peering into the distance. “They're not the infidel,” he said, watching as the unarmed figure in front came into better view. He saw the petite frame, the long black hair. “It's a woman. Christ Jesus—it's Zahirah!”

Heart lurching to see her caught in the storm, Sebastian gave his mount his spurs and charged past the stopped caravan, racing toward her as quickly as she was racing toward him. The rain was beating down around them at a relentless rate, but even through the deluge, Sebastian could plainly see that Zahirah was upset. Her eyes were wild, her face stricken with fatigue and worry .

“Don't go!” she cried, her voice nearly swallowed up by the driving wind and rain. “Oh, Sebastian, I'm so glad I reached you in time. Please, you can't go!”

He reined in before her and vaulted from his saddle to catch the reins of her prancing mount and bring her to a halt. Zahirah all but fell into his arms, exhausted and breathless from her hard ride. Behind her was one of Sebastian's men from the garrison at Ascalon. The knight's destrier was lathered and huffing, struggling to keep pace with Zahirah's sleek Arabian mare. With a look, Sebastian sent the guard on to meet the others at the caravan.

“God's blood, woman!” He grabbed Zahirah by the arms and gave her a shake for the jolt of worry still fiercely thrumming in his veins. “Are you mad? What are you thinking coming out here like this?”

She clutched at his wet surcoat and buried her face in his chest, her body cold and shuddering as he held her. “I couldn't let you go, Sebastian. I couldn't—it's too dangerous!” She tipped her face up and met his confused gaze. “You must turn the caravan around at once.”

“Turn it around?” He smoothed her rankled brow, furious with her for being there, yet pleased beyond all reason to be holding her in his arms. “The caravan will be fine, Zahirah. It's just a bit of bad weather.”

“No,” she choked. “Sebastian, you don't understand! You have to go back. There's going to be an ambush.”

Sebastian grew very still as he stared at her fear-stricken, rain-spattered face. “An ambush,” he echoed, feeling dread coil and twist in his gut. “How do you know this?”

“Halim.” A pained look crept into her features, a look that seemed part regret, part guilt. “H-he told me about his plans to raid the caravan and keep the supplies from reaching the king in Darum.”

“Bloody hell.” Sebastian absorbed the bigger truth in her admission and felt his blood run as cold as the bitter downpour. “It was him, then. You met Halim that day in the mosque. You lied to me. ”

She gave a weak nod. “It was Halim.”

“When is it going to happen? The ambush, Zahirah,” he growled when she did not answer right away. “I need to know where and when Halim plans to strike.”

“I-I don't know! He didn't tell me—I swear it. I know only that the attack is coming somewhere between here and Darum.”

He hissed an oath and set her away from him none too gently.

“I'm sorry, Sebastian. For everything. I . . . I should not have kept it from you.”

“You're right, madam,” he bit off harshly. “You shouldn't have.” Hardening himself to her look of remorse, he turned and stalked away from her to remount his waiting destrier. “Get your horse, Zahirah, and let's get out of this rain. The storm is growing worse.”