Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 18

It was not yet dawn when Sebastian called his men together in the courtyard of the caravansary to discuss the day's new strategy. Despite the warning of ambush by the fida'i , they were continuing on to Darum as originally planned. A rider had been sent on ahead of them the night before; unencumbered by the slowness of the caravan, he should have reached the king's camp some hours ago to communicate the news of the pending raid.

Once alerted to the danger, Lionheart would no doubt send reinforcements to meet them on the road. The hope of aid, coupled with the foreknowledge of the attack, would likely save not only the shipment of supplies, but also the lives of the men gathered before Sebastian that morning. His own life, too, more than likely, he reflected with a sober sense of acceptance. And he had Zahirah to thank for it.

Zahirah.

He could not so much as voice her name in his mind without reliving the passion they had shared together in his chamber. God's truth, but even though he stood outside amid a dozen soldiers and caravaneers, all he could see was Zahirah, glorious and beautiful, arched in rapture beneath him. He breathed in the rain-washed air of the open courtyard, but it was her scent that filled his nostrils like sweet, heady perfume. Her soft moans and sighs still echoed in his ears, and the memory of her touch, her unexpected and willing surrender, made it difficult to focus on anything but the present quickening of his blood, and his fierce want to return to his chamber where she yet slumbered, spent from their night of lovemaking.

It had taken every bit of his will to leave her undisturbed when he had awakened beside her on the divan a mere hour or so before. Her back had been curved into his chest, their arms and legs entangled, her buttocks nestled far too pleasingly into the cradle of his groin. Sebastian had come awake hard and wanting, ready to have her then . . . again . . . still.

“Blood of Christ,” he growled, shoving his hand through his hair in frustration.

At his muttered outburst, Logan and the chief caravaneer looked up from the map they held before him. “You prefer another route, perhaps?” asked the Scot.

“What?” Sebastian scowled, having no idea how much of the discussion he had missed due to his present state of preoccupation.

That preoccupation showed no sign of improvement, for in the next instant, Zahirah appeared just inside the common room of the caravansary. She walked toward the pillared entry to the courtyard, dressed in her tunic and long pantalets, her face devoid of its veil. Her hair was unbound and somewhat tousled, crushing in waves against her shoulders and spilling all around her in a loose tumble as if she had risen from bed but a moment before. Sebastian's groin tightened at the thought. She looked at no one save him, and when she smiled, it was the shy, slow-curling smile of well-pleasured woman. Her every glance and gesture glowed with sensuality, and it was all Sebastian could do to keep from crossing the space of the yard to show her just how thoroughly she affected him.

And he did not particularly like the fact that several of the other men staring at her now seemed to be entertaining similar thoughts.

“Excuse me,” he said to Logan and the caravan foreman, his gaze, and the whole of his attention trained squarely on Zahirah.

He walked to where she stood waiting, her eyes shifting downward, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her tunic hem as he neared. “Good morrow, my lady,” he greeted her quietly, reaching out to lift her hand to his lips. He knew the men were watching as he kissed her palm, and he did not care. She was his, and he wanted there to be no mistaking it when he would soon send one of the soldiers back with her to Ascalon while he and the rest of the caravan continued on to Darum. “Did you sleep well?”

She nodded, then, biting her lip, glanced up and met his gaze. “I did, until I felt your absence and realized you had gone.”

He grunted. “Regrettable, but necessary.”

She looked past him then, her eyes taking in the garrison of soldiers and caravan attendants assembled in the courtyard and awaiting further orders. “Will we be leaving soon?”

“Within the hour,” Sebastian replied. “The carts and camels are being loaded as we speak.”

“Begging pardon, sir,” interrupted the merchant owner of the caravansary. He waved a trio of Saracen men forward as he approached from within the common room. “Here are the weapons you requested, good sir. Eight crossbows and half a dozen spears.”

“Set them down over there,” Sebastian answered, indicating a nearby table.

When the weapons were laid out before him, Sebastian picked up one of the crossbows and inspected its quality. The piece was solidly made, as the rest of the lot appeared to be. Crafted of good English oak, it had no doubt been scavenged from a fallen crusader, only to be sold back to whomever would have it by vultures of profit, such as this man.

“They will do,” Sebastian said at last. He paid the merchant the inflated price he demanded, his pride irritated to know he was being cheated, but grateful to have obtained the arms at whatever cost.

Zahirah came up beside him, frowning slightly. “Do you expect trouble between here and Ascalon, my lord?”

“No,” he said, taking up one of the spears to check its deadly point .

“Then I don't understand. Why did you feel the need to buy arms if we are returning to the city within the hour?”

Sebastian set down the weapon and faced her. “We are not returning to Ascalon, my lady. The caravan will resume the trek south to Darum, as scheduled. One of the guards will escort you back to the city where you will be safe until I return.”

“Until you return?” she asked, distress edging her voice. “Then, you're not coming with me?”

“I have supplies to deliver to the king, then I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“But the ambush—” she blurted. “I told you about it so you would not go. It's too dangerous to continue on to Darum knowing that Halim plans to raid the caravan.”

Touched by her concern, Sebastian brushed his hand against her cheek. “It's far less dangerous now that you have made me aware of that fact, my lady. We'll be ready for Halim and his fida'i dogs, whenever and wherever they choose to attack.”

She reached up and curled her fingers around his, her silver gaze wide and determined. “Take me with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I can help you,” she argued. “I know these roads, and I know Halim. I know how he thinks. I can help guide you past the areas where he might be inclined to strike.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Halim is my concern now. And the caravan foreman is familiar enough with the terrain—”

“Then give me a weapon and I will ride beside you. The more arms you have at the ready, the better your chances of meeting the ambush. I was raised around men; I am no stranger to fighting.”

Although she seemed bravely undaunted, Sebastian was loath to give credence to her bold claims. He knew no woman whose stomach was strong enough to withstand the sight of battle, let alone wield a weapon and join the fray. And he was not about to permit this woman—a woman he was coming to care for more than he liked to admit—to put herself in the way of any man's blade.

“Zahirah,” he said, “this is not a matter for you to decide. I will not risk your safety or that of my men by allowing myself to be distracted over concern for your welfare. I cannot permit you to come with me to Darum. There is too much at risk.”

“But after last night—”

“Especially after last night,” he said, catching her chin and bringing her gaze to meet his. “I want you to be safe, Zahirah, that's all. I would ask you to try to understand.”

“And I would ask the same of you, my lord. Understand what I have done in coming here to warn you—the risk I am taking merely by standing here. I have made an enemy of Halim, now more than ever. I did it for you,” she said, emotion catching in her throat. “I did it for you, Sebastian, because I could not bear the thought of you meeting with harm. If you won't walk away from the danger, then what makes you think I will?”

Sebastian looked into her courageous, beautiful face and knew that it would be futile to argue with her. She was determined, and she was right in that she had risked much already by coming to him with the news of Halim's intended raid. He could insist on sending her back to Ascalon, but he could not be certain at all that she would obediently remain there while he rode for Darum. And there was a selfish, possessive part of him that loathed the idea of parting with her, even for the space of a few days. Against his better judgment, Sebastian found himself agreeing to her request.

“You will stay by my side at all times, and you will not, under any circumstances, disobey my orders. If there is any sign of danger, I will instruct you on where to seek cover and you will go without hesitation or argument. Understood?”

God help him, but he should not have felt so proud to see her nod in acceptance of his decision. Nor should he have been so damnably pleased to look over and see her cantering along beside him once the caravan was assembled and the escort party set out for whatever peril awaited them on the road to Darum.

~ ~ ~

Zahirah had no idea what madness she suffered that she would insist on accompanying Sebastian into Halim's trap. She knew only that in those desperate moments when he had informed her that he was going to Darum despite her warning, she had to be with him. She rode at his left on the track of ancient Roman pavement, watching him observe their surroundings with a keen, steady eye, his command of the caravan no less sure or regal than that of a king.

As a lover, he had proven equally magnificent. Zahirah blushed just to think on their evening together, the shattering passion he had shown her in those precious hours before dawn. He had loved her thoroughly, and yet she had awakened hungry for more. His gaze now, intense as he glanced over and found her watching him, seemed to say that he understood what she was feeling.

That he, too, knew the hunger.

His mouth curving into a sensual smile, he guided his mount next to hers and reached for her hand. He was just about to bring it to his lips when something ahead in the distance caught his eye. His grip tightened on her as he scanned the horizon and brought his mount to a slow halt on the road. He released her hand to motion soundlessly for the caravan to stop.

“What is it?” Zahirah whispered, her ebony mare sidling away from the stamping and huffing of his large white steed.

“A reflection near that knoll,” he told her in a low growl, indicating the same to his lieutenant when the big knight cantered to the head of the caravan to join him.

Zahirah followed the line of the men's vision to a small rise in the terrain some several hundred yards directly ahead. At first she saw nothing but a shapeless jut of rock and scrub brush, but then, something moved behind it. And on the other side of the road, reflecting from the rubble of a ruined stone outbuilding, came a sudden glint of steel, the edge of a weapon breaking the sun's rays and betraying the location of more of Halim's men. The caravan was hemmed in on both sides, she realized, swallowing down a lump of apprehension that rose in her throat.

It was all the warning they were to receive.

With a shrill battle cry, a score of assassin raiders erupted from their hiding places and charged forward on foot. Some brandished scimitars and iron-tipped lances; others were armed with bows and vicious-looking spiked clubs.

“To arms!” Sebastian shouted, moving his charger in front of Zahirah's as a shield while he grabbed for his crossbow. “Go, my lady,” he ordered her, jerking his chin toward a copse of cypress trees to his left. “Find a place to hide until this is ended. Go, now!”

Recalling her promise to obey him, Zahirah hauled on her mare's reins and started to wheel the beast around. But when she would have urged the black off the road to seek cover, she was stopped by a sudden hail of flaming arrows that rained down in front of her. The fiery bolts ignited the dry grass of the plain, spreading a wide sea of flames across her path. She pivoted her head over her shoulder and saw a group of archers emerge on the other side of them as well. They nocked their arrows and released them. Within moments, both routes of sideward escape had been cleanly cut off by a wall of flames.

“Bastards,” Sebastian growled, noticing the predicament at the same time she did. “Stay behind me, Zahirah. Don't move unless I tell you to.”

With that, he swung his crossbow up into position and let the first bolt fly. It ripped through the smoke-filled air and hit true, lodging into the unprotected chest of one of the ambushers and knocking the dead man off his feet. The rest of the caravaneers had issued similar insult to the band of fida'i attackers, their shouts of war and the reports of their discharged weapons filling her ears with the chaotic din of combat.

Zahirah screamed as an enemy arrow shot past her, narrowly missing both she and Sebastian. One of the camels behind them was not so fortunate. Pierced through the neck, the beast went down in a weighty heap, its packs of grain bursting open and spilling onto the road. The other animals bleated in fright, shifting and bumping into the carts of supplies as the battle waged on around them.

Zahirah had never felt so powerless. She clung to her mare's reins, ducking to stay behind Sebastian as he had ordered, when her every instinct urged her to help the crusaders hold the caravan. The assassins were moving in closer, escalating the skirmish into a vicious hand-to-hand combat.

She gasped as one of the Frankish soldiers near the front took a blow from a fida'i sword and toppled from his mount. Another fell to the bite of a lance, horse and rider crashing to earth with a reverberating thud.

Sebastian's quick aim with the crossbow had eliminated several of the advancing ambushers, but his supply of bolts came to an abrupt, inopportune end. As he grappled for a missile that was not there, two of Zahirah's clansmen rushed at him with weapons raised, bearing murder in their eyes.

“Sebastian, watch out!” she cried, but he had already seen the danger.

He threw aside the useless crossbow and reached for his sword, drawing the deadly length of steel from its scabbard with a hellish howl. He swooped down on the whooping assassins, cleaving one in twain with a single swipe of his arm. The second man came at him with a spiked club, readying a blow that would have crushed Sebastian's arm had Logan not come to his aid at the last moment to shoot the man dead with his crossbow.

Zahirah could barely stand to watch as the road began to run with blood. She turned away from the carnage and heard a thready voice carry over the cacophony, coming from the rear of the stalled caravan.

“Mistress . . . mistress, please! Help me!”

She looked down, and, through the billowing smoke and dust, saw the pain-riddled, begrimed face of the chief caravaneer. The old man was trapped beneath one of the fallen camels, his legs engulfed under the dead, unyielding weight of the beast and its sizable burden.

“Help me, mistress, I beg you . . .”

Zahirah threw a glance over her shoulder to where Sebastian and the other men fought. He had told her to stay behind him, but surely he would not expect her to stand by idly and let this man die when she might be able to help free him. Even if he did expect as much, her conscience would allow no such thing. Leaping down from her mount, she ran to the side of the old man.

“Can't get . . . up,” he gasped. “Hurts . . . to . . . breathe.”

Zahirah peered through the blinding fog of the smoldering grass to assess the situation more closely. It did not look good. The camel had crushed the caravan foreman to the waist, likely rupturing any number of his vital organs. She could not hope to move the huge beast off of him alone, but then she doubted it would matter much longer. The old man wheezed as she inspected his ribs, coughing up a trickle of blood that oozed from the corner of his mouth.

“My . . . legs,” he whispered, “are they . . . broken?”

“No,” she lied, her smile of false reassurance wobbling as she held his searching, terrified gaze. “Don't speak now. Try to relax. The pain will be over soon.”

He nodded weakly and closed his eyes. Then, within a few short moments, he exhaled a deep, rattling breath and went utterly still.

“Allah protect you,” Zahirah whispered. “May peace be upon your soul.”

She got to her feet and pivoted, intending to regain her mount, but drew up short when she met with a chilling pair of Saracen eyes. They stared down at her, black and cold and contemptuous, from the length of an arced scimitar blade that hovered at her breast.

“Halim,” she choked, her hand sliding to the waistband of her trousers, where her dagger might have been. The dagger, which, in her haste, she left behind at the palace when she rode out to warn Sebastian of the ambush .

“You traitorous slut,” he spat at her, the Arabic words more grating than the heavy sounds of combat carrying through the smoke of the skirmish. “You told him! You warned the Frankish pig that we would be here.”

Zahirah saw no sense in denying it. All around her, Halim's fida'i soldiers battled with Sebastian and his fully armed crusaders and caravaneers. What might have been a surprise attack and slaughter had instead become an equal fight—more than equal, for despite the ambushers' greater number, the Franks on their heavy warhorses were beginning to succeed in driving them back, pushing them toward retreat.

But Halim showed no such signs of backing down where he stood, facing Zahirah. He edged forward through the ash-filled smoke that surrounded them, forcing her back a pace to avoid his blade. She stumbled over the massive bulk of the dead camel behind her, but righted herself before she lost her footing completely. Halim was there as she started to come up, the razor-sharp tip of his scimitar lifting her chin and malevolently encouraging her to rise.

“I should have known you could not be trusted,” he sneered. “You are too weak for this mission. You are no fida'i .”

Zahirah swallowed hard, willing her voice not to wobble under the cold, cruel edge of Halim's blade. “I am more fida'i than you ever were. I would not slaughter a dozen innocent men and call it Allah's will. Nor could I stand by and allow you to do so.”

“Innocent men,” he scoffed. “You think any one of these Franks is innocent? Oh, would that our vaunted lord and master were here to see you now, slavering at the heels of these Christian dogs like a bitch in heat. He would thank me for killing you.” He flexed his hand on the grip of his scimitar, readying to strike. “Indeed, I expect he shall.”

Acting on a sudden surge of instinct, Zahirah flung herself backward, rolling to the ground before Halim could draw another breath. A crossbow, loaded with a single bolt, lay just out of her reach in the road. She stretched for it, triumphant as her fingers closed around the wooden throat of the weapon. That triumph was short-lived. A heavy boot came down hard on her wrist, pinioning her hand to the stone cobbles of the road.

“Think again,” Halim snarled from above her.

Zahirah turned her head to face him, scarcely able to see him through the swirling smoke and dust. But she could see his sword, and she could see the tight grip of his hand on the weapon, fury turning his dark knuckles nearly white.

Allah, but she was certain, this—here and now—was to be her end. She could not move, could do nothing to defend herself; Halim was going to kill her. The realization sunk into her brain like a piercing shard of ice. She was going to die.

Her eyes burning from the thick black haze that filled the air, Zahirah strained to find Sebastian amid the confusion of the ambush. Just one last glimpse of him would be enough. She would not fear death if she could be certain he had survived. She peered hard through the ash and soot and jumble of fighting men, but to no avail. She could not find him, could see nothing beyond the shapeless mass of the stalled caravan and the chaos of combat beyond.

She must have voiced Sebastian's name aloud, for Halim began to chuckle. “Such a pitiful end for the great Sinan's daughter. Was it worth it, Zahirah? Was he worth the cost of betraying your clan?”

“He would have been,” Zahirah replied fiercely, preparing herself for the deadly wrath she was inviting. “But I have not betrayed my clan today, Halim. Only you.”

His answering chuckle was pure malice. “I see. Then the pleasure of exacting justice now shall be mine alone. It will be an honor to take your traitor's head back with me to Masyaf.”

Zahirah forced herself not to flinch as Halim's blade retreated slightly, cutting a thin trail through the smoke as he drew his arm back to deliver a fatal blow. She kept her eyes open, feeling tears spring forth in the endless moment she waited for his blade to bite into her neck .

The din of battle died away in that exaggerated space of time, leaving only the heavy thud of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. She heard Halim draw a sudden, sharp breath, saw his arced blade poised high above her head. Praying for a swift end, Zahirah kept her eyes trained on the muted glint of steel, bracing herself for the imminent impact.

To her astonishment, it did not come.

Halim seemed frozen above her, and through the smoke she saw a look of shock coming over his face. Zahirah felt frozen as well, unable to do anything but stare in confusion as Halim's shock turned to horror. Then she saw the reason.

A bloodied tip of a broadsword had sliced through his chest from behind, cleanly impaling his wicked heart. Halim stood there, staring at her, his dark eyes wide and condemning as his scimitar dropped from his slack grasp. His weight was no longer supported by his own legs, which had begun to buckle beneath him, but by the strength of the blade that had just delivered his death. Once removed, Halim crumpled to the earth like a puppet on severed strings.

Behind his lifeless form stood Sebastian. Face soot-streaked and spattered with blood, his black hair wild and windswept about his face, he had never looked more breathtaking or deadly. He reached down to Zahirah, his gaze steady, intense. “Come, my lady. Take my hand,” he said when she could not summon the strength to stand of her own volition.

Zahirah could not hold back her tears as he lifted her to her feet and enveloped her in a fierce embrace. Clutching him to her as if to never let go, she wept into his chest, burying her face in the tattered folds of his silk surcoat.

“Hush now,” he soothed, his deep voice like a balm to her nerves. “'Tis over, Zahirah. The fighting has ended. You're safe with me now.”

Still ensconced within the circle of his arms, Zahirah drew her head up to verify what Sebastian said, that the fighting was indeed over. Although it was difficult to assess the outcome, she could see that he spoke true. The caravan and its escort party, while not without damage, was, for the most part, intact. Only a few of Sebastian's men had fallen in the skirmish; Halim's forces had suffered easily twice as many casualties. Some of the surviving fida'i soldiers had retreated, while still others lay wounded in and around the road.

“It's over,” Sebastian said again, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head.

But as if to belie his reassurances, in the not too far distance, came the rumble of horses' hooves—another army come to join the fray, by the sound of it. Fearing that Halim had provided additional men, Zahirah cried out in alarm, but Sebastian seemed unconcerned. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and smoke as he peered at the approaching company of riders. He chuckled, then he and the rest of the crusaders standing around them went down on one knee, bowing over their swords in deep deference as more than a score of Frankish soldiers thundered forth, then drew to a halt before them on the road.

Borne on tall lances were twin pennons of red silk, adorned with three golden lions. The triangular flags snapped and fluttered in the wind like dancing flames, framing the leader of the newly arrived party in rich, regal color. Zahirah gaped at the splendor of the man riding at the fore of the contingent, a broad-shouldered knight who swept off a crown-like helm and mail coif to reveal a head of fair brownish hair and stern, kingly features.

“Your Majesty,” Sebastian said, respectfully bowing his head.

And Zahirah suddenly found herself staring into the questioning blue gaze of Lionheart himself.

The man she was sworn to kill.