Dark Dreams Paperback - 2001

Excerpt

Once the palace of a thousand chambers had overwhelmed Imoshen, now she strode its corridors as the uncrowned Empress. But her position was as precarious as General Tulkhan’s. He and his Ghebite army were the minority overlords of a conquered people who remained loyal to the old empire. Every day the palace servants deferred to Imoshen, when in reality she was the General’s captive. Every day the Ghebites flaunted their barbarian splendor, carelessly insulting her people.

Imoshen smiled grimly; she would not be ground down. Though she had been forced to surrender her family’s Stronghold to the Ghebites, and had seen her island conquered, General Tulkhan had claimed her for his own which gave her great tactical strength. Much had been achieved in the twelve weeks since Harvest Feast. Only last night Tulkhan had signed the document recognizing Fair Isle Church Law, returning to her all she had lost and more. For on their bonding day she would stand before her people as co-ruler, the first pure T’En woman to take a bond-partner in six hundred years.

At the screech of metal on metal Imoshen froze, wary as a hunted woodland creature. She had become intimately acquainted with fear, and the knowledge that her life hung by a thread shadowed her every move. Heart hammering, she followed the razor-sharp sounds to a balcony where half a dozen servants were avidly watching a confrontation in the courtyard below. One glance told her the General and his men were at sword practice. Relief flooded her.

“Get back to work, the lot of you!” she hissed, dismayed to see the Ghebite fascination for violence infecting her servants. They made guilty apologies and hurried away.

In the confines of the courtyard the swords’ song resonated harshly. As Imoshen remained in the balcony’s shadows, watching unseen, she could not but admire the Ghebite’s skill, though she deplored their love of violence.

Once past boyhood, a Ghebite warrior practiced with battle-ready weapons, scorning the use of blunt swords. They were feared for their ferocity across the known lands, and Tulkhan embodied the Ghebite Ideal. For at only nineteen he had assumed command of the Ghebite army, leading it south, creeping inexorably across the mainland. In eleven years no kingdom had managed to withstand the General’s onslaught, and it had appeared he would conquer the known world.

But instead of attacking the last of the southern kingdoms he had turned his eye on Fair Isle, making a surprise assault. Betrayed by her allies, unprepared for war on her own shores, Fair Isle had crumpled in the space of one spring-summer campaign.

General Tulkhan was renowned for his tactical skill and physical bravery. Given that, why was he taking on three swordsmen while his Elite Guard watched? What was he trying to prove?

Suddenly Imoshen understood; once her position as co-ruler of Fair Isle became known, his men would believe she had emasculated their General. They might even suspect he had been ensorcelled by his captive. Some of them still refused to meet her eyes, believing the rumors of treacherous T’En powers. No wonder Tulkhan wielded his sword with such intensity that his trusted commanders could barely defend themselves.

Metal grated, setting Imoshen’s teeth on edge. She gasped as one man gave a guttural cry, dropping to his knee. At the last moment Tulkhan turned his sword, striking with the flat of the blade. The Ghebite sprawled on the slippery stone.

No one moved.

Imoshen took a step closer, drawn by the charged atmosphere. She could taste their intoxicating blood lust in the air.

The sound of the men’s ragged breathing was magnified, trapped in the snow-bound inner courtyard. It was not unknown for Ghebites to take a fatal wound in practice. In the brilliant early morning light two remaining swordsmen faced Tulkhan over the body of their barely conscious comrade, steam rising from their skin.

General Tulkhan’s naked back glistened with sweat as he stood poised to strike. He was magnificent and undeniably dangerous. Something tightened deep within Imoshen. With bittersweet self-knowledge she recognized the sensation. She had known Tulkhan’s body only twice but her need for him was so strong it made her vulnerable.

Moistening her dry mouth she watched mesmerized as the confrontation unfolded. Swordsman Jacolm stood over his fallen sword-brother, bristling, ready to die for the man who was bound to him by the Ghebite warrior code. No wonder their army was invincible, when its individuals shared such an unbreakable bond and welcomed death in battle. Fallen Ghebite soldiers were ensured a place riding at the side of their warrior god. Imoshen’s lips curled with contempt.

Then the grizzled veteran, Peirs, deliberately lowered his weapon. Turning his shoulder to Tulkhan he helped the injured man to his feet. Following his lead, Jacolm sheathed his sword.

The General gave a disgusted shrug, though whether he was annoyed with them or himself, Imoshen could not tell. With a word he dismissed the others.

From her vantage point she saw the Elite Guard and Tulkhan’s trusted commanders leave the courtyard. The General walked toward her. He scooped up a handful of the snow which had been swept into the deep drift, rubbing it vigorously over his face.

“General?” Imoshen’s heart raced as she stepped into the patch of sunlight which illuminated the balcony rail. Startled, Tulkhan looked up, his expression guarded.

She recognized that battle stance. “Only me.”

“Only?”

Imoshen smiled. She liked Tulkhan best when they were alone, when he did not have to play the public role of General Tulkhan, nor she the role of T’Imoshen, last princess of the T’En.

With a tug Imoshen pulled the brocade tabard over her head, casting it aside so that she stood dressed only in her loose-fitting trousers, thin undershirt, and soft-soled boots. “Teach me the use of the Ghebite sword.”

The General’s eyes narrowed.

The women of Tulkhan’s homeland never touched weapons. They hardly dared raise their eyes to a man, let alone a sword. Imoshen knew she was breaking Ghebite law, which was why she had waited until the others had left.

Before the Ghebites invaded last spring she had taken for granted the ways of Fair Isle. Now she felt that her island was a beacon of enlightenment in a sea of barbarism. Everything she believed in was under threat but she was determined the Ghebites would not erode the position of women in Fair Isle. If this meant confronting Tulkhan and constantly forcing him to question his assumptions, then so be it. There was an ancient T’En saying which translated, “Truth is a precious but often bitter seasoning.”

Imoshen swung her legs over the balustrade and dropped two body lengths into the heaped snow near Tulkhan. Aware of the General’s keen, dark eyes, she straightened, wiping crusted snow from her buttocks and thighs.

“What now, Imoshen?”

Holding Tulkhan’s gaze, she tried to gauge his mood. For a Ghebite, the General was a reasonable man, but he was also a proud man. “I began instruction with the T’En sword the year before you attacked Fair Isle. But the Ghebite style is different and I may need to defend myself, so teach me.”

He prowled around her. “How casually you insult my honor.”

“All I ask is to be able to defend myself.” She kept her tone reasonable. “Where is the dishonor in that?”

“Truly, you do not see. In Gheeaba a man is expected to defend his wife. His honor rests on—”

A surprised laugh escaped Imoshen. She caught herself, aware of the slow burn of his anger. “I mean no insult, General. But I fail to see how you could protect me unless I never left your side and even then, wouldn’t you rather have me at your back with a weapon in my hand, than clinging to you and encumbering your sword arm?”

Her question drew a reluctant grin and she smiled in return. She was not his wife yet and she never would be. Bond-partners of Fair Isle stood shoulder to shoulder.

Tulkhan lifted his hands. “In Gheeaba my wife would be safe within the walls of my estate. You would be escorted to events of importance, protected by the Elite Guard of my house-line. You would never set foot outside alone, you—”

“How boring. How could you live like that?”

Tulkhan grimaced. “You willfully misunderstand me, Imoshen.”

“Yes.”

“You are a trial!” His hands flexed as if he would like to use them on her.

Imoshen’s heart rate lifted another notch. “All I ask is to learn to use the Ghebite sword.”

He glanced up at the balcony where she had been watching. “So that is your excuse for spying?”

“Spying? If you call watching your men wield those ploughshares spying, then yes, I was spying.”

She saw a flash of amusement in his obsidian eyes. Sweat glistened on his coppery skin.

“For a woman to touch a man’s weapon is death in Gheeaba, Imoshen.”

She stiffened. “This is not Gheeaba. And I will not be limited by your ... by Ghebite attitudes. Teach me.”

Tulkhan’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, I will enjoy teaching you your place.”

He turned and walked to the courtyard door, calling to someone in the passage beyond. Satisfied, he returned his attention to her. “My servant is bringing you a ploughshare.”

Imoshen inclined her head, aware that she might have overreached herself this time. Her skills with the T’En sword were basic. The Ghebite weapon was much heavier and used in a different manner. As a Throwback to the T’En race which settled Fair Isle, she was taller than an average True-man but Tulkhan stood half a head taller again, and even a T’En female did not have the muscle bulk of a male.

Imoshen knew she had no chance of beating the General. Her goal was to create a bridge between them. If he taught her to use the Ghebite sword, he would be one step closer to accepting her as his equal.

The courtyard door opened and a nervous servant handed Tulkhan a second sword. The General dismissed the youth and weighed both weapons in his hands, observing their blades.

“I suppose you would rather fight with a toothpick and a knitting needle?” he challenged. “Catch.”

Instinctively she caught the sword by the hilt, gauging its weight and unfamiliar balance. At that moment she wished for a sharp, short dagger and a tapered sword such as she had been training with. The T’En blade would have given her the advantage of speed and length of reach against the Ghebite sword’s greater weight. Already she felt clumsy, and guessed that before long her wrist would be aching.

If she were using T’En weapons and this were a fight to the death, her only chance would be to strike fast before Tulkhan could use the advantage of his heavier blade and greater strength.

Like all pure T’En, Imoshen was left-handed. She turned her body side-on to the General to present as small a target as possible. Tulkhan took up the same stance. Because he was right-handed the two of them faced the same side of the courtyard, instead of opposite sides. It might have unsettled the General but only for a moment.

“At least the T’En way offers precision and style, instead of brute strength!” she told him.

“You’re holding it all wrong.”

“Show me.”

When he stepped around behind her she felt the heat radiating from his skin. His hand closed over hers and she forced her arm to relax, letting him lower the sword.

“Not high like that. Hold the sword more naturally.”

She swallowed, wondering how he could not be aware of her body’s reaction. Concentrating, she met his eyes as he resumed his place opposite her.

“In my lessons I was taught to use my wrist to deflect the attacker’s sword,” she said. “But after watching your men at practice I see the Ghebite style is more—”

“Crude?” he suggested with a hint of anger.

“I was going to say that you appear to bring the whole weight of the body behind the blade, in slashing motions as opposed to lunges.”

“Hmmm.” Tulkhan’s black eyes studied her. “If you were a youth with those scrawny arms, I’d advise you to use a two-handed grip. These are hand-and-a-half grips, designed for two-handed fighting if necessary.”

Imoshen bristled. “I am stronger than I look.”

“Really? Defend yourself.”

He struck, telegraphing his intention but not restraining his speed or force. Imoshen barely had time to bring her weapon up. She took the impact of his strike on her blade, ready to deflect it with a twist of her wrist. But the force jarred her arm right up to the shoulder, numbing her fingers. Only by an effort of will did she maintain her grip on the weapon and divert the blow.

“Wrong technique, Imoshen.” Tulkhan’s white teeth flashed against his coppery skin in a wolfish smile, startling her. “These are not T’En weapons.”

She darted forward, aiming for his throat, knowing that he would deflect her strike. With a laugh, he caught her blade, using the force of his swing to throw her off balance. She danced out of range, recovering in an instant.

“You are as light as a cat on your feet. It’s a shame you’re a female. You’d make a fine swordsman. I mean woman. If only you had the strength in your arms and shoulders. Try the two-handed grip.”

“Wouldn’t that limit my range of movement?”

“Always an answer. Pity your tongue isn’t a sword!” He advanced. “Defend yourself. This time divert my weapon past your body. Yes.”

He struck, she diverted. The shock of it ran up her arms to her left shoulder. He struck again on the other side and she realized Tulkhan was right, she should hold the sword double-handed. But there was no time to change grips.

Backing away with each strike, Imoshen barely maintained her guard. She suspected he was playing with her, and her suspicions were confirmed when he struck, skidding up over her weapon in such a way that she knew his energy hadn’t been directed into the first strike. His sword passed inside her guard, striking her ribs under her left breast with the flat of the blade. The blow knocked the air from her lungs.

“That was a death blow,” he told her. “Had enough?”

Each breath seared. She gritted her teeth. “Teach me that trick.”

“It isn’t trickery. It takes years of practice.” He punctuated his phrases with strikes, the blows coming faster and faster. “Maybe one day I will show you the battle sword I inherited from my grandfather. Now there’s a beautiful weapon!”

The force of his blows jarred her sword arm, numbing her fingers. It was all she could do to block his attacks.

Imoshen knew she did not have the strength in her upper body to wield the sword properly. She barely had the skill to defend herself. Backing across the slippery stones, she realized it was only a matter of time before her boots sank into the heaped snow and she lost the ability to maneuver.

Each screech of the blades echoed around the courtyard, pounding in her head till she could hear nothing but the reverberating ring of steel on steel.

“I don’t expect to become an expert overnight, General.” She grunted with the effort it took to hold him off. “You said yourself I am light on my feet and willing to learn.”

“Why bother? By spring you won’t even have that. You’ll be heavy with child!” He was barely sweating. “That is why men fight and women don’t. Only in Fair Isle is the natural balance disrupted.”

Anger flooded Imoshen. “I won’t be heavy with child forever, so your argument doesn’t stand up!”

The familiar taste settled on her tongue, warning her that her T’En gift threatened to surface, but she refused to call on her powers to cloud his mind or distract his aim. To use her innate ability against the General now would negate everything.

Absorbed in her silent inner battle she gave ground. Her heel sank into the snow. Her guard wavered.

The General struck. She blocked.

The force of his blow tore the hilt from her useless fingers, sending her weapon spinning across the courtyard to clatter against the stone wall and drop blade first into a snow drift.

Silence hammered loud in the palace’s inner courtyard.

Tulkhan smiled. It pleased him to have Imoshen at his mercy. She stood panting. Two spots of color flamed in her pale cheeks. Damp with sweat, her thin undershirt clung to her breasts as she struggled to regain her breath. He was reminded of the first time he’d seen her, restrained by five of his Elite Guard but not defeated. She had been injured defending a library of knowledge, crimson blood trickling down her white throat over her high breasts. He craved her then just as he craved her now.

She glared at him. Her distinctive T’En scent, at once so familiar yet alien, drew him. It tempted him to forget all reason.

He needed to make her admit that she wanted him. At the same time he despised himself, despised his hunger for her. How could he want her, the antithesis of a Ghebite woman? There she stood, defiantly tall and strong limbed, refusing to admit his mastery.

Unlike Ghebite women, Imoshen used no feminine wiles to arouse and entice him. Instead of diminutive womanly curves, delicate coppery skin, and deferent dark eyes, he faced those accursed T’En eyes. Rich as ruby wine held to the candle flame, they blazed with keen intelligence.

He had grown up hearing tales of this legendary race and their ability to enslave a True-man. But in Imoshen he had found a much more dangerous enemy—a living, breathing woman whose fierce pride and passion called to him against his better judgment.

His body urged him to ignore the stricture which forbade physical contact before their formal union. His blood was up. He saw the comprehension in her eyes, saw a flush of anticipation race across the pearly skin of her throat, and felt his own body respond. By the gods, he was but a breath away from taking her here in the snow. And who would know? Who would dare raise voice against him if he did?

Silently, she straightened. Dropping the defensive stance of a fighter, she inclined her head acknowledging him the victor. A ragged cheer echoed across the courtyard, startling Tulkhan. He spun to see a dozen of his men, the three commanders amongst them, standing under the arch on the far balcony.

He grinned reluctantly and marveled that they did not demand that Imoshen be punished for daring to raise a weapon against him. Then he returned his attention to her. She had fought as well as any untrained man, and she had fought in the knowledge that she was outclassed.

He raised the sword point to her throat and she lifted her chin to avoid the blade.

Media reviews

Don't miss Cory Daniells's first captivating tale of the T'En:

Broken Vows

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