WandWchapter39

He'd found out about that substance some weeks ago when Firehawk had come to his forge. The wizard had been bored enough by his lover's constant absence in the name of diplomacy to want to try something new. Specifically, to raise Thor's blessing on his strange "gitaar" instrument. And contrary to Do'nar's somewhat sarcastic expectations, the wizard had indeed pulled down thunderbolts to fuel his music. He'd also just about knocked Do'nar out of his size-fifteen boots with the rush of power!

For one thing, Do'nar wasn't bowled over, and his skull didn't smoke nor his braids frizzle. Nor was there a wide-eyed Firehawk to chase with a view to strangulation when he recovered!

But every hair on his body rose up, crackling with painless fire. His skin tingled. Yet it did not precisely burn. He felt as if he wore an undergarment of silken, liquid heat from neck to ankles. It was strange.

Do'nar thanked the gods that out of courtesy to the witchwoman, he hadn't brought a weapon of any size to her tent, not even a dagger. His fat head would have been forfeit to his own vow, because he suddenly had the most prodigious erection of his life. And from the laughing dance of his possessed eyes, Jalin knew all about it.

"You'll not be a clumsy lover. Nor crude, as certain people think," Jalin murmured almost dreamily. His touching fingers slipped up Do'nar's face to lightly brush the scowling eyebrows.

"Clumsy? Crude!" Do'nar yelped. "Who thinks so?" Actually, Do'nar himself worried about this mightily. There was no doubt that when passion overcame him he tended to get a bit too enthusiastic!

"Yet not weak either," the lad continued as if the warrior hadn't interrupted. "Considerate, caring for his pleasure as much as your own. And even more---you'll worry over his health, fret if he's sick." Jalin laughed a little. "You'll even write him poetry. No doubt very bad poetry---"

"Poetry!" Do'nar screamed, jumping a foot and forgetting his erection. "By the gods, if I had a weapon handy you'd regret for the rest of your life implying that I'd ever consider penning any gods-cursed such thing as poetry, like some soppy Southern nidderling!" The bits he'd already scribbled, well, they were about battle and such. They didn't count!

Truly enraged, Do'nar forgot himself and stepped threateningly nearer, pushing his face right into Jalin's and opening his mouth to roar at the boy, up close and personal. This move had intimidated iron-muscled warriors before, never mind a smirking teenaged sprig like Jalin. The Captain of the Shadow Riders didn't have a vocabulary to equal Firehawk's, but his sheer lungpower when he was fired up could stun warbeasts at thirty paces.

He'd forgotten that Jalin---like Firehawk---wasn't an honest fighting man, The miserable brat was a gods-cursed wizard, and right now possessed by the spirit of something older even than the Land.

The slim, frost-haired boy didn't step back from his armsmaster's aggressive move. He didn't flinch either. Instead, he smiled, stepped right into Do'nar's ferocious advance, raised on his toes a bit---

But he'd kept company with an eastern girl once, while on a trading trip for exotic metals. A restless, light-moraled thief in a butterfly mask she refused to take off the whole week they were together. Great Thor, she'd been an untrustworthy hoodlum! But Do'nar was willing to forgive her even the picking of his pockets on the morning she finally got bored of him and snuck away while he happily snored in bed. Among other things, she'd taught him to like kissing, with a skill in the art that had left him wrung-out and whimpering with joy.

The slight blond boy almost lunged into the warrior's mouth with his own. In scant seconds Do'nar found himself tasted, and approved. Licked gently, playfully nibbled. The line of fire Iceflame's tongue cut into his lower lip would live in Do'nar's dreams for many nights to come.

His planned yell of fury tumbled into a mindless groan. His stunned brain finally wobbled back to reason and there he was, to his eternal shame. Standing in the Lady Sa'thal's tent, mouth locked to Jalin's. The slender body rocked against his heavy erection wantonly, and he was pushing back almost in a frenzy.

He ripped free with a cry of agony that seemed to tear his very soul from his body. But Jalin followed him, eyes as cold and hard as bright diamonds. His laugh pitiless, as he plunged his hand between them and rubbed Do'nar's rearing , leather-clad shaft hard.

Jalin didn't step back. But somehow, he stepped away. His eyes changed to the color of moonstones washed by foam-pale tides, and the over-heated tent chilled by a hundred degrees.

Frost in the air, and the sound of beating wings. Do'nar could see his own breath, and the heat of his erection clove the winter ice like a spear of fire. The boy no longer touched him, yet Do'nar still felt gripped and caressed. Only now, there was danger near his vitals. A silken breath of razor claws, lightly dancing far too close to his skin.

Yet Jalin didn't try to avoid the fist Do'nar aimed at him. Nor did the dragon's power divert it. Do'nar had been a fighter for nearly twenty years, and he'd learned the cost of going battle-mad and hurting a friend.

He pulled the blow himself. Instead of striking Jalin's upturned, half-smiling face, Do'nar's hand jerked, then dropped heavily onto the boy's shoulder, unclenching in its path. He was panting with the effort. But he managed to squeeze once, gently.

Talking was harder. Stuff was coming out of his mouth without any thought on his part, though. Not exactly a new thing for him, but by the gods it had never happened when he was sober!

"I won't hit you because you anger me," he heard himself say. Oh, Thor, his voice sounded as if he were dragging it over rocks. "And I won't fuck you because you're beautiful and I want to." Odin's arse, worse and worse! "You've been hurt enough, and used enough. I won't---do it."

Whatever owned Jalin's body narrowed the boy's eyes, in a sweep of lashes both thoughtful and enticing. "Are you that weak, War Captain?" it breathed in a voice laden with wild honey and cool velvet. "Great warriors take what they want." Jalin looked pointedly at the stubborn swell in Do'nar's leathers, which had subsided only a little with the effort of conversation.

"The hell they do!" Do'nar barked. "If I taught you anything about being a fighter, by the gods, I hope you remember the importance of discipline and timing. And this is lousy damned timing, boy!" He refused to talk to this Beast he could feel arching over him from some cold and crystal distance. He wouldn't acknowledge its presence or its importance by addressing it directly, Thor blast him if he would! He was scolding his student, Jalin, who should know better than to by thunder flirt with his trainer like this!

"Discipline. A nice word for cowardice. Much easier to admit---and easier on one's conscience." The flexible young voice was a seductive purr now; the eyes, crystal stars building to a stabbing light. Power was crackling in the room, paused in curiosity like a velvet kitten paw before talons were unsheathed. "You're afraid of me, War Captain. But you're more afraid of yourself, I think."

Do'nar flushed, and his eyes turned grim and golden as he stared at the boy with an angered hawk's gaze. "Afraid? Bah! My friend is a goddamned dragon; I'm scared from my wits as any man with sense would be! As if honest fear had anything to do with cowardice! A coward is one who takes the easy way rather than what he knows is right. I won't touch the lad, damn you!" He recollected himself as the glimmering creature rose before him, wrapped in a swirl of thousands of iridescent wings yet bearing Jalin's face. But the body was altering, to something of smoke and mirrors. Still human in form, but shimmering-bright, scales tipped in blue fire and frost.

It was Jalin he must reach. Not this beautiful, horrible thing that studied him like the hunting bugs that preyed on weaker insects. "Lad," Do'nar began roughly, not even sure what he would say.

"Little my ass!" Do'nar shouted, losing his composure completely. "I suppose you've convinced me, you blasted lizard, that I can desire another man. But what my body craves has nothing to do with who I am and what I choose to do! And by the gods I won't touch you! Him! Whatever! When I love, I want to have a Bonded, dammit, and this boy deserves the same. Maybe---maybe if he'd told me earlier---but now, Jalin is like---well, if not a son then a favorite nephew to me. It's too late to change the way I see him. Oh, I could fuck him easily, but he'd have no more of my heart then he does of the Hawk's. Not in the way he wants it!"

Without meaning to---had he hurt the boy far more badly than the suddenly emotionless look on his face proclaimed? Because Jalin's "looks" were always full of contrary, puzzling things.

for his instructor. In truth Do'nar was the imbecile, for not catching it himself and either quashing it instantly or taking advantage! But damn---Jalin---a boy so beautiful he could have bartered his favors and name-price to a warlord for Thor's sake! How could a simple fighting man be expected to guess his own less-than-perfect self was the target?

Plus Jalin was amazingly good at hiding what he felt. Dammit, most boys or girls would blurt out their adoration honestly or at the least show it by attitude. Not project the opposite emotion with a disdainful sniff and an expression that suggested Do'nar was wearing his own pants on his head and too dumb to know it! So what did this face of aloof indifference mean, suddenly tossed over the faint mockery like a shielding cloak?

Impulsively, forgetting the dragon and the danger, Do'nar reached out and swept the young idiot into a hug. "I care for you," he proclaimed strongly, feeling and he suspected sounding like the ass end of his own warhorse. "Maybe not in the way you're trying for, but never doubt I'd die for you, boy! Sex isn't necessary, believe it or not! Not that I'm saying I'm bad at it---humph! Quite good in fact, once I got the hang of, ah, things, I'd smack the memory of every earring you were gifted with straight out of your---never mind! But if you lived with me, by Odin, you'd be booting me out of the tent in a week and yelling about my sloppy habits---I toss bones on the floor after dinner, belch when I choose to. Snore when I sleep---drunk half the time and---hey! What d'ya think you're laughing at, you young hoodlum!"

Hugging Jalin had been a mistake. It was too damn easy for the boy to raise his head in a swirl of frost and stare straight into Do'nar's eyes with a glance of pure affection and deepest regret. That look batted the remainder of the common sense argument the warrior had intended right out of his head. He goggled like a besotted fool in fact, and even felt a renewed stir of sexual interest as the slender body turned in his grip so the boy could reach up and touch his face lightly. And then the brat proceeded to insult him yet again!

"You're right, Do'nar, we wouldn't---suit. But not in the way you think. It's just that---you're far too nice for me." It was Jalin who said this, not the creature which shadowed him, and that somehow made the affront even worse.

Nice! He, the second-best warrior of the Shadow Riders, axeman extraordinaire and veteran War Captain, was thought of as "nice"? By the Nine Hells! Even being accused of slinging verses together wasn't as bad!

Do'nar hung there glaring, too upset even to yell, as the boy continued in a gentle, sad, yet rather proud voice. "I---I'd be so happy with you---for awhile. But then you'd start to---bore me---"

"Not because you're boring!" the lad said, so hastily it was like adding insult to injury. "But---you're so content with life as it is---and I'd start wanting more than just---being with you---I'd hurt you----and that would kill me, a little."

"I feel like killing you right now and more than a little!" Do'nar began in a fury, shocked and appalled to realize that---of all the stupid things! That aside from being monstrously offended, his blasted feelings were actually hurt! From the opinion of a wet-eared, mealy-mouth sprig like Jalin!

The boy flinched, then looked up at the growling warrior with sad, smoky eyes. "You're right, I should have told you how I felt---before. Maybe---at least a little something could have happened, if you knew while you were training me that I, I was---seeing you like that."

The soft, wistful way he said this, then faltered, spun an dream-picture into Do'nar's brain before he could stop it. He saw himself, training Jalin---but this time, with the knowledge in his mind that the boy wanted him. How indeed would he have handled things then? Would it have flustered him, teaching the lad wrestling moves? He remembered a hundred innocent touches that could have been weighted with promise if only he'd known. Everything from correcting the way Jalin held his knives to running critical, knowing hands down the boy's body to check for tension and stance.

The image smacked Do'nar in the skull all at once. Of himself, at the end of a long training day, laughing and ruffling Jalin's bright sweat-streaked hair, telling him he was getting better----

He forced his arms from around the boy, and stepped back reluctantly but firmly. "I expect---it would have ended up the same, boy," he lied a little breathlessly. Damn! Once a man's imagination was joggled it didn't want to stop moving in perverse directions! "Not because you're not, um, er, but what I want I guess---"

"You want exactly what would bore me." Jalin's voice had changed again, now it was like chips being struck from an ice carving. Yet he glided serenely back into Do'nar's personal space, shimmering fingers trailing up the big man's leathered chest. "You want commitment, and to replace the family you lost so many years ago. Not a moody teen-aged slut who's been had by dozens before you and would be petrified by a house full of children even if he could bear them."

"What!" Do'nar bellowed again. "By the gods, how dare you call this boy such a name, you bastard? That's a Southern concept in any case. And it isn't the lad's fault he's beautiful and sought after---his only problem is not having gumption enough to tell the bastards no if he doesn't want 'em! He's too damn accommodating maybe, but by gawd this is the North and fucking like a rabbit isn't a sin here, it's called good luck! And I'm that petty am I, to worry about who's been with you before me? And as for children---" Do'nar stalled, and thought, and flushed a bit. "I wouldn't mind some, true---but I could father a corral full of them and raise them if I wanted, without falling in love with the, um, bearer! I mean, I don't just prefer women because----!"

Under the dragon's sardonic look, he fumbled to a halt, trying to piece out for himself why he ignored the Tribal lads in favor of the lasses. When he'd mused over it at all, he assumed it was just a matter of taste, like preferring pork to chicken though either could be excellent eating when prepared correctly. He hadn't supposed he had a solid reason or needed one, though truth to tell he'd been asked "Why?" by a couple of disappointed, horny young bastards who'd taken his refusals as a personal affront.

True, he wasn't chased as much as most unattached warriors in the Tribe by either men or women, and he'd just figured THAT was because he was less than attractive when it came right down to it. Not plug-ugly as some Southerners could be, by Thor's rump! But not, say, a flaming charmer like Hawk or an ethereal beauty like Jalin. Nor did he have the Warchief's dark and potent majesty. He was just himself, an excellent axeman, an accomplished weaponscrafter. But not, as the Hawk would say "sex on a stick" like some others could boast!

"There are many who fancy you," the dragon corrected serenely, butting into his private thoughts with a total lack of shame. "But being timid and afraid of rejection, you hide in your smelly furs and pretend to be unattractive and disinterested. And to you, women seem less threatening than other men. A flaming hot love affair with someone like this boy would do you nothing but good."

"I'm tired of your opinions," Do'nar growled, pushing back from Jalin with firmness this time. "Tell me where the hell the Witchlady is, and then leave this poor child alone, damn you! It's obviously been you talking all along; he never had an interest in me whatever and he'll be embarrassed as hell to remember all this come morning!"

Jalin's eyes narrowed to glowing slits, and he smirked faintly. Do'nar felt a mild shudder pass through him at the uncharacteristic look. Jalin's lovely face could carry a lot of expressions despite his composure; sulky to seductive, Do'nar now figured he'd experienced them all! But he hadn't expected this cynical, jaded mask to claim the boy's face. Not even when he knew what shared the tent with him.

"Oh, he won't remember a thing he told you of course---that's how it works, to protect you innocents. But you delude yourself, War Captain, if you think I played at lovesick student for a joke. There was a time when he idolized you. Oh, what you could have done with him. Anything you pleased." The cool sweet voice smoked with venom and something like---jealousy?

Before Do'nar could smash through his own outrage enough to speak, Jalin turned abruptly, and strolled back to the desk as if they had never touched. He perched on the edge of the furnishing and studied the fuming, embarrassed warrior with faint amusement, and pity that held a grain of contempt. If the dragon hadn't been in Jalin's delicate body, Do'nar would have seriously tried to knock his block off for that look alone.

"The Witchlady, as you call her, is speaking with the Eastern mages who have come to parlay. And there is nothing she can do for your Firehawk anyway; they have already made the expected choice. When heroes defy the gods and Fate, they are only doing their job after all." Jalin shrugged once, lightly. "The path is now sealed, and he will accept the task the dragons lay before him without question, to gain what is lost."

Do'nar blinked a few times. "What? Who the hell are you talking about now? A task laid out by dragons? Accept it be damned! You better not be referring to either of my Swordbrothers, you lizard, you---buttmunch!"

Do'nar growled, flushing a little as he realized that yes, he HAD used one of the wizard's favorite insults. And though not sure of its exact meaning, Do'nar was well aware that some of Firehawk's colorful language did not fill the bill in terms of awe-inspiring. "I'd rather the Witchlady told me this than a---wait a minute. You say the Easterners came to parlay not to fight? You're cracked, by Thor! Hawk told us that----"

"Even 'Hawk' can be misled," Jalin purred, sounding delighted at the thought. "The East is a complicated place, as you well know. Every city is its own country, with its own laws, foes and allies. Think, War Captain. If someone were to let the East-lords know that one of their number was allied with the South against your Tribes, don't you think they'd ride here quickly to convince you that only one of their city-states was involved and that they themselves were not hostile?" Jalin smirked at Do'nar's pole-axed expression. "And your own brother the one to inform them of the fact. How thoughtful he is to prevent a full scale-war of misunderstanding."

"What! You leave my brother out of this!" Do'nar yelled, astonished at an attack from such an unusual direction. "He knows nothing of war or politics, he's one of those tree-hugging Rangers! They're innocent as babes!"

"Of course not! That is I don't---well, he never mentioned the East! And Rangers don't travel outside their own, um, forest. Except for, um, study." Do'nar rooted through his head for all he knew about Rangers from his books, and found he couldn't come up with a lot. Why hadn't he questioned Asher more about his life with them? Well---fact of it was, the Rangers sounded like a boring crew to him and he'd just not been interested in any detail.

"Well, in that case, I doubly need to see her," Do'nar growled in confusion. "I've wasted enough time here talking to you, you aberration, and---hey! Lad---what's wrong with you? Get out of him, you damn lizard!"

The boy's smirk had slipped into a grimace of pain, and he staggered where he stood as the whirling clash of wings abruptly silenced around him. Do'nar caught Jalin easily, forgetting his desire and frowning in concerned anger at the suddenly milk-pale face.

The area around Sa'thal's tent was never heavily trafficked. The Witchlady did not encourage loiterers for one thing, and the backside of her tongue could be more painful than a barbed sword. Of course the difficulty of access was mostly what kept idle folk away, but there was no denying a shred of healthy fear also had its effect.

So there was no one to witness Do'nar when he emerged from the holy tent. None to notice the forbidding scowl on the face of a man usually prone to cheerfulness even in battle. Part of it was a massive headache from lack of alcohol; he'd not had a drink for damn near seven hours after all! But most of his bad attitude stemmed from worry. He had a thousand more questions in his throbbing brain than he'd come with in the first place, and he didn't much care for the feeling.

He'd tucked Jalin into the tidy, warm bed after the boy collapsed, pulling the neat covers back ruthlessly and making sure they weren't too tight around the youngster. Damn, but the lad was as pale as one of his own scrolls! His face no longer bore the warped beauty of the dragon's presence, but Do'nar didn't like his transparent pallor. And he'd felt as light as parchment in Do'nar's arms too, flat somehow, a bit unreal.

Do'nar had a rough knowledge of first aid from many years in battle; nothing like Hawk's effortless shimmer of magical healing, true. But he could check for breath and heart, bind wounds effectively, and to some degree gauge the vitality of a fallen one. It was his view that Jalin had been knocked silly by the effort of sustaining the dragon's power in his frail human form, and that the boy wouldn't be conscious for hours now that the backlash had hit. Like a blow to the skull in practice, though, it didn't seem a grave injury though certainly less than pleasant!

And so it felt safe, to brush the lad's cheek gently with just the tips of his fingers. Jalin had been out for some minutes, long enough for Do'nar to snoop out a cache of herbal drinks that were already mixed. Actually, he picked a lock on a grimly polished cabinet to find them, but at this point he didn't give a tin shit about Sa'thal's wrath. Another Hawk-ism; it tickled the metal-worker in him and he used the phrase often. And rarely with more sincerity than now!

He placed one of the squat red bottles on the low table near the bed, and stood there dithering for a moment. Much as he hated to leave the boy after such a strange experience, the stew of questions and anxieties now brewing in his brain could only be solved by confronting Smitty. And if she was dealing with politics, she would likely send for the warchief before making any decisive moves. So if Do'nar just hurried to Nightwolf's tent, he might be in time to intercept her at last.

"The North feeds Hawk its power, you see, to back what he already owns." A quick nervous glance at the boy revealed closed eyes, the serene face of an oracle lost in dreaming of past and future without any emotional tie to either. "Khesh is a living creature. And Firehawk is this Land's spirit, as Nightwolf is its embodiment made flesh. Of course their power is great here. So long as the Land is alive, they are invincible." Jalin's voice dropped to a thread of a whisper. "But the Land is wounded, and there is only one way to heal it. To heal a world, War Captain, is not so effortless."

For some reason, this blather made Do'nar's flesh creep even though it was obviously the raving of a poor kid taxed beyond his limits. "Boy, you're not making a tin shit worth of sense. Of course I know that Hawk is the Firelord of legend, he's changed things beyond belief in the short time he's been here. But the North isn't 'wounded", it's the greatest land on the world's back! And by the gods, we're the strongest fighters, lustiest lovers and all around finest human beings in the whole of Khesh!"

Jalin's eyes opened a bit, brimming crystal pools filled with moonlight. Though dragon again, his lips twitched in amusement at Do'nar's enthusiasm. "Yes, the Long and Singing Plains are alive now, thanks to their coming. But don't think the task ends with your small affairs, Northman!"

He sat up in a smooth glimmer of air that held the pearled silk of his wings. "The west is asleep. The east, infected by a poison beyond imagining. And the south---" The boy's lips curled in a scornful twist that was years beyond his actual age. "The south was stolen from its rightful lords, who built by magic the cities of bloodstone and opal in which thieves now warm their cowardly asses! The Southlands belong to dragonkind! And they shall return to us, War Captain. Once he awakens the west, heals the east---the rest shall come easily."

"The hell you say!" Do'nar planted his feet and thrust his chin out belligerently. The dragon's unexpected return had insulted him beyond measure; for one thing its comments were baffling and unnerving to a simple fighting man. Dragons claiming the southlands; there was a new one! Everyone of sense knew that dragons had lived in, well, mountains or something, like big eagles but with more brain to them. At least the old stories said so. There wasn't a whole lot of lore about dragons, really, except that they had been very powerful once, had been friendly with the elves, and had vanished just as abruptly as that proud and reclusive race.

Aside from that, he just disliked bastards who used another's body like this; it made his hackles rise up, by gad! Do'nar's fighting instincts kicked in, as if Jalin were indeed a younger relative he must protect from some dangerous wild beast which most unfortunately had a death grip of the boy. "No one's seen a dragon for centuries; not in the flesh I mean. And Southern folk are pussy-whipped religious fanatics. How the hell could wimps like that have driven out a crew of dragons?" There; that was telling the bastard!

Jalin smiled wickedly, and waved a hand at Do'nar as if in both approval and negation of his belligerent remark. Streamers of light followed the boy's curt gesture like cold smoke follows ice. "Southerners," he breathed, "are mostly mindless tools now. They have been eaten, of course. Even the children's children of those with whom we shared the desert lands have mainly been devoured. It is not their fault; humans are weak, and need gods to prop their uncertainties and make them feel worthy of survival. And neither dragons nor elves were willing to be worshipped by these poor misfits." The boy shrugged lightly, a lord's negligent dismissal. "It takes so much time and commitment, to be a god, you see. We dragons had other worlds and times to visit; elves had their music and painting and playful political messes to keep them busy."

"You don't say now." Despite himself, Do'nar was becoming too intrigued to remain angry. He'd always enjoyed a good yarn, spoke or written. The dragon's delivery was far too abstract, and he was mainly dropping hints and leaving out the good parts like fucking and fighting. As a bard he stunk. But this was information about the unknown past, and truth or fiction it was almost charming!

"But the humans were determined; a god they would have. And their third choice was most unfortunate." Jalin giggled then, at some private joke. "As in that most interesting of movies regarding the Holy Grail, they did not choose----wisely."

Do'nar's brow knotted. "Movies?" he repeated in bewilderment. The word was familiar, but he wasn't sure where he'd heard it or what it meant, either. "Holes in what?" The dragon ignored him, of course. Bastards in love with the sound of their own voice always did!

"They chose something that glittered in beauty around a core of rottenness and hunger." Jalin's dry, lecturing tone didn't fit the dramatic words. And the playful, head-tilt glance he threw Do'nar's direction didn't fit the seriousness of what he next said, either.

Do'nar swallowed. "Nightwolf doesn't talk much of these things. And his lover talks so damned much, the problem is picking the important stuff out of his mess of words! I've heard a little, and guessed a lot. Mainly I just know it was something very bad, trying to keep them away from here."

"They have never mentioned darkangels? Ah. Or perhaps you know the race best as Resh-kalyana. That is what these fools welcomed into Khesh as their god." A shiver passed through the boy's body, and he frowned and muttered irritably. "Weakling---" He looked at his own slim arm and shook his head in disbelief at what he'd been given to work with.

Though he was not the one addressed, Do'nar felt this taunt justified in his case as well. Every ounce of strength seemed to desert him at that one familiar word from dark legend. Resh-kalyana. They didn't even use that one to frighten children with, because it was enough to scare grown men witless. A thing that would take your body and run with it, but not as a ghoul did, wiping your personality cleanly if painfully. No, a Reaver kept your mind and soul imprisoned to feed upon, helpless and screaming in the flesh that no longer obeyed you. And the more powerful Reavers----

Do'nar fumbled around for the small desk chair that Jalin had used before, found it. The fragile item creaked ominously as he dropped his rump on it, but fortunately it held his weight.

"Too dramatic," the boy remarked almost cheerfully. "It is only a goddamn junkie, addicted to emotions not to 'souls.' But if your Firehawk doesn't get moving on the hero-thing, this creature and its offspring will eat all your world in time. It owns the South; it is stirring in the East. You'll all be drooling Southerners, War Captain, in thrall and loving it." Jalin laughed, another one of those trilling giggles that Do'nar was beginning to despise. "Won't you just hate that, though!"

Do'nar made his way over the dirt pathway of the sacred grove onto the pebbled walk of the more trafficked areas without really noting how he got there. He was heading to Nightwolf's tent. He would arrive somehow, to ask questions, but also perhaps to provide some answers. Even when drunk, Do'nar had never felt so dazed and yet so focused. The dragon had told him many things before leaving Jalin for good; about its own kind, and their mutual enemy.

It was late afternoon, and market day besides. People were milling about, and chattering. Most of the conversation lingered on the rumors about a wedding party on the morrow. Although no one could quite remember a Bonding ceremony having been held for anyone, the idea of a party celebrating the questionable event was more than popular!

Do'nar found himself responding automatically to the cheerful greetings and inquiries, perhaps less amiably than usual since his head hurt. Still he tried to answer rather than just storming his way through the pack of gossiping fools as the Wolf would do in a temper. Even Firehawk tended to forget his own friendly nature when irate, and shoved people aside with remarks like sword thrusts rather than glad-handing them. But I'm so damned "nice", Do'nar thought grimly. I can't be a bastard to my own people!

He was past the bulk of the crowd now, almost to the Warchief's tent which loomed grandly some small ways off from the main path. The flaps were down, which didn't surprise Do'nar much. Nightwolf always preferred his privacy; even before the wizard had come to share his bed it took a hardy soul to bother him for something less than an emergency. Nowadays interruption could be counted as downright dangerous to life and limb! But Do'nar at this point was willing to risk it.

"Very nice, Captain," a pretty yet sharp voice observed somewhere around his ribcage, and he blinked down at the shapely, dark-haired creature he'd nearly tromped over in his distraction. Tribal people tended to be powerfully built rather than fragile, and truth was he just hadn't seen Irenea plant herself in his path since he topped her by almost a foot.

"You're not knocked down, you're still standing," Do'nar pointed out, bewildered. What was she making such a fuss about? Her voice had risen and hitched a little, as interested passersby began to slow and then stop to grin at the pair of them. From the edge of his vision Do'nar saw movement from the warchief's tent, but when he tried to edge past Irenea she moved with him, blocking his way yet again.

"I thought you liked me, Captain Do'nar," she said in a quivery voice, batting her big brown eyes at him in a manner that would have befuddled a monk sworn to celibacy. Do'nar was no monk, and despite his very real concerns he was distracted by her game even while thinking "What the hell?" For this woman to flirt at him in near-privacy was weird enough, but by Odin he hadn't expected her to do it in front of the whole Tribe! At another time he might have enjoyed it, but he had business to tend to not pleasure. The lingering desire inspired by his pupil's confession sure didn't help matters. By Thor's flying mallet, why was he so damned unlucky all the time?

Irenea cut a quick glance at the warchief's tent. Do'nar would have done the same, except for the fact that the girl pounced with the sudden energy of a forest cat. She grabbed him around the neck with much more strength than Do'nar would have believed possible. Lunged upward almost exactly as Jalin had done---they were of a height, really, the boy and this lass----

Do'nar's eyes bugged. More from astonishment at first, because Irenea's kiss was less stirring than Jalin's had been. For one, her lips stayed firmly locked through all of it. His occasional daydreams of doing this were hotter than the reality, by thunder! And that was pretty alarming. This was his dream woman and she was kissing him and he should have been crazy with rapture and he just wasn't!

But she was a beautiful woman hanging on him, and he automatically wrapped one big arm around her to steady her. He couldn't help enjoying it somewhat even though he had no idea what was going on or why.

Firehawk stood there at the tent entrance, barefoot and clad only in tight leather leggings, negligently elegant of stance. He watched them with faint amusement. His long fiery hair was mussed, his chest was covered in crimson designs, and one of his hands trailed inside the tent as if attached to something. His glasses were missing, and if the crowd of people hadn't been focused on hooting at Do'nar's predicament, some of them might have noticed the strangeness of his eyes.

Then those elven eyes seemed to click into place and become his own, as he tugged gently with the hand still within the tent. "C'mon, babe," he said calmly, in his clear, flexible singer's voice. "Show 'em."

The attention of the people swiveled from the kissing couple to the warchief's tent, as their king slowly emerged. He too was naked to the waist, his powerful upper body coiled in patterns of green and gold that made the shape of flaming wings. His hands and arms, though, were encrimsoned with blood.

And the pair were cuffed together at the wrist by two intricate bands of silver and starmetal, around which an aura of magic shimmered visibly in the air. Do'nar had seen this thing and the ceremony which led to it only once before, and it had made him consider the bad boys of the Twelve Tribes stark raving lunatics.

Do'nar pushed Irenea aside with an oath; her astonished cry of dissatisfaction went totally unnoticed by the big warrior as he stared at them. "Black Moon Tribe ownership ritual," he said softly, staring at his warchief. "Sa'thal is going to curse the whole damned tribe for this! Why?"

To put him beyond the reach of destiny---because now he belongs only to you, and no one but you can touch him. Even death cannot reach him through the harsh walls of this joining, and his fate is yours entirely at last.

Do'nar approved, in a sense. It was a cunning move, although of course it doomed the Land. Nightwolf would not let his Chosen be sacrificed, now that the choice belonged to him.

And due to the dark magic carried in that forbidden sacrament, there wasn't a thing the gods could do about it. Except maybe blast all of them from the face of the earth in sheer exasperation.