She looked between the two of them, feeling the hint of violence just below the surface. She parted her lips to speak, but all words felt inadequate.

  “Go,” Andrei said softly to her, but loud enough for Nicolae to hear. “You know you should.”

  “Go!” Nicolae barked at her, as if trying to override Andrei’s command with his own. He clearly did not want her obeying someone else.

  Maybe she was just a possession to him; an otherworldly toy that he didn’t want to share. Hadn’t that been the reason he finally made love to her? He had been upset that Theron had touched her. It had nothing to do with his feelings for her. She of all women knew that a man could have sex with a woman without loving her.

  There would be no comforting words of affection from Nicolae. Andrei had opened her eyes to everything she feared but was afraid to face. With an unhappy set to her mouth she dragged herself away from the men to the other side of the courtyard.

  “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nicolae asked quietly as Samira went out of earshot.

  “Trying to save you from yourself. May I get up, or are you going to insist on tossing your most faithful of friends into the dirt again?”

  Nicolae snorted in derision. “Faithful friend. Ha.”

  “More faithful than you give me credit for,” Andrei said, warily rising from the ground and dusting himself off. “I was testing her motives.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “For God’s sake, Nicolae, have I ever tried to take a woman from you?”

  Nicolae glared at Andrei, his exhausted mind wearily trying to hold on to both his anger and the reason for it; a reason which seemed to slip and fade as soon as Samira was out of sight.

  “Sit down, you fool, before you fall down.”

  “Not until you explain... explain...”

  Andrei raised his brows at him. “Yes, explain...”

  “Quiet, you son of a whore,” Nicolae said. The burst of energy it had taken to rush down from the tower and toss Andrei off of Samira had depleted him, and his thinking was going fuzzy. How long had it been since he’d gotten more than a few minutes’ sleep? Days? “Explain what you were doing with Samira.”

  “Trying to convince her that you were better off without her.”

  “Since when did you take over making the decisions about what was best in my life?”

  Andrei sighed. “Will you sit down?”

  Both the days with little sleep and the warm feel of the sun on his back pushed Nicolae toward the bench, and he dropped down on it with relief. A murky stew of anger over seeing Andrei on top of Samira still bubbled through him, but in with it was awareness that his friend had never lied to him, and deserved to be heard. Briefly. Before Nicolae woke up well enough to skewer him with a sword. “Speak.”

  “She’s a demon, Nicolae. That’s all it comes down to. She’s a demon.”

  “She’s human.”

  “For only the space of a few more days. I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t protest this, or try to stop her from pursuing you. She can only bring you harm.”

  “Harm? What harm has she brought me?” Nicolae asked incredulously. “Before she came, my body was slowly healing from what Dragosh had done, but my spirit was dying. I was learning nothing from those books but despair. I never even came out into the daylight. Harm! Yes, what a lot of harm she has done me! She’s good for me, Andrei,” Nicolae went on. “Demon from Hell or human woman. What’s the difference?”

  “A priest would say there was plenty of difference. Are you in love with her?”

  Nicolae looked across the courtyard to where Samira was idly circling the well and stopping periodically to gaze down into its depths. “I don’t know what I feel, except that she’s mine and no one is going to take her from me. Call it possessiveness if you will. I don’t care. She’s mine.”

  “Is that why you’ve been so feverishly working? You don’t want Dragosh to get his hands on her.”

  “I’m working to save Moldavia.” He was silent a long moment, and then confessed, “And to save Samira. But not from Dragosh.”

  Andrei raised his brows in question.

  Nicolae shook his head. “Would you have ever guessed that there was a Queen of the Night? She’s the daughter of Chaos—apparently—and is Samira’s grandmother.”

  “Samira’s grandmother is a queen? That means she has royal blood.”

  Nicolae laughed, short and harsh. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. This queen, this Nyx, this royal grandmother, is going to destroy Samira in a few days’ time. I was hoping to find a way to stop her.”

  “Did you find one?”

  “No. How does one stop Night?”

  “So there’s no hope for Samira.”

  “A situation which no doubt pleases you.”

  Andrei rubbed his face with his hands, then sighed and dropped his hands. “No one wants to see his friend ensnared by a damned demon, Nicolae. You must at least credit me with caring about your welfare.”

  “I will not stand by and let you harm Samira, whatever your convictions about her may be. This is not your decision.”

  “I’m not going to harm her. I’m not even going to protest any further. I’ve said my piece, and I am at least convinced that she is not here to hurt you.”

  “No, she was sent here to help me regain what I lost. A penance, for past misdeeds. If she fails, the penalty is death. The only chance I can see for her is if we defeat Dragosh. Nyx might then show some mercy.” Andrei looked pointedly around the empty monastery. Nicolae saw what he saw: The courtyard was devoid of an army. Devoid, even, of a single other man than themselves. Samira was sniffing a flowering vine that grew over one wall; then, as he watched, she did a little panic dance, swatting ineffectually at a bee. His demon did not look much like a warrior.

  “There’s no hope at all, is there?” Andrei asked. Movement and voices at the gateway just then drew their eyes. It was Constantin and Petru, sweaty and dirty, jogging into the courtyard.

  “My lord!” Constantin shouted.

  “Yes, what news?” Nicolae asked, standing quickly, his exhaustion falling away.

  “Dragosh’s army is no more than two days hence. He has three thousand men, possibly more. They’re a poorly disciplined lot, but well armed.”

  “Three thousand men,” Andrei said dismally. “No hope at all.”

  “There are always the villagers,” Nicolae said. “How many in the village, Constantin?”

  “My lord?”

  “Men, women, children, mewling babies—everyone capable of standing or crawling.”

  Constantin exchanged a confused look with Andrei.

  “I’m not mad,” Nicolae said calmly. “Although perhaps that is a matter of opinion. Come, how many?”

  “Perhaps as many as three hundred souls.”

  Nicolae frowned. “Not much of a fighting force, I grant you. But perhaps something can be made of them. What say you, Constantin: Do you think they will listen to me, after the bunny incident?”

  “My lord?”

  Nicolae laughed and slapped him on the back. “Come! We have to train the lot of them, and we’ve hardly the time for it. Samira, you come, too! Maybe the women and small children will listen to you more than they will to four decrepit soldiers.”

  “Surely the villagers will all be slaughtered if they come up against Dragosh’s army?” Samira asked, her face as heavy with confusion as those of his men.

  Nicolae laughed again, the sound half-crazed even to his own ears. He had a plan that promised the thinnest hope of success, but hope it was. They had nothing else.

  He draped his arm over Samira’s shoulders and pulled her along with him, down the walkway over the water, the sun sparkling on the lake’s rippling surface, the breeze picking up his hair and Samira’s, lifting their locks in tangling banners of red and black.

  He gazed at the small brown village huddled a short distance from the rush-clogged banks of the lake and felt the insane hope surging again within his chest. He pulled Samira closer to his side, leaning down to whisper against her cheek.

  “Wait and see. We are going to build the most fearsome fighting force the world has ever seen.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Samira winced, and mentally forced her intestines into quiet obedience. She would not run to the bushes again. She would not!

  The fear ravaged her in great waves, though, which her body felt even as she gritted her teeth and refused to acknowledge it in her mind. She had seen much of war in the haunted nightmares of men but had never thought that she herself might be thrown into the bloody mire of such violence. Her mind could barely accept that she stood now on the cusp of a battle where her own flesh, and that of the man she loved, might be hacked to pieces.

  She closed her eyes. I will not falter. I will not! she told herself. I will not fail Nicolae. Her beloved needed her, just as he needed Andrei, Petru, and Constantin, and every living soul of the village. Even the dumb animals had been drawn out to fight: The cows and sheep were hobbled in the fields, the dogs tied to the waist sashes of their masters so that they would be forced to stand their ground beside them.

  They were all—those of the fortress and those of the village—spread across the fields to the west of the town, in what should be the direct path of Dragosh and his army. Nicolae and his men were mounted on the horses that had lived these past two years on a nearby farm. Nicolae looked every inch the prince and warrior, his breastplate of armor polished bright, a plumed helmet on his head, his mount draped with the insignia of the Wolf of Dacia. He sat erect and at ease, the leader of an army the likes of which Dragosh would never expect.

  Farmers in their field clothes held wooden pitchforks and iron hoes, axes and rakes; women wielded brooms and hatchets and ladles; children held whatever sticks or stones they had found and imagined into a weapon. They were all, Samira was sure, as nervous as she was, clutching the dagger that Nicolae had offered her as a weapon. The villagers had less hope than she, less faith in the skills of Nicolae. They knew enough of their world to know what lay in store, though, whether they fought or ran. It was only by force of personality that Nicolae had persuaded them that to follow him might lead elsewhere than a quick and brutal death.

  A pair of young boys broke place and began beating at each other with their sticks, giggling and laughing.

  “You there!” Constantin shouted, riding up to them. “Save it for Dragosh!”

  “Sir!” the boys shouted, stunned and embarrassed, but they retook their places with chins held high, plainly thrilled to have been addressed as real fighting men.

  Samira wished she could be behind Nicolae on his horse, but she had pretended to a courage she didn’t have, and insisted she would be fine on the ground, helping to command a small battalion of adolescent girls. Everybody was needed, every person essential. Samira would have been shamed to huddle at Nicolae’s back while children faced the army on foot.

  A rider appeared over the nearest hill: Petru.

  “They come!” he shouted.

  A ripple of restless fear flowed through the villagers, voices of complaint erupting through the murmur.

  Nicolae kicked his horse into motion and rode to the front of their ragtag army. “Remember!” he shouted to them, capturing their attention. “Remember beside whom you stand! Remember with whom you fight! And most of all, remember for whom you fight!”

  He turned his mount, moving across the front line. “You do not fight for me. You do not fight for Moldavia. You do not fight to save your homes, or your own lives.”

  The villagers hushed, every eye watching Nicolae as he rode by. They waited for the answer, as did Samira. What was it for which they fought?

  “You fight for your families,” Nicolae said, no longer shouting, but his voice clear and deep, and carrying easily across the field. “You fight for your friends. You fight for your sister, your father, your husband, your wife. You fight for those you love.

  “Remember that!” he cried. “Remember that they are beside you, and remember that it is for them that you stand here, and clutch your weapons, and clutch your courage to your hearts.

  “Remember, for without those you love, there is nothing. Remember, and fight for them!”

  A roar went up among the villagers.

  “Remember!” Nicolae shouted again.

  “Remember!” the villagers shouted along with him.

  Samira felt the hope rise in her heart, and a courage she had not known was there. She would fight, she would see Dragosh and his men in Hell before she would let them touch one hair on Nicolae’s head, or harm a single precious child of the village.

  The adolescent girls around her hollered along with the rest, their fidgeting nervousness of minutes before transformed into the same ferocity that Samira herself felt burning in her veins. Dragosh wanted to harm their parents? Their sisters and brothers and friends? Never!

  She didn’t know if Nicolae loved her, but had decided it didn’t matter. As she had realized before she told Nicolae of her role in Dragosh’s dream, love gave no promises of being returned. The joy she had of it was in the giving.

  With a few days of distance, she didn’t know anymore whether Andrei had been right when he said that Nicolae would be better off without her. But that didn’t matter, either: when Nyx came, she, Samira, would be no more. That left nothing for her to do now other than live what brief life was left to her in the fullest way she knew how.

  And that meant loving Nicolae.

  Nicolae looked out over the villagers and intoned the words from the book of illusions. He could feel their readiness; could feel their caring for one another bonding them together, unifying them as if they were a seasoned army with a score of battles under their belts. Even the children—none younger than ten; he had at least drawn the line there—held themselves with the certainty and determination of warriors. Where they might have run to protect themselves, they stood to fight to save those they loved.

  That was the key Nicolae had been missing these past two years, as he’d studied the magic tomes. Nothing had ever gone right with the magic because he had wanted the wrong things from it. Revenge was not a worthy cause. Pride was not a worthy cause. Nor was power for its own sake. Protecting those one loved, however, was.

  His gaze sought out Samira. She was brandishing her dagger in the air with the same vigor as the girls around her, daring Dragosh and his army to come over the hill.

  He loved her.

  Yes, he knew it now. And he knew as well that love was the source of his greatest strength. Lust for a woman could be a distraction and bring destruction, but never love.

  The rabbit illusions he had tried with the villagers had worked as long as he was trying to cheer up Samira. The moment he’d become wrapped up in his own pride of accomplishment, his own thrill of power, they had gone awry.

  He understood now, too, why he had been able to summon Samira into the circle, those many weeks past: He had wanted to see her again. Like the old wizard in the pictures in the margins of the illusions book, his heart had yearned for love, and the magic had accepted that foul means were sometimes necessary for a beautiful end.

  He heard a low rumbling, as of thunder, almost below his hearing. His horse pranced and threatened to shy.

  It was Dragosh’s army, nearing the crest of the hill behind him. He sent a prayer heavenward, to whatever god might be listening. He couldn’t fail the villagers, or his men. He couldn’t fail Samira. He carried their lives on his shoulders at that moment, and he could not let them down.

  He closed his eyes and ignored the sound of his archenemy’s approaching army. Instead, he let himself feel only the overwhelming need to protect the people before him.

  He opened his eyes and cried out the final words of the spell. “Aaska mad douska, ooska ma diiska, eemda loo!”

  The villagers roared, and as the first of the soldiers crested the hill, the villagers, the livestock hobbled in the fields, the dogs tied to sashes, his men, and Samira all transformed.

  Gone were peasant women with braided hair and kerchiefs on their heads. In their place, ogres seventy feet tall swung their clubs through the air, stomped their feet, and howled unearthly threats.

  Gone were the farmers, their wiry, muscled bodies turning four-legged, their skin covering with scales, their heads into the heads of dragons. They rose up on their haunches, as tall as the ogres, and belched fire.

  Gone were the children. Vile, slime-covered creatures from the depths of nightmares leapt and cavorted in their place, ear-splitting screeches coming from their jagged-toothed mouths.

  Nicolae, Andrei, Petru, and Constantin were human still, but their mounts had turned into enormous wolves as big as horses.

  The sheep and cattle became the carnage of men, tossed aside half-dead by the ogres and fiends, the bodies flopping and crawling along the ground, following the movements of the livestock hidden under the illusions. The dogs quadrupled in size and grew three, four, five heads, spikes emerging along their backs, their eyes glowing yellow.

  And Samira and her girls became winged demons forty feet high, blood dripping from their mouths and hands, orange fury burning as flames in their eyes.

  The momentum of Dragosh’s army pushed a thousand of the men over the crest of the hill before they could see and understand what was before them; before they could pull back on their reins and put halt to the steps of the infantry; before they could go pale with surprise and stunned terror, suddenly unsure if they were awake or in the throes of a nightmare.

  “Remember!” Nicolae screamed above the emerging chaos.

  The villagers let out an unholy roar of fury and charged toward the army. Ogres took slow, loping strides, beasts bounced and scampered, dragons lumbered and clawed the air and belched yet more fire. Samira and her demons screeched and gnashed their teeth and advanced hungrily. And slowly. All they had to fight with was fear, and Dragosh’s army had to be scared off before the first soldier met the first beast and discovered that there was nothing to battle but air and unarmed peasants.

 

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