The Warrior's Heart Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  The Warrior’s Heart

  ISBN #978-0-85715-264-0

  ©Copyright Sable Grey 2010

  Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright August 2010

  Edited by Stacey Birkel

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom

  .

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  THE WARRIOR’S HEART

  Sable Grey

  Dedication

  For my husband, who is always supportive of my dreams and my writing.

  Prologue

  Viktor’s hands shook as he stared down at his father’s lifeless face. He was dead. No! It couldn’t be real. But the thick rope-burn which encircled his father’s neck was real enough. Dieter Kelemen had been murdered in his bed. Sorrow pierced through him as he reached for his father’s arms with shaking hands. He felt like screaming, like ripping at his clothes. Instead, he bowed his head into Dieter’s chest and muffled the sounds of anguish that pushed past the lump that formed in his throat.

  Behind him, he heard his four brothers enter one by one, heard their intakes of breath and Alger’s low curse. In the far corner, Katarin, their only sister, wept.

  Viktor straightened and curled his fingers in the thick coverlet, then threw it back, revealing the stab wounds to Dieter’s body. His father had been stabbed repeatedly. His gaze darted to the mark around his neck. Stabbed while someone choked off any shout of alarm. His father’s knuckles were busted. He’d gone fighting. Viktor would have expected nothing less. He’d never known his father to be a weak man but the thought of him struggling for a breath as he swung at his assailants made bile rise in Viktor’s throat. He also saw the bite marks, many of them, as if more than one had bitten him.

  No blood, he realised. His gaze darted to the thin woman who stood at the opposite side of the bed, noting the deep lines that wore into her face around her mouth. Her dark eyes were red-rimmed indicating she’d been crying. Viktor frowned. Ilona had been his father’s slave years before his mother’s death but Viktor knew she’d been his lover for a much longer time. Though her own heart was broken, she’d washed Dieter’s body clean and changed the bedding to spare Viktor and his brothers the sight of their father’s bloodshed.

  The large room suddenly seemed too small for him, and the grey stone walls of Kelemen Castle felt as if they were closing in, pushing the air from his lungs. He stumbled backwards but Alger’s firm hand rested on his back.

  “How has this happened, Father?” Viktor whispered. “Who brought your death to our door?”

  Ilona’s slender hand shook as she lifted a piece of material. “I found this in his bed. I had to pry it from his fingers.”

  Viktor’s gaze rested on the crest sewn into the crimson stained material. Recognition settled and sudden rage filled his chest. The shout started from deep within him, tore from his throat and bounced around the room. When he turned, his brothers backed away and Katarin hurried to Ilona’s side, burying her face into her mother’s shoulder.

  Viktor grabbed the table nearest him and hurled it against the stone wall, splintering the wooden structure into pieces. He vowed, in a voice that was only half human, that he would not rest until his father’s death was avenged.

  Chapter One

  Jolan Lovasz crept down the winding stairway that led to a side door at the bottom of the north tower. It was the passage that her father’s lovers used whilst her mother slept, to enter and leave the castle, and tonight it would prove a quick and successful escape for his daughter.

  While Jolan normally would not defy her parents or wish to leave Maethi, the thought of marrying Count Mircea Dragomir pushed her desperately through the dark. His arrival at Maethi was in a throng of horsemen and a surprise to her father. His proposal to marry Aldarbern’s only daughter came as a much larger shock. Until that day, they’d never met the count, only heard of his great army and fortress home that withstood the Mongolian attacks while others fell victim to their raids.

  Jolan frowned in the darkness. Her father had poorly hidden his surprise and elation at the proposal. The arrangement had been agreed upon in moments, before Jolan even had time to realise what had happened. Then the count had been introduced to her. He was a tall, fearless man, wealthily adorned and handsome. Jolan should have been happy with the arrangement as she was well past the age for marriage, and her uncle had successfully rid her of any interest in those who might have approached her with a proposal. But an uneasy feeling filled her when she looked into the count’s dark eyes.

  “You hasten to agree to a union, Father, without even considering what motivates the proposal in the first place?” Jolan had waited until the count had retired to voice her concerns to her father.

  “Why should I doubt the count’s reasons?” Aldarbern had countered.

  “Why? He marries below his station, Father, for wealth which does not reach what he would achieve were he to choose from another family.”

  Jolan’s frown deepened in the dark as she continued down the stairwell. A fleeting look of doubt had come across her father’s expression, chased quickly away by Cloelia’s reminder that her visions had predicted a marriage which would increase the station of the Lovasz name. Jolan had looked to her mother for help but Linza Lovasz had learned early on not to cross the gypsy witch’s words and offered no assistance.

  The doorway came into view below and Jolan quickened her step. Escape was within reach. A horse awaited her at the edge of the wall, where she’d hidden a bundle of her belongings. Ishild, one of the servant women and Jolan’s only true friend, upon hearing her plan, baked a loaf of bread for her to take with her when she could not convince Jolan to stay.

  But three steps from the doorway, Jolan’s step faltered as a shadow suddenly blocked the moonlight. Her breath caught in her chest as the figure moved forward and a pair of dark glittering eyes peered at her through the darkness.

  “What’s this?” Count Dragomir’s soft voice wound through the shadows. “I expected a whore and find it is my own beloved creeping about in the dark like a little mouse.”

  Jolan’s mind raced, seeking any excuse to explain why she was discovered in the stairwell. “I…I often like to take walks at night, when it’s quiet.” She continued when he did not respond, “This night has brought much for me to think of and I wanted to walk while I worked out all preparations that need be made for our union.”

  He stepped backward, unblocking her way and allowed her to descend into the moonlight. She fought the urge to move away when he placed a hand upon her back. His step was a slow stroll and she realised he meant to walk with her.

  “I realise that my proposal cam
e as a shock to you, as much as a shock as your beauty was to me when I met with you this day.” The count spoke as they walked towards the north wall. “I knew only that Adalbern Lovasz had a daughter. Now that I have seen you, I know that the journey here was not a mistake.”

  His hand slid away from her back to her arm, then down to her hand as they walked. “You seemed fearful of me when we met.” He looked down at her.

  “Only for the stories of your great success and that you are a ruthless warrior against the Mongol savages.” Jolan tensed as they approached the wall and he turned to walk east towards the river. The sound of the rushing water as it swept through the mountains was loud even at this distance. It was a sound that Jolan had always loved and would drown out the sound of her escape. But if they made it to the river’s edge, her horse would be discovered. She tried to think of any reason to lure him away from the wall, in another direction. When she tried to veer to the right, he held her hand still, his path unaltered.

  “It is true that I defend what belongs to me with the ruthlessness you have heard. You must understand, Jolan, men must sometimes kill to keep what is theirs.” He spoke louder, leaning closer to her as they neared the river, so she could still hear his words plainly. “All that I have, my family and I have worked for, and nothing will stand in my way in order to keep what is mine.”

  Movement at the edge of the river caught Jolan’s attention. She squinted then her throat closed as they neared. One of Mircea Dragomir’s men held Ishild, her back to his chest, a blade to her throat as another man groped at her exposed breasts. Ishild screamed but her distress was silent beneath the sound of the river. Jolan started forward, calling out for her friend, but the count’s fingers tightened on her wrist, keeping her where they stood. The man with the knife looked up at them, his mouth pulling back to reveal a sinister grin. He dropped the knife and slid it across the top of Ishild’s left breast. A thin line of blood appeared and when it began to run, the other bent forward and licked at the crimson droplets.

  Jolan tried to jerk free of the count’s grasp, screaming, but he did not release her, pulling her closer so he could close his free hand over her opposite shoulder. “You see, Jolan,” his spoke next to her ear, “I am a passionate man too and appreciate your beauty. I will keep you and protect you from any that mean to take you away from me. The only ones who need fear me, my little mouse, are those who mean to deny me what is mine.”

  Jolan screamed with horror when Ishild’s throat was cut. The man holding her released her so she could fall to the ground. As the other man straddled her dying body, Jolan whirled, unable to watch what was happening. Her gaze widened when she saw Cloelia standing but a few feet from them, thin arms crossed, her eyes hard and mouth pressed in a firm line. She tore free from the count’s grasp and rushed towards the woman, realising too late Cloelia’s part in what she’d witnessed. The crone’s grip was tight and her eyes flashed angrily as she dragged her back to the doorway of the north tower.

  Jolan looked back over her shoulder at the count to find him watching her. Her blood chilled. His eyes were bright yellow, glowing at her through the darkness.

  “Haven’t I warned you of the dangers of wandering around in the dark?” Cloelia hissed as she dragged Jolan up the stairwell. “You are fortunate Count Dragomir found you before you wandered into trouble.” Jolan’s whole body shook and uncontrollable sobs bubbled up from her throat. Ishild was dead!

  “They…they k-k-killed her!” She managed to push the words out.

  “Killed who?”

  “They are…monsters!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Cloelia snapped as if Jolan were mad. “You are behaving peculiarly. I pray you did not find trouble while you were out there. Did you find trouble? You’ll have to be cleansed.” Cloelia continued up the stairwell nearly dragging Jolan behind her.

  * * * *

  Three months later, just weeks before she was to become the Countess Dragomir, she entered the great hall, summoned by her servant man, Tibor. “Come, Jolan, and meet the guard your father has commissioned to take us to Castle Drago. He is called Raban.” Tibor indicated the stranger who stood in the middle of the room.

  Jolan stopped, staring at the guard, in awe of his large build. Slowly, he turned, revealing a broad face of wide angles and a pair of piercing blue eyes. His torso was a wall of muscle beneath a brown wool tunic and just one thick trunk-like leg of him was larger around than her waist. Those legs bore loose fitted leggings wrapped at the calves with strips of dark leather that disappeared into the top of his leather boots. A sword and sheath hung at his waist, and he tucked it back with one large hand as he offered a slight bow.

  “Only one? What is the point of that?” Jolan looked to Tibor with confusion. The rogue and Mongolian raids were of high threat to those travelling across the mountains and one man, no matter his size, couldn’t save them from a party that meant to attack.

  “You father has commissioned many. This is the guard charged to protect you personally,” Tibor explained.

  “How many are commissioned to protect us?” Jolan turned her attention to Tibor.

  “Twenty.” Tibor beamed. “And of course the men Count Dragomir will send to escort us to him. We shall be well protected.”

  Jolan wanted to tell him that that she preferred an attack by the Mongols over their arrival at Drago Castle. She said nothing, however. It would do no good. Her future was before her and her fate written. She’d failed in her attempt to escape, saw the true nature of the count and his men, and had been punished for lies when she’d tried to tell of what she’d witnessed. Her horse had been butchered, and it had been concluded, despite her story, that Ishild had stolen the horse and was leaving Maethi when she was overtaken by a small band of Mongols. With the fear of the raids already rampaging across the mountainside, it was easy to believe the lie over the truth.

  “Then it seems all is in place for our departure.” Jolan cast a glance at the guard. “If the other twenty are like this one, they could crush half the Mongol army beneath their strangely expensive boots and slay the rest with their well crafted weapons.” She turned as Tibor’s gaze dropped to the guard’s boots. She walked from the great hall to the door of the castle, ignoring Tibor when he called after her.

  Outside, she found the twenty men commissioned as guards leading their horses to the stables. Four of them were of the same large build as Raban and all of them were equipped with the same kind of weapons. They looked an intimidating bunch and for a moment Jolan wondered whether, if offered more coin, they would do her bidding rather than her father’s. But the idea was fleeting. No man could win against monsters that drank of blood and mounted the dead, with eyes that glowed bright in the night. She shivered and looked back at Tibor when he rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “It would take much coin to commission this many guards. Why wouldn’t my father spend his wealth on an army to defend our city instead?” She knew the answer. Because Count Dragomir had offered an army for no coin in exchange for his daughter’s hand. It was not her father’s gold which employed the newly commissioned guards but the coffers the count had sent upon his return to Drago.

  Tibor ignored the question as the guard moved down the steps behind him. “Raban is to remain with you now as your personal guard. He has been instructed not to leave your side until you are safely delivered to the count.”

  Jolan stared at him. “I need no guard while I am in Maethi.” Anger rose within her. “Have I not silenced myself and accepted what has been arranged for me as I was told? Have I not shown obedience? And for my silence, I am punished by being made a captive before I’m even wed?”

  Tibor reached for her hand but she jerked it away from him, not wanting his tenderness. “It is for your benefit that…”

  “My benefit? Nothing, since the day Count Dragomir arrived, has been done for my benefit but rather for the benefit of more coin.” She lifted her gaze to the guard who stood silently behind Tibor watching th
eir exchange without expression. “What services did the count’s coin commission of you?”

  The guard slanted a glance at Tibor then returned his attention to Jolan. “I am to remain at your side, charged to protect you from your uncle and to deliver you, as your protector, through the gates of Drago to Count Dragomir.”

  Tibor gasped. “She was not to know of our agreement regarding her uncle.”

  “Forgive me the mistake.” But there was no apologetic tone to his voice and he was still looking at Jolan. He could have easily lied. But he hadn’t. Why? Jolan tilted her head, scrutinising him more closely. Perhaps he thought she would more easily accept him if he spoke the truth. That would make him far more intelligent than she would suspect of a guard.

  “If you wish the commission, you will not make another mistake,” Tibor warned before facing Jolan again.

  Jolan laughed coldly. “That is why you’ve brought the guards so early before we are to depart? Because of my uncle? Ewan Lovasz is the least of my worries and of the threats I am to face, Tibor. Far worse than my uncle awaits me at Drago.” She reached for Tibor’s hand. “Though your concern for me is appreciated, I can handle my uncle without the help of a guard.” She would not tell him that her uncle had already taken what Tibor was so set upon protecting.

  “He will remain with you.” Tibor was unmoved by her affection.

  Jolan let her hand slip away from his. “Of course he will, for nothing of what I want is considered by anyone of this house any longer.” She turned and moved away, frowning at the heavy step that followed. Of course the guard would do as he was commissioned. Like the rest, his concern would be of coin.