“Do not be demented, Guntersson,” Ivar added. “There are too many of them and too few of us.”
“I want to kill Bahir first. I need to kill the bastard.”
“Save that for another day,” Finn advised.
“I cannot let the prince escape punishment for his misdeeds.”
“Shall I hit him over the head and carry him out over my shoulder?” Ivar asked Finn. He was talking about Sidroc, not ad-Dawlah.
“If you must,” Finn agreed.
“Idiots!” Sidroc said, realizing once he calmed down that it was foolhardy to stay. Bahir would send his men for him. The coward would not engage himself lest the odds were greater in his favor. Nay, Sidroc would be taken captive. So, with several foul words, he joined Finn and Ivar in rushing toward the area where their camels were waiting. Gods, he hoped the camels could gallop because if Bahir and his men came after them on horseback they would be in dire trouble.
But, thank Thor, god of war, the second part of their plan erupted just then. From three different areas of the tent city, he saw fires break out. The dried tent fabrics soon went up in flames and spread fast. Hopefully the Arabs would care more about saving their tents and goods and any people left inside before chasing after them.
By the time Sidroc and his two comrades-in-arms caught up with the others, they’d had to fight off more of the Arab soldiers on two different occasions. Once four men, the other time, three. For now, the battle lust had passed in Sidroc, replaced by the survival lust. No one spoke, just galloped as long as the animals would allow, and for once Lucifer was not balking or farting.
He no sooner dismounted from Lucifer than Drifa launched herself at him. He caught her just in time as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and wept into his neck. He had no recourse but to hold her about the waist, her legs dangling above the sand.
“Thank you, thank you for saving me, I got my monthly flux and if you hadn’t come I would have had to marry the slimy prince even though Ianthe said not to worry, but they were going to make me practice tomorrow with the marble phallus, and, oh, I think I would have killed myself first, but they already hennaed me and Ianthe, we couldn’t stop them, and the queen mother is more vicious that a maddened warrior, and she made me sleep with her bloody panther whose breath smelled like rancid meat, and I need a bath so bad, and did you know that fermented goat’s milk is considered a prized drink like mead, and what took you so long, not that I am complaining, but ...”
On and on she blathered, never stopping to take a breath, with Sidroc only understanding half of what she said. In the end, he began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself.
Soon the rumbling of his chest must have alerted her to his mirth. Drawing her head back, she stared at him. Her face was dirty and tear-tracked, her hair snarled, and her nose red. In total, she looked nigh adorable, even with the ignoble bruise marks on both sides of her face.
“You are laughing at me?” she asked, hurt limning her voice.
“Well, you must admit, you were talking without taking a breath. I must ask, though, what exactly were you going to practice with a marble phallus?”
She blushed and tried to squirm out of his hands, but he wasn’t letting go. Not yet.
But then she noticed the dark stains on his tunic and face, and now on her night rail, as well. A very nice night rail, by the by, one that gave him shady glimpses of not-so-hidden delights.
“You are hurt. Oh my gods! Were you wounded? Where?”
He should release his hold on her, but he didn’t want to. Still, with a sigh of regret and a quick squeeze, he did in fact do so. This was not the time or place.
She slid to her feet and began undoing his belt in an attempt to raise the hem of his garment and check his injuries. Everywhere she moved her hands, he checked her, but she just tried another spot.
He started laughing again, especially when she slapped at him each time he kept her from revealing his skin. “Later, Drifa. Later you may have access to my body. I am not hurt. It is my foeman’s sword dew.”
“Oh,” she said, stepping back. Then, “Eeew!” as she noticed the front of her garment, now hugging her breasts wetly. He should be repulsed. He was not.
Ianthe came up with cloths for both of them to wipe off the mess, the best they could do until they got to a water hole. Then Ianthe leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I kept telling Drifa that you would come, but she was worried.”
“You doubted me, princess? Tsk, tsk, tsk!”
“ ’Tis not that I doubted you. I knew you would try, but—”
“How did you know that I would try?”
“That is the kind of man you are. A man of mettle.”
He felt oddly elated at that compliment.
“—but I worried that you wouldn’t succeed ...”
Not so elated, after all.