With that enigmatic advice, Erik turned away to face the knights who were riding up alongside him.
Silently Duncan watched while greetings were exchanged among Sir Erik’s knights. Three of the men he looked at briefly but without great curiosity.
The fourth man was different. Duncan stared at him intently, feeling almost certain that he had met the knight before. Almost certain, but not quite.
He would have questioned the knight, but a stark sense of danger sealed Duncan’s lips. It was the second time since the Holy Land that Duncan had felt such a warning deep within himself.
Duncan couldn’t remember what the other time had been, but he knew that it had occurred.
If the fourth knight recognized Duncan, he didn’t show it. In fact, other than an incisive glance from eyes like black crystal, the knight had shown little interest in Duncan at all.
Duncan couldn’t say the same. He kept staring at the knight’s features half revealed beneath his helm. The blond hair and high, sharply carved cheekbones plucked at chords of memories within Duncan.
Candles and voices chanting.
A sword unsheathed.
No, not a sword. Something else.
Something living.
A man?
Duncan shook his head fiercely, willing memory to stay rather than to slip back among the shadows.
Green flames.
No, not flames.
Eyes!
Eyes as green as spring itself. Eyes burning with a thousand years of Glendruid hope.
And other eyes as well. A man’s eyes.
Eyes black as midnight in hell.
A knife blade cold between my thighs.
A chill coursed through Duncan. It was a memory he could have died happy without ever recalling—the instant he had felt an enemy’s knife blade slide cold between his thighs, threatening to castrate him if he so much as twitched.
Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the fourth knight. The man had eyes as black as midnight in hell.
Was he once my enemy?
Is he my enemy still?
Wary, motionless, Duncan strained to hear whatever message the shadows would grudgingly yield. Nothing came to him but two conflicting certainties.
He is not my enemy.
He is dangerous to me.
Slowly Duncan straightened in his saddle, forcing himself to look away from the unknown knight. As Duncan moved, he realized that he was holding on to Amber’s hand as though to a sword on the brink of battle.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that went no farther than her ears. “I’ve crushed your fingers.”
“I’m not hurt,” she whispered unsteadily.
“You’re pale.”
Amber didn’t know how to tell Duncan that it was the stirring of his memories rather than his harsh grip on her hand that was causing her pain. Her thoughts beat as frantically as birds caught in a hunter’s net.
Not now!
Not with so many knights nearby. If Duncan is the enemy I fear, he will be killed before my very eyes.
And then I shall go mad.
Just before Duncan released Amber, he lifted her hand to his mouth. When his breath and mustache brushed over her sensitive fingers, it gave her a pleasure so great that she trembled.
Amber didn’t know that color returned to her face in a rush and that her eyes suddenly burned like candle flames caught within transparent golden gems. Nor did she realize that she leaned toward Duncan with unconscious longing as soon as his touch left her skin.
The fourth knight noticed everything and felt as though someone had slid a knife blade between his legs. Never would he have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.
Long, powerful fingers flexed around the pommel of his sword while black eyes measured Duncan for a shroud.
“I’ve found two warriors for you, lord,” Alfred said. “He and his squire are on a quest, but he is willing to stay and fight outlaws for a time.”
Erik looked at the fourth knight.
“Two?” Erik said. “I see only one, though God knows he’s big enough for two. How are you called?”
“Simon.”
“Simon…I have two men-at-arms with that name.”
Simon nodded. It was hardly an uncommon name.
“Who was your last lord?” Erik asked.
“Robert.”
“There are many Roberts.”
“Aye.”
Erik turned to Alfred. The knight’s features were as blunt as a fist, but he was a fine man in a fight.
“Not much for talk, is he?” Erik asked Alfred dryly. “Has he taken a vow?”
“He is talkative enough with that black sword he wears,” Alfred said. “He had Donald and Malcolm on their backs before they knew what happened.”
Erik turned back to Simon.
“Impressive,” Erik said. “Have you been blooded?”
“Aye.”
“Where?”
“In the Holy War.”
Erik nodded, unsurprised. “There is a Saracen look to your blade.”
“It drinks outlaw blood as readily as Turkish,” Simon said calmly.
Erik smiled. “And Norse?”
“The blade cares not.”
“Well, we have outlaws in plenty.”
“You have three less than formerly.”
Tawny eyebrows lifted in a combination of amusement and surprise.
“When?” Erik asked.
“Two days past.”
“Where?”
“Near a lightning-struck tree and a stream coming from a cleft in the mountainside,” Simon said.
“’Tis the boundary of Lord Robert’s lands,” Erik said.
Simon shrugged. “It looked like no man’s land to me.”
“That will change.”
In silence, Erik measured the knight for a long moment, taking in the well-used, well-made clothes and weapons, and the excellent lines of the horse Simon rode.
“Have you armor?” he asked.
“Aye. It is in your keep’s armory.” Simon smiled oddly. “It was that which made me stay.”
“The armory? How so?”
“I wanted to know more about a lord who builds a secure well, barracks, and armory before he builds quarters for his own comfort.”
“Your accent tells me you spent time in the Norman lands,” Erik said after a moment.
“’Tis hard not to. They rule so much.”
Erik grimaced. “Too much. Why did you leave?”
“The continent is too settled. There is nothing for a landless knight to do but hone his sword and dream of better days.”
Laughing, Erik turned to Alfred and nodded his acceptance of Simon.
“What of the other man?” Erik asked.
“The Norseman is tracking outlaws,” Alfred replied.
“A Norseman?”
“He looks it, though he speaks out language. Pale as a ghost. Called Sven. Fights like a ghost, too. Never seen a man so hard to pin down, except maybe you.”
“He can be a ghost for all of me,” Erik retorted, “so long as he haunts outlaws rather than my vassals.”
Alfred laughed and then nodded toward Duncan.
“I see that I’m not the only one who went fishing for warriors and came up with a prize.”
A glance at Duncan was Erik’s only response. Then he looked at Amber. Though he said nothing, she knew him well enough to understand that she wasn’t to argue with whatever might happen next.
“He is an unusual man,” Erik said calmly. “Almost a fortnight ago, I found him near Stone Ring.”
A murmuring went through the knights, followed by a flurry of movement as they crossed themselves.
“He was sick unto death,” Erik continued. “I took him to Amber. She healed him, but not without cost. He remembers nothing of his life before he came to the Disputed Lands.”
Erik paused, then said distinctly, “Not even his name.”
Simon’s eyes bec
ame measuring black slits as he looked from Erik to Duncan, and from there to Amber. Against the hundred shades of gray that were the mist and clouds, she burned like a shaft of sunlight.
“Yet he had to answer to something,” Erik continued. “Amber saw the marks of battle on him, knew the shadows veiling his mind, and named him ‘dark warrior’—Duncan.”
A subtle tension went through Simon, a tightening of the body as though for battle or flight.
None noticed but Duncan, who had been watching the fair-haired, dark-eyed stranger out of the corner of his eye. Yet Simon was looking not at him, but at Amber.
“Are you especially skilled with herbs and potions?” Simon asked her.
The question was polite and his tone was gentle, but the bleak midnight of his eyes was neither.
“No,” Amber said.
“Then why was he brought to you? Is there no wise woman to heal men in the Disputed Lands?”
“Duncan wore an amber talisman,” Amber said, “and all things amber are mine.”
Simon looked puzzled.
So did Duncan.
“I thought you gave the talisman to me while I lay senseless,” he said to Amber, frowning.
“Not I,” she said. “Why do you think that?”
Duncan shook his head, baffled. “I don’t know.”
Without hesitation, Amber lifted her hand to his cheek.
“Try to remember when you first saw the pendant,” she whispered.
Duncan went still. Pieces of memory tumbled in his mind, but they had no more form and substance than bright leaves torn from their moorings by a wild autumn wind.
Concerned Glendruid eyes.
A golden flash of amber.
A kiss brushed against his cheek.
God be with you.
“I was so certain a lass gave me the talisman…”
Duncan’s voice trailed off into a muffled curse. His fist hit the pommel of the saddle with enough force to startle the horse.
“To be so teased and taunted by shadows is worse than no memory at all!” he said savagely.
Amber snatched her hand back from Duncan’s skin. His rage was like a brand waved close to her flesh, hinting at the searing pain that waited for her if she continued touching him while he was so enraged.
Erik looked sharply at Amber.
“What is it?” he demanded.
She simply shook her head.
“Amber?” Duncan asked.
“A woman gave you the talisman,” Amber said unhappily. “A woman with eyes of Glendruid green.”
The word went through the knights like a fitful breeze through the marsh.
Glendruid.
“He has been bewitched!” Alfred said fearfully, crossing himself.
Amber opened her mouth to deny it, but Erik was faster.
“Aye, like enough,” Erik said smoothly. “It would explain much. But Amber is certain that whatever spell Duncan was under in the past, he is free of compulsion now. Isn’t he, Amber?”
“Aye,” she said quickly. “He is not the devil’s tool, or he couldn’t wear the amber talisman at all.”
“Show them,” Erik ordered.
Without a word, Duncan unlaced his shirt and pulled out the amber pendant.
“There is a cross on one side in the form of a knight’s prayer to God for safekeeping,” Erik said. “Look at it, Alfred. Know that Duncan belongs to God rather than to Satan.”
Alfred urged his horse forward until he could see the pendant dangling from Duncan’s big fist. The incised letters of the prayer clearly formed a cross with a double bar. Slowly, painfully, Alfred spelled out the first words of the prayer.
“As you say, lord. ’Tis a common prayer.”
“The runes on the other side are also a prayer for protection,” Amber said.
Alfred shrugged. “The Church didn’t teach me runes, lass. But I know you. If you say there is no evil in the runes, I believe it.”
“Exactly,” Erik said. “So greet Duncan as your equal. Don’t fear him for what he has gone through. It is his future that matters, and that future lies with me.”
There was silence while Erik looked from knight to knight. All knights save Simon nodded, accepting Duncan as Erik already had. Simon simply shrugged as though it were no great matter to him either way.
Amber let out a long, soundless sigh. She knew that rumors of a strange man under her care had rippled through the countryside in the past twelve days. Still, Erik had taken a great risk in springing Duncan’s lost past on his knights so baldly. They might easily have turned against Duncan and driven him out as a tool of dark sorcery.
As though hearing Amber’s fretful thoughts, Erik winked at her, silently reminding her that he was quite skillful at predicting how men would react.
“Let us see what we have in the way of fighting men,” Erik said. “Alfred, have you tested Simon’s skill yourself?”
“No, lord.”
Erik turned to Duncan. “Would you like to hold sword in hand again?”
“Aye!”
“Nay!” Amber said just as quickly. “You are still healing from the sickness that—”
“Leave off,” Erik interrupted curtly. “’Tis no true battle I’m proposing, but merely an exercise.”
“But—”
“My knights and I must know the mettle of the men who will fight by our sides,” he said, ignoring her attempt to interrupt.
A look at Erik’s topaz eyes told Amber that arguments would be futile. Yet she spoke again anyway.
“Duncan has no sword.”
With a casual grace that spoke of skill and strength combined, Erik drew his own sword and offered it to Duncan.
“Use mine,” Erik said.
It wasn’t a request.
“It would be an honor,” Duncan said.
The instant Duncan grasped the sword, a subtle change came over him. It was as though a veil had been lifted, revealing the warrior poised beneath the richly dressed exterior of the man. The weapon gleamed and sliced through the air with wicked sounds as Duncan tried the blade’s balance and reach.
Erik watched Duncan and wanted to laugh aloud with sheer pleasure. Amber had been right. Duncan was indeed a warrior among warriors, first among equals.
“A fine weapon,” Duncan said after a minute. “Quite the finest I’ve ever held. I shall try to do it honor.”
“Simon?” Erik asked blandly.
“I have my own sword, sir.”
“Then out with it, man. ’Tis past time to hear the music of steel on steel!”
Simon’s blade-thin smile made Amber bite her lip anxiously. While Donald and Malcolm weren’t as skilled as some of Erik’s other knights, they were courageous, strong, dogged fighters.
And Simon had defeated both of them with ease.
“No blood, no broken bones,” Erik said abruptly. “I simply want to see what manner of fighter you both are. Do you understand me?”
Duncan and Simon nodded.
“Shall we fight here?” Simon asked.
“Down there. And afoot,” Erik added. “Duncan’s horse is no match for yours.”
The battleground Erik had chosen was a meadow whose autumn stubble had been softened by rain. Beneath the thickening clouds, mist flickered like silver flames.
Together, Duncan and Simon dismounted, cast mantles over their saddles, and walked to the meadow. The smell of sun-cured, rain-drenched stubble permeated the air. When they reached a relatively level, mud-free stretch of ground, they turned and faced each other.
“I ask forgiveness for any wound I might give,” Simon said, “and offer the same for any I receive.”
“Aye,” Duncan said. “I ask and offer the same.”
Simon smiled and unsheathed his sword with a feline grace and speed that was as startling as the black finish on the blade.
“You are very quick,” Duncan said.
“And you are very strong.” Simon smiled oddly. “’Tis a battle I’m accustomed to.??
?
“Are you? Not many men are as strong as I.”
“My brother is. That is one of the two advantages I have over you today.”
“What is the other?” Duncan asked, raising his blade to meet Simon’s.
“Knowledge.”
The blades kissed ritually with a muted metal cry, then slid away. Both men began circling and feinting, testing for weakness in the other.
Without warning, Simon made a catlike leap forward and sent the flat of his blade whistling toward Duncan. It was the same lightning attack that had felled Donald and Malcolm.
At the last possible instant, Duncan twisted and brought up his borrowed sword. Steel met steel with a horrible clash. Then Duncan whipped his blade back as though it weighed no more than a breath, leaving Simon only air to lean on.
Most other men would have gone to their knees at the sudden loss of balance. Simon managed to catch himself and simultaneously twist under Duncan’s descending blade, delivering a blow to Duncan’s legs at the same time with the flat of his sword.
Very few men could have remained standing after such an attack. Duncan was one of them. He grunted and pivoted on one foot, turning with the force of the attack. The turn took much of the power from the blow.
Before Simon could follow his advantage, Duncan made a backhanded slash with his heavy broad-sword. The move was unexpected, for it required a sheer strength of arm and shoulder that was rarely found.
Simon slipped the attack with a cat’s grace. Sword met sword with a force that clashed up and down the meadow. For long moments the swords stayed crossed, each man straining for the advantage.
Finally, inevitably, Simon gave way to Duncan’s greater strength. One half step backward, then two, then more.
Duncan followed eagerly.
Too eagerly.
Simon twisted aside, leaving Duncan off-balance. He went down on one knee and then lunged quickly to the left, barely avoiding Simon’s attack. Duncan scrambled upright just in time to lift his sword to meet Simon’s attack. Steel clashed and screamed. The heavy blades crossed and held as though chained together.
For a brief time both men stood braced, breathing hard, their breath rising in silver plumes above the crossed swords. With each breath they took came the sharp fragrance of harvest past, wet earth, and cured grass.
“It smells like Blackthorne Keep’s best hay meadow, doesn’t it?” Simon asked casually.