Scimitar War Read Online Free PDF Page B

backed into the farthest corner of her bedroom, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the heady scent of blood recognizable now, strong, tantalizing.
    The bed lay between her and the fallen garment, blocking it from view, and slowly her panic subsided. Is this some cruel joke ? she wondered. A vengeful local angry that she had survived the pirate attack, when others perished? Maybe , she thought as she heaved a deep, calming breath, it’s another hallucination .
    She edged around the bed until she could see the fallen sewing box, its lid askew from the impact. Bits of lace, brocade, and gold and silver filigree were strewn about like fallen leaves. Beyond it all lay the white nightgown painted with dark crimson streaks of dried blood. Shaking, Camilla shuffled forward and knelt beside the noisome piece of clothing. She tugged at an unstained sleeve to straighten it, and recognized it as her own.
    A vision: moonlight…a startled gasp…the taste of blood...
    She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the image, unsure if it was a hallucination, a remembered nightmare or a memory. Holding the garment in trembling hands, she examined it more closely. Bloodstains covered the front of the nightgown, thick and crusty at the top, dwindling down near the bottom. Near the hem there was a single, clear handprint. She spread the fabric flat on the floor and put her own hand over the dark red stain.
    It matched perfectly.
    “No!” Camilla lurched to her feet, holding the stained nightdress out as if it might burn her. Looking around, she spied the sewing box. Kneeling, she folded the bloodstained shift until the stains were hidden inside. Then she straightened the bent hinges on the sewing box, put the nightgown into the bottom, and shut the lid, closing the latch firmly. Camilla put the box back in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and shut it. She remained still for a long moment, her hand against the drawer, looking at the dresser but not really seeing it. Finally rousing, she collected the fallen bits of finery, piled them atop the tray of her sewing box, retrieved the needle and thread, flung the unfinished gown over her arm and fled the bedroom.
    She closed the door and looked around the sparse sitting room, the place that for so long had been her refuge. But she couldn’t see the familiar table and chair, the comfortable settee. All she saw was the bloody handprint on the nightgown. Her handprint.
    “No, it wasn’t mine!” she insisted as she headed for the door, thinking only to put distance between herself and the incriminating garment. Try as she might to block them, visions of blood and moonlight swam in her mind. “Someone’s playing a sick joke on me, and I won’t believe it! It’s a dream! A nightmare! It’s not real!”
    Camilla fled down the stairs to Emil’s rooms and the safety of his embrace.
    ≈
    Dura woke with the hard bamboo bars of her cage pressing into her. Bruised, sore, wheezing and sporting a throbbing headache, she coughed and risked opening her eyes. Still daylight, so she couldn’t have been unconscious too long. She coughed again, hawked and spat, then struggled to her customary cramped sitting position, made even less comfortable for the lack of clothing between her backside and the bars.
    “Good ta see you be livin’.”
    “Well, that makes one of us,” she said, her voice a hoarse rattle. She turned to see who spoke. It was Quada; their captors had moved the cages around. She grinned and winked at him, and said, “Was hopin’ they’d lose patience and kill me.”
    “Na. Dey’re too careful fer dat, though you took down two dat won’t be gettin’ up again.” He chuckled dryly. “And dat woman wit’ da knife, she gonna be pissin’ blood fer days.”
    Dura chuckled without much humor. Truly, her plan had been to simply kill as many of them as possible and die trying. She hadn’t accomplished much.
    “You got dey’re attention, though. Never seen a dwarf, let alone a dwarf