Free The Sword and the Sorcerer by Norman Winski Page B

beheld so comely a man. The long grey, flowing cloak he wore could not hide from her his thickly muscled body, nor the way his massive chest tapered down to slim hips. And the raw animal magnetism that had passed through his hand when he held her had made her nipples harden, as immodest as that might be. Surely a man who looked the way he did and who carried himself with such courtly self-assurance could not be an ordinary commoner. Even though no one was there to witness it, she blushed. Nevertheless she had been ungracious towards him. He had saved her life and instead of at least a kiss, she had given him a hiss. Should she run after him and apologize? But then he might misconstrue her intentions. What to do?
    The clink and stamp of passing Klaws in an adjacent street made her decision for her. She swept her torn cloak off the cobbles, covered her nakedness, and went running after him.
    When she finally reached his side he didn’t drop a beat in his brisk walk, and he did not give her so much as a glance. “Wait!” she implored in hushed tones. But he kept plowing ahead. “Please, sir! I’ve no one else to ask for help. And you’ve been so kind!”
    He finally stopped and gazed deep into her face. The intensity of his blue eyes sent shivers through her whole being.
    “What do you want?”
    “Not here . . . on the street. Cromwell’s assassins are everywhere. Follow me—please! My name is Alana,” she said, running ahead and assuming he would follow her.
    Talon stood transfixed to the spot, trying to regain his composure, which had been shattered under the impact of what she had said. Alana? My God—could that sensuous feast of a girl running over the cobbles like a gazelle be the Alana? The erotic nymph of so many of his youthful nocturnal fantasies? Phelan’s little girl and his first love? There was only one way to find out. He ran after her, his long muscular legs bringing him quickly up to her.

NINE
    o light leaked through the cracks in the shutters or the wooden door. To all appearances the tavern was closed for the night and the inkeeper asleep inside. But Alana knew Craccus was awake and waiting for her. By now news of the raid and her escape must have reached Craccus. And he would rightly assume she would seek refuge in his place.
    As Alana used the coded knock on the tavern door she recalled that the last time she heard the code was when Mikah had used it earlier in the day, and she felt a stab of sadness.
    “What’s wrong?” the handsome barbarian at her side gently asked, while they waited for the innkeeper to open the door.
    “Nothing.”
    He was puzzling in many ways. For one thing ever since he caught up with her in the street he had a look that conveyed he knew something about her that she didn’t. Then there were the extremes in his behavior. He wore the rough cloak, shepherd’s boots and chain mail of a barbarian. And he had the ferocity and strength to match that image, as the way he coped with her attackers demonstrated. Yet he could be gentle and he had the demeanor and aristocratic features of a nobleman. Yes, he was a puzzle.
    Craccus, cagey by nature and with the features of a buzzard, opened the door and eyed the towering stranger at her side with suspicion.
    “He’s all right,” Alana assured him.
    Craccus let them in and closed the door. Before they went any further Craccus stepped in front of her, ill tidings all over his face. They were in a darkly lit hallway. Deeper into the tavern torches and candles on long wooden tables flickered in the main room. Except for two drunken rebels drinking tankards of ale at one of the tables, the room was empty. Alana noticed the young giant gazing longingly at the kegs of ale, grog and wine over a small bar.
    “Cromwell’s dogs have been raiding and murdering our people,” Craccus spoke, his voice raspy and full of distrust. “Kalipa says your brother was captured by Cromwell himself.”
    Alana knew that much and was glad to hear he