Karin Tabke - Master of Surrender

Pocket Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2008 by Karin Tabke

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-7998-4
ISBN-10: 1-4165-7998-2

Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com

Of course, this wonderful story would never have seen the light of publication had it not been for my agent, Kimberly Whalen, falling in love with the original fifty pages of what was to become Rohan and Isabels love story. Thank you, Kim: your love and support of this project has been the fuel in my tank.

I would also like to acknowledge all of the regular ladies who stop by my blog, The Write Life, who helped time after time with title suggestions. Though none of them were used, I thank you all for the time and thought. To Jake, Cele, and hubby: thank you for the many memorable LOL moments with your dueling title contest contributions. Anna Lucia, thank you for answering all of my questions!

The great title search was not all for naught, however. Because of my dear friend Lee Lopezs comment regarding the term Blood Sword the idea for the Blood Sword Legacy series was born. Lee, thank you!

Of course, I must acknowledge my husband, Gary, without whose unshakeable belief in what I do, I could not do it. To my youngest son, William; sweetheart, thank you for understanding those many days and nights Mommy stayed holed up in her office growling and snapping while she tried desperately to manage a scene.

I want to thank my entire family for giving up our traditional holiday so that I could write through. The second time was the charm, kids! Thank you for not complaining too loudly.

To Lauren:
Thank you for believing in me
and pushing me to write a better story.
Twice!
Master of Surrender belongs to you.

1059
Jubb Prison, Viseu, Iberia

T he pungent odor of urine, the copper tang of blood, and the stench of terror blended in perfect union with the wailing moans and strangled screams of the multitudes of prisoners begging for merciful death.

In the cell where Rohan hung from iron shackles, the spiked anchors embedded deep in the damp stone wall securing him forever, the stench of death had yet to penetrate. Nay, death was not an option. Vengeance burned white-hot in his heart. It burned as hot in each and every man in the cell with him. All of them proud warriors who would spit in the eye of Atropos as she cut the last thread of life.

A low growl rumbled deep in his throat. Rohan yanked at the shackles, ignoring the pain the gesture cost him. Gods blood! Imprisoned. Condemned to death.

Jubb, the pit, renowned for its unique and final end to a human life. In ordinary terms it was a dungeon filled with bats. Flesh-eating bats, which over the centuries had grown to crave the taste of human flesh. Hed heard the screams. He heard them in his waking hours. He heard them in his bouts of fitful slumber. The heavy cacophony of thousands of wings, the gurgling cries of the victims as they were eaten alive. His skin crawled. Twas no way for a man to die.

Rohan rolled his head back against the wet wall. His long hair was damp, matted, and lice-infested, and it hung in a heavy shroud down his shoulders. How long they had been there, in the hellhole, he did not know. Most days, barely a glimpse of sunlight seeped through the cracks in the higher slabs of stone. Hed lost count of the sparse meals of dark moldy bread and limp leafy vegetables he knew came only once a day.

He closed his eyes, the grittiness of his lids scraping against the dryness. Balancing on his good left foot, he tested his right foot, moving it up and down. The heel had finally healed from a near-fatal cut, compliments of his torturer, Ocba. Had the blade gone further in, he would never walk again. He still might never. Escape was but a dream. He fisted his left hand. Thick scars replaced the ravaged burns he had endured for Ocbas pleasure. He glanced over at his man Ioan. The tall Irishman hardly recognizable under a thick, wooly beard had lost more flesh than any of them. And that was considerable. Ioan was a brute of a man. A worthy second in battle. Rohans tired eyes fell from Ioans hollow face down his mud-encrusted body to his right thigh. It still swelled, broken in a wooden vise. Again for Ocbas amusement. Rohan could still hear Ioans screams in his dreams. Had it healed enough that if by some miracle they escaped, he could ever ride again?

Rohan, a low, hoarse voice called. He turned his head, the pain in his neck from hanging suspended so long shooting to his lower back and then to his legs. Rohan bit back the ache and looked to his right. If he could, he would smile. Thorin. Not more than one arm length from him. In the dim light he could count the Vikings ribs.

Aye, Thorin, I hear you.

We are next, brother.

Rohan nodded, knowing the cell he occupied with no fewer than a score of other captured knights and a tattooed Saracen would soon see it void of them. Each day the sound of the emptying cells came one closer. His anger flashed anew. Theyd been betrayed, the lot of them. Set up like unsuspecting chess pieces in a war where one day you fought beside your fellow knight and the next he slew you from behind.

Rohan swallowed hard, the drag on his parched throat no less painful than the torture hed endured. He was dying now, from the inside out.

I swear you this, Thorin: I will take at least a dozen of these Cretans with me before the bats devour me.

Aye, and I as well.

From beneath his lashes, not having the strength to fight for more, Rohan looked around the cell, at the men, mercenary knights like he who had been captured in an ambush during a raid on a sleepy village in the mountains shrouding the Saracen town of Viseu. Hatred burned as fiercely in their eyes as he felt it in his heart. The men hung from manacles high above their shoulders, clad only in loincloths. The only tenuous balance they had was found standing on their toes to keep them from pulling their arms out of their sockets.