Karin Tabke - Master of Torment (Blood Sword Legacy, Book 2)

Pocket Star 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 STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9403-1
ISBN-10: 1-4165-9403-5

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

To Liz Kreger, a real-life warrior princess

Again to my family for leaving me alone so that I can do what I love to do so much. To my dear friends Edie Ramer, Josie Brown, Tawny Weber, Poppy Reiffin, Sylvia Day and Sharon Long, you ladies are the wind beneath my wings. Thanks for tolerating me!

I also want to acknowledge my friend Monica McCarty for this story. As many of you know, Monica writes Scottish Highlander stories, which she bases on factual characters. Taking her lead, I dug through the many written pages of historical lady warriors and much to my surprise and delight, I unearthed a story of a Viking lady who was left at the altar. Not one to be humiliated, she mustered an army and forced her bridegroom to the altar, where she subsequently slew him. A woman scorned, indeed!

And I could not have written this wonderful story without the expert guidance of my editor, Lauren McKenna, who holds nothing back in her ever-wise suggestions and demands when it comes to my stories. Thank you for always being honest.

And hubby? You are always my reason for getting up each day. I love you.

Eight mercenary knights, each of them base born, each of them bound by unspeakable torturer in a Saracen prison, each of them branded with the mark of the sword for life. Each of their destinies marked by a woman.

Twas whispered along the Marches that the demon knights who rode upon black horses donned in black mail wielding black swords would slay any man, woman, or child who dared look upon them. Twas whispered that their loyalty was only to the other and no man could split them asunder, nor was there enough gold or silver in the kingdom to buy their oath. Twas well known that each of them was touched not by the hand of God but by Lucifer himself.

Twas also whispered, but only by the bravest of souls, that each Blood Sword was destined to find only one woman in all of Christendom who would bear him and only him sons, and until that one woman was found, he would battle and ravage the land

May 1st, 1067
Draceadon, Mercia

O

Twas her runaway bridegroom, Earl Malcor of Dunloc.

The bile in Lady Tarians belly rose. She breathed in slowly and exhaled slower, listening intently, being sure his breaths were of a man in the deep throes of slumber. Her fingers fondled the leather hilt of her broadsword, anxious to see the deed done.

Once her circumspect inventory of the room showed there to be no other escape route but the thick oak portal she had just come through, and that her men were in place, Tarian glanced over to Gareth, her captain of the guard, who held the earls squeamish manservant. His honed sword blade leveled snugly against the servants throat. She nodded to her captain before turning back to the shrouded bed.

Despite the encumbrance of her mail, Tarian glided a step closer to the bed. She pressed the tip of her sword into the slitted fabric and slowly pushed it aside. Only the orange blush of a tallow candle and the pale skin of a mans back glowed within the darkened space.

A knot formed in her belly, not of fear but of revulsion. Twas whispered her betrothed preferred to spend his time with squires, not maids. Twas also rumored he had commissioned a dungeon in the bowels of the fortress where he entertained.

Malcor, did you think I would not come for you? Tarian demanded, her husky voice ringing clear in the room.

Most men would have risen in stark surprise and fear. Not so her intended. Without the barest hint of surprise or concern for his well-being, Malcor rolled over and speared her with a malicious glare. The linen sheet rode low on his thighs; and for all that he was a well-muscled man, knowing what she knew of him, the view repulsed her. Tarian set her jaw and stood fast, her motives for her appearance unwavering despite the lewdness of the man who had run like the coward he was.

He stretched and answered lazily, Did you think, Lady Tarian, that I would care?

Tarian forced a blithe smile. She did not feel so carefree as her gesture might have indicated, but this man would only see her for the true warrior she was. To show him weakness on any front would find her a victim of the earls sadistic nature. Carefully, her gaze held the glittering angry one of her betrothed. She felt no anger with her guardian for his choice. It was either marriage to Malcor, the perverted Earl of Dunloc, or, more reluctantly, the convent. For no other mortal man would have her to wife.

The cloister did not want her, nor she them. Her Godwinson blood, while a curse, was also her salvation. She was bred to fight, bred to lead, and, despite the sins of her father, bred to breed with the finest blood of Europe, not spend endless days and nights on her knees praying for forgiveness she seriously doubted any god, even one so forgiving as hers, would grant.

So, marriage to the earl it would be. And with Gods blessing a child would be born of their union. Her smile tightened. She required only one thing from this man, and, despite his preference for squires, she would extract it from him at swordpoint if necessary.