Warcry

interested in fresh?” Heath looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows arched over his sparkling eyes, alight with mischief. His lips curved ever so slightly.
    Atira’s heart lurched, and her own lips started up as well before she caught herself and stiffened.
    “I know you fear the woods.” Heath turned away and started down a path that only he could see.
    “I do not fear it,” Atira said angrily as she followed him.
    “Remember how I felt, when we were racing hard to catch up with the Warlord and his armies? When I rode out on the Plains for the first time?” Heath continued, ignoring her protest. “Couldn’t figure out which direction we were traveling, much less where we were. The open sky was a nightmare.”
    “It was not,” Atira said. “It has a beauty all its own.”
    “So you told me then.” Heath kept walking.
    Atira stayed silent, remembering all too well when she’d spoken those words. They’d been naked, wrapped in blankets, sated and sweet in each other’s arms. Heath had spoken his fears, and she’d comforted him with more than just words.
    Atira tried to forget, but her body remembered.
    “I am not afraid,” she insisted, following Heath as he headed deeper within the tangle. “I am . . . uncomfortable.” She stopped for a moment, looking around. “The forest is so full. Everything moves in the wind, and there is no clear path.”
    “There are deer tracks,” Heath chuckled. “We are following one now. And you need to have a care for widowmakers, that’s for sure.”
    Atira stopped, her hand on her hilt. “What are those?”
    Heath pointed up and off the side. “There. Dead branches held up by other branches. They can fall without warning and hurt anyone caught below. If they kill a man, they make a widow.”
    Atira stared at him. Her command of Xyian was fairly good, but that was not a word she knew. “What’s a widow?”
    Heath paused. “A widow is a woman who has lost her—” He stopped. “Maybe a better word would be deadfall . If it falls on you, you are dead.”
    Atira glanced up, looking at the mass of tree branches and leaves above her head. “Deadfall,” she repeated, letting her frustration show. “So now, I need to fear ‘up’ as well as what is around me?”
    “There,” Heath pointed. “That’s what we are looking for.”
    It was a massive tree, lying on its side, its dead branches bare. Heath hefted his axe, and started to work at a thick branch. After a few blows, he leaned his weight on it, breaking it away from the tree with a sharp crack.
    “It’s dry enough. You should be able to break it in threes.” Heath helped her drag the branch over to a clear area.
    They worked in silence, broken only by the ringing of Heath’s axe. After a bit, birds started to sing again, becoming used to their presence. There were other sounds as well. Atira stopped, lifting her head from the work to try to identify the strange rustling noises around them.
    Heath paused, breathing heavily. “Mice, probably. And squirrels.”
    Atira looked around even more. Heath had the most experience hunting in this land, and he’d brought in a large sack of squirrels one night to camp. Lara and Marcus had conferred, and the camp had been treated to something called ‘squirrel stew.’ Atira would be more than willing to have that again.
    The work went fast. They had a sizable pile, almost more than they could carry back to camp. If Atira was to try once again to make things plain to him, it must be now. Even with bells, there was little privacy in camp.
    “I want it understood between us,” she started, cracking one last large branch. “You and I have shared bodies, Heath of Xy, but this means little to me, as this is the way of our people. You are mistaken in thinking it means more.”
    The chopping stopped behind her. Good—he was listening for once.
    “I am in the service of the Warlord, and you serve the Warprize,” she said. “Our paths are the same for now. But this talk of bonding needs to cease. We cannot continue to argue in camp. It upsets the Warprize, and she has more than enough of a load to bear.”
    Atira turned to find herself nose to nose with Heath.
    He was standing there, glowering, sweat gleaming on his brow. The breeze carried his scent to her. Strong, clean . . . male. And so very familiar.
    Her mouth went dry. This close, she could feel the warmth of his body and the heat of his glare. Skies above, she wanted him still, even with