Page 23 of The Champion

It was three hours past matins and all were abed. The cool breeze whispered through the tents as the lone figure crept stealthily through them.

There was no moon tonight, which was well, for such things were best done without the witness of Belle Luna.

Ganymede paused at the tent of Stryder of Blackmoor. He glanced down at his left arm where the names of each of his victims were tattooed. It was an arm he kept covered at all times, lest anyone see the shame of what he’d been.

The shame of what he’d become.

Stryder was the third name on the list.

He clutched the knife in his hand as he remembered his hatred for the one they called the Widowmaker.

“Thanks for the comfort, boy. Maybe one day you’ll get out alive too...”

Those words whispered through his head now. But it wasn’t Stryder who had said that to him.

It was Cyril. The one Stryder had sent to free him. Only Cyril had refused. Instead, he had used Ganymede, as the others before him had, and then left him for dead.

The so-called Brotherhood that had sworn that all of their camp would survive, that none would be left behind, had left this poor shattered soul in the hands of their enemies.

For more than a thousand days and nights, Ganymede had lain there, abused and punished for the rest of them who had escaped.

Now, it was his turn to punish them...

He brushed his hand over the front of Stryder’s tent.

Tonight, the earl would live.

The assassin had another name to cross off.

One who deserved his death even more than the Earl of Blackmoor.

Ganymede saluted the earl, then made his way to the other end of the hill...

Stryder came awake to someone rapping on the wooden post of his tent. He blinked open his eyes to see that it was still murky out. Most likely just past dawn.

Groaning, he rolled over to go back to sleep.

“Lord Stryder?”

The whispered call was soft and decidedly feminine.

“I’m asleep,” he said gruffly.

To his dismay, the flap opened to show him Rowena.

Rowena stopped dead in her tracks as she caught sight of Stryder lying on his bed, as bare as he’d been the day he entered the world. Stunned, she almost dropped the lute she held in her hands.

Never in her life had she beheld a naked man, but she had a thought that none could be more fair than the one in front of her now.

He was all sinewy, tanned flesh. A visual delight.

And, against her will, her gaze fastened on the most private place of his body where he stood ramrod stiff.

Remembering herself, she spun about to give him her back. “My lord, would you please cover yourself?”

“Why should I?” he asked sullenly. “You’ve already seen all there is to me.”

Heat burst across her face at that. “Are you always this crass?”