Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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"Atitai , yes," he said, the grin widening. "Ilike tsaht."
Shkai'ra walked down to the section of stream marked off for bathing; upstream of the horse watering
point but down from the place where drinking water was drawn. It was a fair-sized little river, ten meters
across with a bank of good sand as much again across on this bank, marking where it flowed at
high-water. She dropped her clothes and swordbelt on a rock that thrust conveniently through the sand,
and then walked in a careful straight line toward the water.I feel good , she thought. About
three-quarters drunk, which was just right when you didn't want oblivion, and tingly all over.
But I whiff a little, she reflected, doing a front-handstand and flopping over on her back with a thud
and a giggle. Not remarkable after a day in armor under the not sun, and then fucking several hours
away.Megan's finicky. But soooopretty; we'll tumble till dawn and sleep in . The army was due a
day of rest after the last three. There were a few other late bathers, but not many or close; it was about
halfway between midnight and dawn, by the moon, which hung low in the east, casting a glittering trail on
wavelets like rippled silver.
She took the water in a flat running dive and swam for a few minutes in a thrashing overarm stroke,
before squatting in water that was waist-deep and scrubbing her body with handfuls of sand. The cool
wet felt good on her flesh, stripping away the grease and oil. Unbinding her hair, she ducked her head
into the flowing water and began to scrub at the roots. When she opened her eyes beneath the surface
the strands floated in a dense mass; she gathered it in her hands and threw it back, raising her head above
the surface…
… and made the beginnings of a turn, feeling the whistle of parting air behind her…
Black—
"Barefoot in the dark," Matthas sang to himself, his own version of the romantic song. "All goes well if
you sneak barefoot in the dark…" Now, to take the great huge barbarian woman, now a draped load in
his arms with wet hair trailing, fikken heavy for a woman, to a private place.
The usual private place, where a man and a woman would go. "Heh hen heh," some drunken sot of an
Enchian cavalryman greeted him hoarsely, with a significant look at the limp, shapely form. No suspicion;
it helped that Matthas was wearing this looted Arkan knight's helmet, plume and all, the first thing
show-off savages would wear at victory celebrations, the last thing an Arkan spy sneaking around would.
"Heh heh heh," he agreed hoarsely, and passed on to Lovers' Bushes. In a nest well away from others, he
bound her wrists and ankles and gagged her Irefas-style, prepared the needle to be inserted in the
standard part of the anatomy for those Irefas didn't want to know they'd been truth-drugged, and waited
for her to wake up.
"Ohhhhh,shit ," Shkai'ra mumbled; it was nearly dawn, and she wasnot beside Megan.
She levered herself up on one elbow. There was someone beside her on the trampled grass, still
unconscious; with a three-day's beard, smelling bad enough to affect her queasy stomach, snoring lips
fluttering over a mouth with only a few snags of tooth.