Sword's Call (2 page)

Cera scowled and snatched her fallen dagger, assuming a more defensive stance. Growling, she gritted her teeth.

She felt the weight of the half-elf’s gaze, but she had to stop her bond before he killed Gordo.

“Trikser, no! Just hold him there,” she commanded.

The wolf obeyed, holding Gordo to the ground, teeth bared and lightly covering the man’s throat.

Gordo swallowed hard, face as white a sheet, sweat dotting his wide forehead.

“Anyone else?” She sheathed her dagger and drew her sword. Her grip tightened as it began to glow, its pale aura tangible as the weapon’s magic spread across the tavern, seeking, searching. Her sword had been forged in magic and as the glow intensified, it drew on her own and surrounded Cera with its brightening radiance.

The half-elf blinked several times, his handsome face contorted. He shifted his feet, tugging against Herik’s hold, as if that was all the resistance he could offer.

Cera’s heart thumped.

Could he feel the sword’s magic?

Did he possess any himself?

Elves, by nature, were born with magic, and even though he appeared to be half human, he might have some. If he did, no matter the nature of it, he’d know the sword was magic, and
that
was the last thing she needed.

She brandished her weapon at each of the men, no one made a move.

The rustics in the bar, Marshek included, stood shaking and wide-eyed, sweat pouring down their rough-hewn faces. Her sword didn’t find much magic in the tavern, but it was succeeding in leaving great fear in the wake of its probing.

Silence reigned until the half-elf stomped on Herik’s foot. The man scrambled to maintain his hold, cursing, but the half-elf spun and punched him in the jaw, jumping over as he fell to the floor. He shook his hand as if his knuckles smarted and cursed, but it wasn’t a word she understood.

He lunged for Cera, grabbing her hand and tugging. She jolted, but didn’t pull away as he made a dash to the door, dragging her along.

Why was he helping her get away?

No, don’t question it.

Cera shoved her still-glowing sword beneath her cloak and called for her bondmate. Together they left the dark tavern.

Leaping, she landed hard in Ash’s saddle, her thighs smarting. Her black stallion shifted to absorb her weight.

The half-elf stared, standing next to a dappled horse tied to the public posts. He reached for his horse’s reins, but wasn’t in a hurry.

“Are you coming?” She frowned. “It won’t take them long to recover and come after us.” Still he made no move. “C’mon, you idiot.”

****

The dark man dismounted the horse, movements tense and jerky. The bitch had been in Greenwald for a fortnight and his shades—mages in his service—hadn’t seen her until she was involved in a scuffle in a rundown tavern.

He stomped in the dirt, emitting a low growl.

How could the she-dog have still been in town?

She’d been hiding out in the open, and
no one
had seen her.

Now he had to enter a disreputable establishment to receive a report from an overpaid, inadequate moron.

The
Dragon’s Lair
was dim, the air rank. Varthan ignored the turn of his stomach as the heavy odor of sweaty bodies hit his nose. There weren’t many inside, as it was not quite midday, but they would come and the place would stink even more. He weaved his way to the table in the darkest corner.

“Lord Varthan.” The imbecile bowed.

Varthan sneered and took a seat. “What progress have you made?” he snarled, waving the bar wench away.

“None, my lord. She is gone.”

Varthan growled, throwing his leather riding gloves on the table. “And why is this?”

“All we know is she left in a hurry, with an elf half-breed. My men pursued as soon as they realized it was her. Her beast ripped my man’s arm off.” Svender’s words were hurried, the apple of his throat bobbing up and down.

Varthan drew a dagger. His companion’s eyes widened, giving him some silent satisfaction. “I don’t care about that. I need the bitch, and I need her now.”

Svender’s shoulders shook as he sputtered a response.

He drove the dagger into the other man’s jugular, shredding Svender’s throat. He backed up as the body collapsed onto the table, head landing with a thud on the top.

Grabbing a dirty scrap of linen that posed as a napkin, Varthan wiped the blood off his dagger. “I’m sick of excuses.”

Some of Svender’s low class filthy blood marred his favorite riding gloves. Varthan cursed and threw them to the planked floor, kicking the pair away.

Useless.

Why was he in this position? He stared at Svender’s body. He should feel something other than numbness, but he did not. The fault of the large blond man’s death did not lie with Varthan, despite the fact that his dagger had taken the man’s life.

King Nathal had betrayed him. And that bastard Falor Ryhan. If the Duke of Greenwald would’ve kept his mouth shut, Varthan would be in his own castle on his own lands.

Well, Falor couldn’t speak against him again, could he?

Oh, how he wished the man would’ve begged for his life. He hadn’t even given Varthan that satisfaction. Too bad he’d died so quickly. And that sweet daughter of his . . . She’d been as lovely as her mother, both with tresses of red flame. He’d had them both naked beneath him before he’d ended their lives.

The mother had begged him to spare the daughter. In return, of course, she saw her daughter perish before her eyes. It was really a shame he’d not kept the little virgin around. He could’ve taught her how to please a man, but it’d been good anyway. He liked it when they fought and she’d been a screamer. Memories danced into his head, causing a slow smile.

Varthan met the bartender’s beady eyes, but the other man looked away, busying himself at his scarred counter. There were no Knights of Greenwald alive to report the
murder
to, though he was in the slums, so a killing at a tavern was often left for the barkeep to tidy up.

At any rate, not my concern.

He didn’t linger, meeting two of his shades at the tavern door.

“My lord?” Dagonet queried.

“Gather the best,” he barked.

The younger one, Lucan, blanched.

“Yes, milord.” Dagonet inclined his head.

“Meet me at the ruins in an hour.”

“My lord?”

Varthan scowled.

How dare anyone question me?

“Just
do
it. I am going after her myself.”

The boy gave a curt nod, and both rushed off.

He’d take the elite of his shades, and perhaps when they caught the girl and her companion they’d relieve the population of the half-breed.

Varthan should’ve listened to the old adage about getting things done right by doing them oneself.

Perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have lost the Ryhan magic sword and the little bitch would be in the dungeons of her own castle right now.

Then he’d be using the weapon to raise his army and take over the king’s throne.

Chapter Two

“Where are we going?” Jorrin asked when they were farther south—a safe enough distance from Greenwald Main to slow their exhausting pace.

His companion’s eyes went wide and her lips parted.

Surprised.

His magic tingled.

“We?” Her mouth tightened, brows furrowed.

For the first time he took her in; she’d lowered the hood of her gray cloak. Dark auburn hair, curly and past her shoulders, big gray eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips—all features that added to her beauty. She was slender and tall, and he enjoyed her show of temper.

His heart pounded, but he didn’t focus on it. This woman of his father’s race was lovely. Different from the graceful elfin maidens he was used to, but not in a negative way.

“I am going to Castle Lenore, in Tarvis. I don’t know where you are going,” she said.

“With you.”

Shaking her head, she smirked. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do. Or have you forgotten about the men we had to outrun? Did you help me for nothing? It pains me to admit it, but you did save me—”

“I don’t care that you’re grateful. I already have a partner.” She gestured to the white wolf and glanced away from him. “Besides, I only saved you because—” When she turned back to him, she faltered, guarded.

His magic surged. She was hiding something. She must have powerful mind shields his empathic magic couldn’t penetrate without a deep probe. He got nothing else from her. “Why’d you help me then? I could’ve handled it.”

She laughed out loud. “Yeah. Sure. You were doing so well. Sorry to have interfered. Good day.” Inclining her head, she kicked her horse. The stallion cantered away, the wolf running close behind.

His dappled mare, Grayna, jerked her head in surprise and Jorrin cursed. “Hey. Wait!”

The girl’s fear flickered through a faltering mask of confidence.

Why?

And how much of it had to do with that magic sword?

She’d probably stolen it.

No.
Jorrin shook his head. She wasn’t a thief. Something told him she was highborn and trying hard to hide it.

He dug his heels into Grayna’s flanks, and his mare bolted forward. Her muscles rippled under his thighs and he leaned into her, gripping the reins tighter.

When they caught up, the girl yanked her horse to a stop and whirled on him, dagger half drawn.

His mare neighed in protest as he pulled her up short.

Jorrin stared as his companion’s chest quaked as if she couldn’t catch her breath. With a sigh, she sheathed her weapon.

“Oh, it’s only you.” She squared her shoulders, but her voice trembled. “Don’t you know when you’re not wanted? Go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well then, stay here. Just don’t follow me. Blessed Spirit, can’t you take a hint?” She cast her eyes upward.

The white wolf growled, and Jorrin shifted in his saddle, swallowing a gulp at the bared fangs.

“Trik, it’s all right.” She glanced at the wolf. The beast loosened its stance, but Jorrin didn’t relax. “We just have to convince our
friend
to find another road.”

His magic tingled. They were bonded; he felt the magic between them as a tethered rope.
Interesting.
Since when did a highborn
female
need an animal bond? It was permanent, not a casual thing. The protection of a devoted beast was handy, but if one party perished, the other would soon follow. The risk wasn’t worth it.

“Last time I checked, the roads were free to travel. That’s one thing the lord has yet to tax.”

“They are. Just not with me. Once again, you are
not
welcome.” She looked him in the eye, her steel gaze haughty.

She was
definitely
noble.

Jorrin scowled. “Listen,
you
are the one who sat next to me.
You
are the one who saved my hide . . . and when I want to repay you, you won’t let me.”

“That’s right. Now get lost, I have a castle to get to, and it’ll be a better journey without you.”

“Why? What are you afraid of?”

Her eyes widened and Jorrin couldn’t look away. She shook her head, opening her mouth as if it would help force the words out. Her hands tightened on her reins. “Nothing. You just don’t need to be involved.” She turned away and kneed her horse.

Once again the magic he sent her way was shut down, rolling between them. Could she see it? Her body and expression were no indication. The magic sword wasn’t visible, but it was there, its powers throbbing. Jorrin had to look away.

Was the sword what’d rejected the magic
feels he’d put out?

He tried to probe with his senses to no avail. Jorrin forced a breath and turned back to the beautiful girl. “What if I am going to Tarvis, too?”

She relented with a groan. “Then I suppose this is the road to take.”

Jorrin smiled and their eyes locked.

The girl shifted in her saddle, her cheeks crimson.

His smile slid into a grin, but he said nothing; his heart gave an odd thud like earlier.

Why the blush? And why did it please him so much?

“Just stay out of my way,” she muttered and kicked her horse.

He followed silently, glancing at her profile when their horses where abreast, pace comfortable. Besides the fact she was obviously running from something, he knew nothing about this girl, not even her name. Instinct told him she wouldn’t appreciate him pushing her.

Slipping into the memory of the sword back in the tavern, Jorrin felt his magical senses tingle again. He’d had to concentrate very hard to ignore the magic, then and focus on the men who’d wanted him dead.

His body had heated all over with the efforts to overlook it. His limbs had actually ached and shaken. He’d been frozen in place.

What had broken its hold?

The sword and its glowing aura—the girl had been surrounded by it, too—had sensed his magic, even called to it. He hadn’t sensed menace from the weapon, more a probing for magic which stopped when it found his.

What could that mean?

For what seemed the thousandth time, he wished he’d studied harder to hone his magical abilities.

And the girl . . . what magic did she have? Humans were not known to naturally possess magic as commonly as elves were, but some were more prone to it than others. Some human mages matched elfin ones.

She could thought-send—he’d sensed it when she’d spoken to the wolf in the tavern.

It wasn’t often someone could unconsciously shut out his empathic powers.

What was this girl about?

Their eyes met and held.

“What?” Curiosity was etched in her expression.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Silence descended once more, but then she sighed. “Maybe that’s for the better.”

Jorrin shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’ll be easier if I go first?” When he saw her slight nod, so slight it was almost imperceptible, he continued, “Jorrin Aldern, of Aramour.” He inclined his head, extended his hand, and gave a small bow from the saddle. “And my loyal steed is Grayna.”

The girl laughed. The sound was even more glorious than her smile.