The King's Sword (8 page)

Miniscule circles wound around the trunk, creating the steps of a strange little dance. As Fiona’s thighs began to quiver, threatening to betray her, she imagined the weather worm waltzing its way around, etching the deep grooves of his song in the rain. Her eyes welled but she blinked back the tears and grunted, pushing when she felt the familiar pull in her body. It was easier not to fight it.

Her body jerked and Fiona cried out. She clutched her body but still kept her eyes locked on the trail of the weather worm. It felt as if she was being ripped apart. Her body moved on its own now and she had no control. In a desperate attempt to remain conscious she stared at the tiny holes wondering if the weather worm ever stopped its journey for such suffering.

Points of light danced around her vision but Fiona refused to close her eyes. She felt herself swaying and forced strength into her limbs even though it seemed a useless effort. She was at the mercy of agonizing pain.

As the last bit of tension broke and fell away, Fiona realized she was whimpering. But it was over. It was done. She stepped from the bloody mess at her feet and walked away. One glance over her shoulder and she stopped and lifted a hand to her cheek. The skin there felt smooth and soft. Nothing like the pile of dried skin she left behind her.

And there was no longer a scar on her arm, she noticed. The only mark Diato had made on her before she left him unconscious. Thestian had applauded as if impressed but she’d felt guilt the next day. She’d fought Diato with anger. She could have killed him.

She’d tried to speak with him the following morning, before she left but he’d avoided her, ignoring her attempts to make things better. Only once, right before she left had he looked her in the eye. He’d said nothing though, only offering a nod as a farewell.

Shedding skin is like starting over. You have all the time you need to make your wrongs right.
Fiona nodded at the echo of her grandmother’s teachings. How she wished her grandmother were here with her. Serpentines could live forever but they were not invincible. They
could
be killed.

Fiona squared her shoulders and started again for the road. Yes, it was time to start anew and complete this mission. There was a blacksmith waiting for her protection and guidance to Merisgale.

She wondered if he was a stupid man. Most blacksmiths she had known were learned enough about smithing but pretty ignorant when it came to other things. Fiona doubted this one would be any different. She sighed.

Well, at least he’d had the sense to take the sword to Merisgale. Only one other time had someone besides a guard carried a King’s Sword to Merisgale. The memory tore at Fiona’s heart. It had been a dangerous journey because many wished to get their hands on the sword. There were smaller groups and individuals who would kill for the power that came with the sword.

It seemed there had been a constant battle to hold on to it. Around every bend was a new danger, someone else scrambling to steal the sword and rob Merisgale of her King. Fiona felt tears sting her eyes. And there were those who would die willingly to protect that power. Her grandmother had been one of them. Fiona remembered the quest well, despite how young she had been.

Only eight days into the journey, Fiona had held on to her grandmother’s hand, fear quaking in her small body. Dark had gathered out of nowhere and she’d hidden in her grandmother’s skirts. But Theora hadn’t been afraid. It was just a woman who appeared with black hair and eyes, and the power to move the wind.

“Give up the sword, Theora.” The woman had commanded. Her voice had sounded impressive and Fiona had quaked. Fiona’s eyes had widened. Her grandmother knew the woman. But Theora just shook her head.

“I have different plans than you for this sword. I have obligations.”

“I cannot allow it. This must be stopped.” The woman stepped closer and Fiona remembered cowering. The woman’s eyes had flicked down to the child. And in Fiona’s memory, it seemed they had softened slightly.

“You put a child in harm’s way.” The woman’s gaze had then lifted back to Theora. They narrowed, hardened. Fiona had felt chilled by the force she found in the woman’s eyes.

“There is no harm if you forget about the sword. It has nothing to do with you. Go back to your cave. Live the rest of your life in peace,” Theora insisted. “Do not do this to my granddaughter.”

“It is not my choice, Theora. It is yours.” The woman took a step forward but Theora lifted her chin, raising a hand to the sky.

“I will not give up the sword.” The darkness around them thickened, the wind had howled a warning but Theora had not listened. “Be gone! I command you to leave me and my granddaughter in peace to complete our mission!”

“Move away from her, child,” The woman had commanded but Fiona had only clung tighter. Fiona had screamed when lightening jagged from the sky. A heartbeat before it struck, the woman had grasped Fiona’s arm and jerked her away from her grandmother’s side. Her grip had been made of metal as strong as that of the sword. The bolt drove right into Theora’s uplifted hand. And then it had been calm. The woman was gone.

“Who was that, Nana?” Fiona had whispered through tears as she knelt next to her grandmother. Smoke drifted out from the pores of Theora’s skin, the ends of her hair were singed. Fiona even noticed that all of her eyelashes had been burned away. She was dying. Even at twelve, Fiona had known that.

“She has destroyed all that holds us together,” Theora had whispered, her voice filled with sadness. “I did not think she would do it.” Her chest contracted, lungs vibrating as they fought for another breath of air.

“The sword is still here. It is not destroyed,” Fiona had said, attempting to offer the woman solace during her last moments. Her grandmother’s bright eyes had dropped to the sword. Laughter chortled weakly from Theora’s throat.

“Ula, you are a clever witch.” And then Theora’s eyes had closed. They never opened again. Her grandmother had been brave and powerful but greed and darkness had cast her down. The day Theora had died was the day twelve-year-old Fiona had stop being a child. She’d taken up the sword that had been left at her side and carried it the rest of the way to Merisgale alone.

* * *

Bryan stood at the edge of the trees watching the small group stop to relieve themselves. His eyes remained locked on the blacksmith. The man was stronger than he’d guessed. It had been the other man that Bryan had suspected the danger but the strength Ronan Culley had shown made the horseman pale in comparison.

The woman was the only real danger posed against the blacksmith. Bryan knew now she wouldn’t allow him to take the sword. But maybe he could save the blacksmith. There was something about him, in his eyes that told Bryan he was not like the others he traveled with.

In those deep brown eyes, Bryan had seen compassion, understanding, and pain. Pain very similar to the kind Bryan himself carried. And that pain fueled his loyalty, that fact was obvious enough.

The boy had tried to save the blacksmith. He’d nearly gotten himself killed in the process. It was that massive horse the boy rode that had done it. Bryan had been the first around the bend and saw for himself when the large beast had suddenly reared up, throwing the boy to the ground. Bryan had been sure the force of the impact when he hit the ground would have killed him.

And then the horse had taken off back the way they’d come. It had surprised Bryan when he’d returned carrying the blacksmith. He’d been even more in shock that the blacksmith had the sword lifted. He’d been ready to use it. It would have been a sacrifice that spoke truth to Ronan’s protective nature of those he cared for.

Only a wizard could use the sword, and the first time would have to draw blood from one of the dark forces. If the blacksmith had used the weapon he would have fallen dead shortly after. Only a wizard could stand the power of the white metal. And bloodshed of someone not of the dark forces would have sucked Ronan’s soul from him and carried it to Sleagan himself. A horrible death for someone as good as the blacksmith’s eyes said he was.

Carron was dead. Bryan winced. They had buried him that night in the woods. It was Bryan’s fault. He had underestimated those they meant to intimidate. He’d underestimated the woman. The disguise she wore was effective.

Bryan shivered. Even her eyes hadn’t given her away. But Bryan wasn’t stupid. He’d seen just a moment before the lightening had struck. The wrinkles of her face had disappeared, the magic she cloaked herself in had weakened slightly. He’d seen her true nature and it was not one he wished to see again.

There was little that frightened Bryan. He tossed his blond hair from his face. But that woman had caused fear to rise within him and it remained even now, as he stood watching them. He had to think of a way to get rid of her before she did more damage than she already had. She’d killed his brother but she would hurt Ronan Culley more deeply if she wasn’t stopped.

The blacksmith was calling them to ride. The woman and boy looked to complain but they followed Ronan and Keegan’s example and mounted their horses. Bryan raised a hand to alert the others that they were moving again. They would be at the river soon enough. No doubt the woman was attempting to figure a way to destroy the raft as she had the bridge.

Bryan was certain she was the one who had done it. She was the only one powerful enough. In one night it had been torn down. The very night before the blacksmith led them there.

Even the heavily built horseman couldn’t have done such damage in one night. And the ropes of the bridge had been cut at both shores. Only someone with the power to cross the river on the wind could manage the task. And her display of power had told him clearly enough he control she held over the wind.

And the blacksmith had not suspected her. In the past hours, Bryan had seen the devotion Ronan had to the woman. He’d accepted her explanation of power. He’d allowed her to tend his wounds. He trusted her. Bryan wasn’t sure why but he would keep close. The blacksmith might trust her, but Bryan didn’t. At the river, he would send the other back home. Bryan would follow Ronan Culley the rest of the way. Perhaps, before the blacksmith got to Merisgale he could convince him to give him the sword.

Need burned within Bryan’s chest. If he could get the sword, he could end his people’s strife. He could give them a chance at normal lives. But there was a darker worry that rested heavily within Bryan. If the woman got the sword before he did, they were all doomed. It would end the freedom of many more people than just the centaurs. Bryan couldn’t let that happen.

Five

Keegan groaned lowly as they approached the raft. It seemed they weren’t the only ones on the way to Fullerk. Another traveler was already dropping gold coins into the wrinkled hand of the old man who ran the crossing. No doubt the gold being exchanged had come from the selling of stolen goods.

“Mikel the Hort,” Ronan said aloud as he pulled at Sorcha’s reins. He glanced at the others. Arien actually appeared happy to see the nervous little guy. Ula looked as if she cared less and Keegan, of course, was not happy in the least. The changeling looked up and his eyes widened.

“You are going this way too? Don’t kill me! The bridge was down. I had to come to the raft! I had no choice. Look, I’ll pay your fare. See? I mean no harm. I won’t steal from you.” Mikel dropped a few more gold pieces into the man’s hand. Ronan laughed at the words Mikel spoke quickly.

“There will be no killings today if I can help it,” Ronan said between chuckles and relief washed Mikel’s face. “And we appreciate your generosity.” The changeling had obviously been more intimidated on their last meeting than Ronan had suspected. Poor, little fellow. He couldn’t help but to feel sorry for the nervous changeling. He reminded Ronan very much of a frightened mouse.

“I thought you were more picky about who you took across the river, Grayson.” Keegan frowned down at the old man. He was clearly not as at ease with the changeling as Ronan. And he did nothing to hide his dislike for the little man.

“Not many traveling round or wanting to cross lately.” The old man looked at Ronan, “I believe you are to blame for that, Yore. You and your blacksmith.” Keegan’s frown deepened as his eyes narrowed on the guilty expression of the changeling and Ronan almost laughed. So Mikel had been running his mouth.

“I didn’t tell that many people,” the changeling defended himself quickly. “Just the few I came across along the way. Two were old and are probably dead by now.” Ronan laughed again causing Mikel’s mouth to curve a little.

“No doubt a centaur or two as well,” Keegan growled as he kicked his horse forward onto the raft.

“Horses cost a bit more.” Grayson waited and Mikel reluctantly gave him a few more pieces before hurrying to step onto the raft along with the others.

“I saw no centaurs.” The changeling shook his head but Keegan didn’t look as if he believed him. “I swear it.”

“The word of a thief?” Keegan snorted. Ronan wanted to tell the horseman to give the changeling a chance but opted to keep quiet. It was best to let him do what he thought was best. There had been times when Keegan’s judgment was better than his own. Ronan remembered the bridge.

“I steal. I don’t lie,” Mikel snapped, and then darted around the horses, positioning himself as far away from the horseman as he could.

Ronan reached over and steadied Ula’s horse when he danced nervously on the wood planks of the raft. “I don’t like this,” the woman murmured. Ronan gave her hand a pat, wishing to reassure her.

“It only takes fifteen minutes, remember? Then it will be over,” he offered. But his words didn’t seem to console her. Instead she looked ill and her shoulders slumped.

“You don’t know this river, Sir Culley. But you soon will find out. The river is dangerous,” she whispered. Ronan studied her for a moment. She’d been so powerful before. Now she appeared almost child-like, frightened and cowering.

His eyes drifted to the water. It looked like any other river he’d ever seen. Nothing special. Glancing back, Ronan squinted toward the woods. He could barely make out Bryan’s outline. The rest were gone. Only one centaur remained to follow. He wondered why but was thankful. One would be easier to deal with than five. And there was something oddly comforting about Bryan’s presence. It made him feel truly protected.