Sword's Call (16 page)

He thought of nothing but the spell collapsing, picturing a bubble popping in his mind, the image helping him to center his power surge.

The resistance faltered; it wouldn’t be long now.

He shoved energy against the center of the spell as hard as he could. His whole body was radiant, alight, and sweat poured down his face on its way to his collar.

Triumph from the other shades rushed him as they recognized weakness in the spell.

One deep breath, then another.

They had won.

The spell collapsed.

Lucan dropped Dagonet’s hand before his regret was too obvious.

It’s no victory.

Athas turned and informed their master that it was done.

Biting his bottom lip, Lucan tried to stand taller.

The next step was even worse. Horrible.

All his fault.

“Well done. Mount up. Be ready for anything.” Lord Varthan swung himself up onto his black stallion.

Lucan grimaced.

Any expression of praise from the master was few and far between, but he was rarely proud of his accomplishments anyway.

“Swords will be waiting for us,” the lord said.

The other three shades nodded collectively and unsheathed their weapons.

Lucan shuddered. He would be the cause of people being killed.

Again.

Guilt made his eyes smart and he swallowed back tears.

He was too old to cry.

His gut was hard, like he’d eaten rocks, but his stomach roiled. He fought the urge to lose his breakfast, gripping his horse’s reins as he planted his rear in the saddle.

His master was always going around killing people.

“Lucan, stay close to me,” Lord Varthan growled, drawing his own sword.

They didn’t meet resistance until they were well inside the castle’s gates.

Lord Varthan sneered at Lord Everett Lenore.

The duke lead his men himself.

Lucan shuddered as Lord Varthan let out a malicious laugh. He did a quick head count. Lord Lenore had twelve men with him. No doubt the men would totally underestimate the shades. He gulped.

“Kill them all, except Lenore,” his master barked.

The three shades gave curt nods and attacked.

Lord Varthan pulled his horse up against the inner wall on the right side of the courtyard, and Lucan stayed tight behind him, as usual.

His master laughed again as they both saw Markus lift a man by his neck with his mind, using his magic to paralyze him and then running him through with his sword.

Tears threatened, and Lucan panted to keep them at bay.

“Varthan, I
will
kill you!” Lord Everett Lenore ran toward them, sword drawn.

“Lucan.” His master’s tone was deceptively calm.

Lucan lifted a hand, saying a spellword silently.

The Duke of Tarvis flew backwards, landing hard on his rear end, legs flying up. The lord was unhurt, but his eyes were wide and he seemed frozen for a moment, making no move to scramble up.

“You’ve always been pathetic, Lenore,” Lord Varthan snarled.

“You’re a dead man, Varthan,” the duke retorted, righting himself.

His master gave another hearty laugh and jumped down from his horse, pointing his sword.

A tremor started down Lucan’s spine, radiating across his back until his whole body shook; even his teeth rattled. He struggled for breath.

He couldn’t watch his master kill the duke.

Not three feet from him.

Helpless.

All my magic and I can do nothing.

Lucan swallowed a whimper.

“Come at me, Lenore. I’ll show you who’s a dead man. Lucan, stay where you are.” Lord Varthan didn’t look at him. “Stay out of the fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucan croaked, grasping the reins of the lord’s stallion.

Everett growled as he charged Varthan. He’d kill the bastard.

His wife had told him the former archduke and his shades would get into the castle, but he’d change that. Emeralda’s visions were rarely wrong, but Everett couldn’t allow himself to consider that.

Around him, he could hear his men screaming and dying.

It steeled him to kill Varthan himself.

His niece shouldn’t have to endure the job. It wasn’t right for one so young, let alone a lady.

He’d never had so much rage toward a person in all his turns no matter what war or battle he had been involved in. His body shook as he slammed his sword into the evil bastard’s, and Everett fought to stay upright.

His blood boiled and he snarled.

Everett
would
defeat him.

His skill was equal to Varthan’s, but the man wouldn’t fight fair.

They’d been lads together, trained together. He might’ve even considered them more than mere acquaintances at one time, but not for a great number of turns.

The man was pure evil.

Everett had known it even before Varthan had boldly stormed Greenwald and killed his wife’s twin and her husband—the best friend he’d ever had in his life.

Not to mention his youngest niece.

There had been rumors at court surrounding Varthan for turns.

Horrid rumors of kidnapping, murder, rape. More than half of the King’s Court suspected he’d killed all three of his wives.

Varthan would do anything for power. Bold enough to make an attempt on King Nathal’s life. Had the man not had so many ties to powerful magic, he’d have been dead a long time ago.

The way Varthan was stalking him told Everett he was being toyed with. The bastard didn’t desire to fight him.

Everett rushed him and was effortlessly blocked.

The duke cursed. “This is not a game. Come at me, you bastard.”

Varthan laughed. “We do this on my terms, Lenore, not yours.” The nonchalant tone made Everett’s ire rise even more.

“Shall I kill him, Master?” one of the shades asked, his tone almost sweet as he appeared at Varthan’s side. “I mean, I’m finished with the rest.”

“No, Athas,” Varthan said. “He’s mine.”

The shade nodded, his expression crestfallen.

Everett looked at Varthan, and then at the boy…young man actually, he was probably nineteen or a few turns older.

The shade had to be Varthan’s son.

They were wearing the same arrogant expression and had the same hair and eyes, same wide jaw, same nose. Even their stance was the same.

The lad looked like a younger version of the former archduke.

A moment later, the other two shades flanked the one at Varthan’s side. “It’s finished.” The fair-haired boy to left remarked, sounding bored.

Everett reared backward as a slow smile spread across Varthan’s lips. His knees weakened; his stomach roiled. Grief threatened to overtake him, but he couldn’t afford it. He straightened his spine and gripped his sword tighter. Varthan made no move toward him, so Everett spared a glance around the courtyard.

His personal guard had been decimated. Their bodies lay bloody and broken all over. They’d not only been his men, but his friends.

Most of them had been in his service for turns, some even as boys. He’d knighted some of them himself.

Shouting a battle cry, Everett charged Varthan again.

With the clang of metal on metal that jarred his body, he sent a silent prayer to the Blessed Spirit he could win his fight.

Everett needed to win, for his wife, his son, and his niece.

His Province, his king.

Varthan laughed as he plunged his sword into Everett’s side.

The Duke of Tarvis collapsed, panting from the white hot pain burning through him. Sweat dripped down from his brow and his whole body shook.

He couldn’t move.

Breathing was painful.

“Even if I die, you won’t win this. There will be others.” Everett clenched his jaw.

The former archduke laughed like the maniac he was. “You’ll die when
I
say you will. Dagonet, heal him.”

He gestured to a tall brown haired young man who looked dimly familiar to Everett.

Where had he seen the boy before?

He looked to be around his own son’s age.

Everett tried to scramble away as the shade approached him, but calm washed over him.

Everything will be all right.

What had he been doing?

His side . . . hurt.

Pressing a hand where the pain was, he shifted. His mail was ripped, torn tunic sticking through it. Both were covered in . . . blood.

What happened?

“I will not hurt you,” the young man told him, kneeling at his side.

Jolting, then wincing from the pain, everything came back to him, and Evertte gasped. “Get away from me.”

“I’m going to heal you.” The boy’s voice was low, even.

Everett felt compelled to look into his warm hazel eyes.

There was no possible way this boy was evil.

Why was he in Varthan’s service?

Healing was an unusual trait for a shade. Even healers in the cities who charged gold for their magic and services were usually of a gentle disposition.

This boy was no evil warrior.

Dagonet, as Varthan had called him, laid his hands over his wound and closed his eyes. A very hot sharp pain bit Everett and he cried out as the flesh came back together. Then the pain was gone.

The healing shade’s face was pale and he was covered in sweat. The bright glow of his hands was fading now. He trembled and put his knee to the ground to steady himself, sucking in a gulp of air.

Had the situation been different, Everett might have apologized for draining the boy’s energy.

He looked down at his side.

No sign of a wound.

The flesh was sealed, not even a scar.

The only proof of injury was his bloodied ruined chainmail and overtunic. Everett locked his eyes to the boy’s; once again feeling compelled to do so.

I’m sorry I can’t make it last, but you’ll get out of this alive, I promise you.

It took Everett a moment to discern the voice was in his head, not aloud.

The healing shade helped him to his feet, his eyes flickering with emotion he masked before he’d turned away.

Where the hell had he seen the boy before?

Emeralda was the only one who ever thought-sent to him, and it was odd, jarring, to hear a male voice in his mind. Everett had no magic, so he’d never managed to learn how to communicate mentally, despite his wife’s efforts to teach him.

“Seize him,” Varthan barked.

The other two shades snatched him painfully by each arm.

Dagonet gave him an apologetic look and punched him in the jaw.

Everett’s head tipped backward as the blackness enveloped his vision. He slipped into blackness.

Chapter Thirteen

The journey to Tarvis was a hard ride, taking only a day and a half. They’d stopped once, but just for a few hours in the middle of the night. Exhaustion threatened to overtake them all, but they were steeled to be strong for one another.

They hadn’t spoken much, every one of them overcome with the darkness Cera had been dealing with for sevenday after sevenday.

Braedon led most of the time, and when they’d stopped in a small clearing to rest, they’d taken turns on watch, Avery starting off.

Cera couldn’t sleep, so she didn’t try. The closer they got to Tarvis, the more twisted her stomach got, so she’d kept her cousin company. Barely said a word to him, but neither of them needed to talk.

Avery gave up and went to sleep for his hour, switching out with Jorrin.

Ignoring his admonition to try to close her eyes, she stayed with him, cuddling close in his arms and wishing he was holding her under different circumstances.

Naked in her rooms at Castle Ryhan would’ve been good. Cera wouldn’t have minded the distraction, despite their location. She loved Jorrin, and wanted to give herself to him. He was the one who was concerned about propriety.

Focusing on her surroundings, Cera fought a gasp as she surveyed her cousin’s Province. They’d made it through the Tarvis Southgate unchallenged.

Varthan and his scum hadn’t been there even a fortnight, yet the place looked desolate.

On the other hand, it was evident her aunt and uncle had been able to evacuate the townspeople, so innocents wouldn’t be harmed or killed.

Jorrin sat high on Grayna, his sapphire eyes as wide as saucers as he looked around.

Braedon was next, on Roan, his expression intense. No telling what he was thinking. Planning their next move, likely. Strategy seemed to be what he was best at.

Avery, on his white gelding Valor, just looked exhausted. Complexion pale, dark circles under his eyes.

She felt like he looked. Cera couldn’t read anything in his expression, but he was probably glad to be home.

Hadrian rode the skinny nag he’d spoken to so harshly the day they’d met. As slight as his weight must be, it was a wonder the horse could support him. He was a tough old one though, and hadn’t complained once on their rough journey to Tarvis.

Winthrop was a regal sounding name for such a non-regal looking animal, but it wasn’t his fault he was old. He’d lived a long life and surely hadn’t always looked as forlorn as he did now.

The wizard had a great affection for him, so that was all that mattered.

Cera’s own Ash was much more than just her mount.

“They know we’re here,” Braedon said, drawing her attention.

Avery glanced at Jorrin’s father. “Are you sure? I don’t feel
anything.”

“I think they knew from the first moment we entered the Province,” Hadrian said.

“They won’t intercept us then? I’d have thought shades would meet us at the gate if they knew,” Jorrin said.

Cera shuddered.

How could Varthan and his shades know they’d arrived?

Was that a preview to the power and magic at the former archduke’s command?

She tightened her hold on Ash’s reins.

They’d arrived; no going back now.

“They know our destination, and Varthan loves a challenge.” She straightened her back and growled.

Trikser, in response, let out a low growl of his own.

Cera calmed him mentally, but he remained bristled at her side, closer to Ash than the stallion was comfortable with. He let out a low whinny. A pat to his neck calmed him some, but he hooved the dirt.