by Mya Lairis
Table of Contents
The Capture of a Heart
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Loose Id Titles by Mya Lairis
Mya Lairis
THE CAPTURE OF A HEART
Mya Lairis
www.loose-id.com
The Capture of a Heart
Copyright © January 2016 by Mya Lairis
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eISBN 9781682520635
Editor: Jana Armstrong
Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde Media
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Chapter One
Performing for an audience had never been a pleasurable exercise for Shoraya. Of course being able to ignite the wonder in a child’s eyes was a fulfilling experience. To serve as an ambassador dispelling the myths of the brutish stereotypes of the Deipma was even a joy to her soul, but the risks of displaying her talent with swords had proved greater than the need for a few coins. Humility was far safer than the pride of display, she often had to remind herself.
In the ocean-side city of Enuua, she hadn’t meant to make a show of her skills. There was no excuse of needing new leathers, nor a desire borne of the scents of lavish meals of seafood and wine. She needed no shelter in the stone lodges saturated by sea spray and moss. All that she required was oil, and being a huge port town, Enuua possessed a wide selection of types.
Shoraya had managed to purchase several vials before the performance—no, the incursion began.
Her dark-brown skin color was not the spark this time. In Enuua, there had been shades of all kinds: pale creams, vibrant blues, subtle oranges, and even sage. Perhaps there were none as dark as she, but little attention was given to the unique hues of the diverse city. Instead, her scabbards had initiated the spectacle.
How was she to know that one of the king’s watch would be milling about purchasing his own supplies? When he asked about the sheathed blades upon her back, Shoraya did not jump to conclusions. She hadn’t been eager to display them either.
Then his eagerness took on a boisterous, bullying tone.
She had attempted to leave. Had. It was a difficult task when the width of a broadsword and the threat of being insolent prevented her from passing out of the shop and onto the sand-covered streets.
Some part of her may have suspected the soldier to be more than just a jester in her performance, but after little more than the count of fifty, he and his friends were dispatched by the swirling display of her steel.
As Shoraya stood in the midst of the grassy clearing where she had made camp, she imagined the soldiers’ complaints had found some sympathy. That the main culprit might never wield anything heavier than a tankard with his sword hand again was grounds enough for retaliation. Add to that the humiliation of his friends who also thought to test her prowess, and the sight before her was no great surprise.
As Shoraya’s gaze traveled over the troop of armored warriors approaching, she sighed. There were at least twelve of them, all manner of weaponry and armor decorating their bodies. Her focus went immediately to one male who had the image of a shark, the sigil of Enuua, etched into his shimmering gold breastplate. He was the leader. His very posture in the saddle all but confirmed it. He removed his helmet and set it on a hook on his saddle. The male was a giant, radiating authority. His pale-green eyes held only cool seriousness among the irises.
She didn’t need to guess his purpose.
“I would sincerely like to apologize for the stupidity of my men. I was told that they offended you.”
Shoraya shrugged. The soldiers’ actions were not experienced enough to be considered anything other than sad. But she thought twice about alluding to their ineptitude among one who might have had a hand in their training. “He was rash.”
“Hmm, yes. He was not as privy to the knowledge of your legendary expertise as I.”
She cringed at the suggestion that he knew something of her past. Surely it didn’t help her image that she had her swords drawn. Having been in the midst of dancing, she wondered if her ritual of exercising after a meal had been witnessed. She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I don’t know about that.”
The leader approached, bringing his steed within twenty feet of her before dismounting. His metal-plated boots struck the ground with force. His left foot hit the ground with more favor than the right.
Shoraya took note of his gait as he walked, the movement of his arms, and the set of his shoulders, all animations dulled by the weight of so much protection. On her own person, she wore no such buffers. Although her long limbs were muscular, her waist broad and long, she had not been raised to fear offense. Such garments as the man before her wore almost seemed humorous, but then it was not her way to take any threat lightly.
The leader came to a halt five feet away from Shoraya. “My name is Tarek, first lord and captain of the guard for King Illian of the kingdom of Enuua. I would be honored if you were to accompany me. My king has also heard of your marvelous skill and seeks your presence in his court.”
Shoraya’s fingers played upon the handles of her blades, unable to cease the inclination to dance but controlled enough to keep her weapons in a downward resting position. She had a notion as to what the warrior truly wanted from her, despite his kind words and praise, but with the sky overhead taking on an ominous gray cast, she hoped she was wrong. There was a storm coming. “To what end?”
“Your skill with the sword has been heralded across the lands. Rumors of your prowess have flowed to our shores, and my king would witness them for himself. He would welcome you as a teacher, shower you with wealth unimaginable, and raise you to a life of luxury and prestige for just a measure of your time.”
Shoraya closed her eyes. There were no secrets that she held, only an art that needed to be practiced, performed, and made better. When she opened her eyes to answer Tarek, her stomach clenched in alarm. The green orbs that stared back at her did not seem capable of considering rejection. She gave it nonetheless, her fingers going still upon the handles of her tools. “The offer is good and would be a blessing to any other, but I have no aspirations toward courts or students or kings. That is not my way.”
Tarek’s lips were pressed together sternly. There was a pronounced dent in his brow that radiated determination. While the clouds above mocked steel and smoke, his face took on a calmer guise. “So I have heard.” He sighed. “But I do not think that you were approached in the right way. You were not presented with true incentive. Yeega, bring the gifts.” He waved a hand, and another rider dismounted.
Yeega, a shorter, more ample warrior, opened a satchel just behind his mount’s saddle. He pulled free a sizable ornate box inlaid with gold, pearls, and sparkling gems. He rushed to his leader’s side, where he opened the lid for Shoraya to see the bounty inside.
Seven glistening sky gems, reflecting brilliant lights of every imaginable color, lay upon a bed of black velvet. Each bauble was the size of a bird’s egg, and unmistakably authentic, Shoraya knew. Her people had mined the mountains for centuries, and she had come across such stones as components for afternoon gambling distractions in the tunnels. It was not until after she left her home that she realized their worth to the plains dwellers. With just two of the gems held out before her, she could have secured a wealthy living in their world.
As the wind began to pick up, whispering of coming salt and anxious earth, Shoraya lamented that she would not be able to savor the storm in contemplation. She returned her attention to the leader. “Those are all very nice and beautiful, but I have no need of them. I apologize for wasting your time, but I should be on my way. A storm is preceding the night, and I have a mind for shelter.”
Yeega closed the box and stepped back several paces as his leader shook his head.
The tension rising in the air had little to do with the burgeoning weather, and Shoraya could feel the intent in the air just as surely as she noted the position of the leader’s gauntlet-covered fingers. They were millimeters closer to the sheathed sword on his left hip and closer to the dagger on his right.
Could this Tarek dual-hand? Shoraya wondered to herself before tamping down her curiosity.
“You do not understand,” he said as if there truly was a miscommunication between them. “I request politely, but my king does wish to see you.”
The first announcement of the arrival of the storm came with a thunderous rumble and a terrifying crack, neither of which caused any in the clearing to flinch, so rapt was everyone’s attention. More than just bad weather was encroaching.
Shoraya took a step back, her blades still down. She then gave a low bow, an expression of reverence among plains walkers. She wanted no quarrel. “No. I do understand, but I go where I wish and practice as I may. You should go and find shelter for yourselves before the heart of the storm arrives,” she advised as the steeds began to trot anxiously in place. She lifted her blades then—Aurra, the dragon’s cry, and Belon, the high wind. Deftly she fit the blades into their sheaths, crisscrossed in a harness she wore upon her back. She turned her side to the warriors in lieu of her traveling packs, which were perched upon a rock. If the men left, she too would have time to find cover, although she did not fear getting wet. “Good travels,” she said as she moved to retrieve her belongings with little care for further conversation.
“Enough of this. Just take her!”
Shoraya didn’t turn to see who had made the exclamation, nor did she care, but she did halt, just several feet from her belongings. “You have too many weaknesses, and your weaponry is that of brutes. I warn you. You do not want to join me in dance. Go back to your king and tell him that you could not find me. It would be best for you.”
She didn’t think they would heed her words. Not when she heard the music of armor plating shifting with movement. Tarek approached. His sword hilt was clattering against his hip, a tad light even if she hadn’t heard the hissing sound of his sword being drawn. “You will come with us.”
Thunder continued to rumble miles away as Shoraya finally turned around to face the soldiers. Annoyed, she thought back to the day she had left her mountain home, with the intention of education and exploration, not combat. She had visited several villages, forests, and plains already. A swamp, even. She had taken her lessons from the elements native to different terrains. She had learned a good deal, but from man—she had found nothing to study.
This captain of the sea and his men were no different than the warriors who bore the serpent emblem or the ones with the tortoise or great raptor, who had all sought the very same thing from her. She had no intention of bolstering the might of any kingdom, training men how to take lives or strike fear in others. Her blades were not meant for such pursuits as she gave the same answer to the sea that she had given to the swamp.
Shoraya stretched her arms outward as the first droplets of rain splashed against her skin. “I will not, but I will dance for you.”
All eyes were on her, but the only pair that mattered belonged to the man standing in front of her, glistening with both determination and caution. When Tarek took the first tentative step toward her, Shoraya was prepared. The warriors that stood ready to subdue her were no different than those who had come before, and neither was their leader. His first movement was a forceful slash with little reserve, even if he did intend to take her prisoner.
She avoided his first three blows with ease, spinning just out of the paths of sweeping arcs. Without even drawing her blades, she danced outside the range of sword points and edges, moving as a river might if it had been disturbed by a plummeting rock. Even weighted down by fifty-some pounds of plate armor, the warrior moved quickly as well. She could, after a time, understand why Tarek carried the rank of leader. If she had been trained as he had, she would invariably be intimidated. Yet her every step was poignant and measured as she sprang back, side-stepped, and somersaulted away from his attacks. Tarek was crowding her, moving into her space and attempting to distract her, as if the angry sky and heavy rain which had begun to fall weren’t enough.
The other men dismounted from their steeds, and it was then that Shoraya drew the lengths of her blades. Combined, her weapons barely equaled the width of the warrior’s broadsword, but she knew her metal to be twice as hard as and far sharper than those crafted for the brutality of cleaving.
She shifted back and ducked down low to avoid a sweeping slash that could have opened a wound on her belly. Perhaps her attacker had cast thoughts of capture aside, having failed to strike her, but Shoraya could not dare to guess at his intent as the ground beneath her feet started to become soft from the rain.
He rushed her with a high, descending blow that sent her scrambling low in evasion. From a crouching position, however, she was able to dart behind him. When she rose, she slapped him across the back of his head with the butt of Aurra.
Tarek roared in frustration as he spun round to face her.
The time for play had come to an end, and it had little to do with the anger of the captain. She knew she had to beat her true aggressor in the elements. With the ground still firm enough, she began the true dance. Warriors and their blunt power knew little about delicacy or art, and while she felt as if the men could have learned something from her, it was not her desire to teach when she herself was still a student.
Shoraya kicked out with a targeted strike to Tarek’s leg and caught the warrior off guard. Her blow landed upon the side of his knee and drew him off-balance long enough for her to follow it up with a smash of the flat of her blade against his unprotected forehead.
The blow rattled him, but only momentarily. Still, it was all she needed. Shoraya raised her blades and began to spin her metal as easily as ribbons. She twirle
d them forward and back, to the side of her. Building her momentum and loosening her wrists for the exercise to come, she met the wonder in her opponent’s eyes with resolve. As she moved into his space, the tip of Belon deftly met the stays keeping the gauntlet on his sword arm secure. The edge of Aurra sliced at the binding holding his breastplate. She swiftly moved behind the shocked warrior, her gaze attentive and lightning quick, to pinpoint gaps in his armor, evading his every attempt to pummel and stab.
Her attacks were confusing to him, and they were meant to be. Like the winds of a plains funnel, she stirred up chaos all around him. He tried to catch her, to turn toward her and bring down his hammer of a sword, but Shoraya continued to dance away. She had learned from the flying daggerwasp that she didn’t need to meet every blow steel to steel.
With a flick of her wrist, she landed a piercing jab in the meat of the wrist that held his weapon, through the tiny opening between loosened leather fastener and metal. Although the sword fell from his hand, he immediately reached for the long dagger on his hip with the other. Shoraya dealt with that issue as well. She used both of her blades to swat the weapon away from his shaken grasp and into the air. Before he could gather himself, she dealt a two-fold attack. With the edge of her blade slashing toward his neck, she halted her movement just as steel came beneath his chin and touched flesh.
He snarled partly in surprise and perhaps in rage, but Shoraya was unfazed as she twirled her swords back to present his face with two crashing blows from the butts of her pommels.
Tarek went down to the mud with a stunned countenance, his broad chest billowing with exertion.
Shoraya, however, had little opportunity to gloat, even if she had felt the desire to, as the first dart flew past her shoulder, nicking her skin.
Once again she set her blades to spinning, deflecting the hail of darts that came from the wiser, distanced warriors. With little doubt their ammunitions carried some strain of poison, Shoraya added to the distance that separated her from the men. She trotted backward, even as she batted away the steady stream of projectiles coming from short bows and blowguns. One of the warriors stood by ready with a net proclaiming the intention to capture her.
