Shattered Throne (Book 1 of The Shattered Throne Series)

by Cate Dean

  Forged by the famous sword makers at the edge of the Eastern Wastes, it was a war prize, taken off one of the desert lords who finally surrendered to his father, ending the border wars.

  “I can’t fight you with that. Did Thomas forget to tell you how disastrous my lessons were with him?”

  “He gave me a full report. And you won’t be fighting me, my lord. You’ll be fighting him.” He pointed to a straw dummy at the edge of the yard. “I want you to feel the weight of a real sword. I also need to determine how your hands deal with the weight. Let’s begin.”

  He led the way to the dummy, and handed the sword to Micah. The grip was cold, the decorative etching rough against his palm. He closed his fingers over the silver, the weight surprising, but not uncomfortable.

  “What do I do now?”

  “I want you to use both hands, and swing it at the dummy.”

  Micah switched hands, supporting his weaker left hand with his right. Swallowing, with certain embarrassment in his near future, he aimed the sword at the torso, figuring he could hardly miss such a large target, and swung the blade.

  It rebounded off the tightly bound straw, and pain shot through his hands. He lowered the blade, afraid he would drop it, and stared at the dummy. Not a mark on the straw.

  “Again.”

  Ari’s quiet voice snapped his head around.

  “I can barely feel my hands after one blow—and you want me to do it again?”

  “Yes.”

  Furious, he hefted the sword and slammed it into the straw. And stared in shock when it cut into the straw arm.

  “Again.”

  He obeyed without comment, his palms slick on the hilt, sweat sliding down his back. His blow cut off the arm at the elbow, and stuck into the torso. When he tried to pull the blade free, pain shot through his hands.

  “I can’t—”

  “No one else will pull your sword free. Either take it out of your opponent or leave it behind.”

  “Damn it—” Micah clenched his jaw, tightened his grip on the hilt and yanked at the sword. It slipped out of the straw, and the momentum knocked him to the ground. He managed to keep the razor sharp blade from cutting his leg off. “Satisfied?”

  “Quite.” Ari pulled Micah to his feet, and turned him to face the dummy. “Again.”

  The torture continued until Micah was soaked with sweat, panting, and so exhausted he could barely lift the sword. But he hit the dummy, again and again, leaving it in pieces on the ground. When he hefted the blade again, Ari laid on hand on his wrist.

  “Enough, my lord. Take some water, then come over and sit with me.”

  He eased the sword out of Micah’s stiff hands, and left him to figure out how he was going to pick up the cup sitting on a stool next to the weapons rack. After several tries, he clamped the cup between his hands, and drank until it was empty. He used the last of his strength to stumble over to the bench and collapse next to Ari.

  “Give me the bad news, Captain.”

  Ari studied him, silent for so long Micah decided it was worse than even he imagined.

  “You surpassed my expectations.” He stood and headed to the guards barracks. “Be here the same time tomorrow.”

  Micah stared after him. He didn’t expect to be able to dress himself tomorrow, much less hold a sword.

  ~ ~ ~

  After more than an hour spent rubbing Raine’s salve into his hands, and a restless night, Micah showed up at the yard. It occurred to him sometime in the night that if he didn’t, Ari would most likely hunt him down and persuade him—by dragging him there, in front of the entire household.

  Ari waited for him, and took both hands.

  “Tell me if I hurt you, my lord.”

  He straightened the fingers of Micah’s right hand. The normal twinges didn’t bother him. Then Ari did the same to his left hand. Pain radiated up his arm and he jerked free.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That is my weaker hand. My shoulder is unhappy with yesterday’s activities as well.”

  Ari smiled, and stunned Micah by pulling his shirt off. “Can you hold a sword?”

  “I—yes.”

  “Today we work with weighted practice swords, and you will fight me.”

  Micah swallowed. “That did not go well before.”

  “I am well aware, my lord. You are not the first I’ve trained, and you won’t be the last. Choose a sword.”

  He turned away, and Micah stifled a gasp. Ari’s back was a mass of scars.

  “Ari—”

  “I’ve had years to recover from my former master’s teaching method. You’d best have a sword in your hand by the time I turn around.”

  Micah scrambled, testing three swords before one felt heavy enough to swing, but not too heavy. Ari waited for him, and Micah got a close up view of the battle scars that marked his chest. Liam did tell him that Ari spent ten years in the Arena.

  “Why don’t you have any scars on your face?” Micah’s eyes widened when he realized he spoke the question in his mind aloud.

  “There was an edict laid on me by my master. If anyone scarred my face, their life was forfeit.”

  “Gods—why?”

  Ari smiled. “I was popular with the ladies. And the ladies meant profit. They—enjoyed the scars on my body, but balked at a scarred face. Every opponent I fought was warned before we entered the Arena. Not one of them brought their weapon anywhere near my face.”

  “Was it—difficult, fighting like that?”

  “I knew every day, when I walked in front of the crowds, that my life was the least important thing to them. They wanted entertainment, and if my dying provided it, they were happy.” He closed one hand over Micah’s shoulder. “Life is cheap in the desert. The conditions are so harsh outside of the Oasis, survival isn’t taken for granted. I think the gladiators are a way for them to watch a fair fight for life. I understood the need, since I grew up at the edge of the upper desert.”

  “Can I ask—how did you end up there?”

  “A misspent youth.” He freed Micah’s wrist and stepped back. “Are you ready?”

  Micah filed the questions away for later. He was honestly surprised that Ari told him so much. With his right hand over his weaker left hand, he raised his sword.

  “Ready.”

  “One hand, my lord. Most swordsmen hold their sword in one hand.”

  “But yesterday—”

  “Yesterday you were hacking at a dummy. Today you’re fighting a live opponent. I need to see if you can hold a sword in one hand. We will go from there. Now—right hand on the tang, left hand out to balance yourself.”

  Micah did as ordered, certain he’d lose the sword the first time Ari caught his blade. Braced for pain, he copied the stance, and tensed his arm.

  “Ready.”

  “Relax your arm, my lord. Better.” Ari tapped his blade. “Good fight.”

  Before Micah was ready he attacked.

  Instinct had him snapping his arm up, catching the blade arcing at him. Ari pressed him backward, and disengaged so quickly Micah stumbled. Before he had the chance to fully recover the blade was coming at him again. He stopped it, inches from his chest. His arm shook as he fought to keep the blade from touching him.

  “Move, boy. You can’t hold me in stalemate forever.” Ari was focused, his eyes deadly serious. This was no easy bout, no light test of Micah’s skills. It was an actual fight. “Move.”

  Micah obeyed, wrenching his blade free. He backed away, his hand aching, the muscles in his arm burning from the effort.

  Ari came after him again—this time he swept the blade from the side. Micah batted at it and nearly lost his balance. He caught himself, scrambling backward. Panic threatened to choke him. It was a practice blade, but a powerful blow could hurt him almost as much as a real blade.

  “You need to take the offensive. Otherwise your opponent will trap you.” Ari swung his sword. It headed right for Micah’s face. He blocked it—and let out a harsh cry when his bac
k slammed into the wall of the barracks. “Like this.”

  Ari pressed his advantage, and the blade inched closer. Micah gripped his sword with both hands, his heart pounding so hard it hurt to breathe. He blinked at the sweat stinging his eyes, terrified that one moment of blindness would leave him open.

  The wooden blade brushed his jaw. If he didn’t do something, Ari was going to break him. An idea flashed into his mind. A move that would most likely hurt. Badly. Micah had no other choice. His captain was fighting for keeps.

  He took a breath and dropped into a crouch, ramming his shoulder into Ari’s stomach as he pushed off the ground. Ari’s sword smacked his left shoulder. He ignored the pain and knocked them both to the ground. Before Ari could stop him he rolled to his feet, gripping his sword, pain radiating down his left arm.

  Ari stayed on the ground, fighting for breath, those clear grey eyes studying him. Micah backed away when he pushed himself to his feet. Sweat slick hands clutched his sword, every inch shaking.

  “Let me ask you something, my lord.” Ari sounded out of breath, for the first time in two days. “Did you know that move might injure you?”

  “Yes.” His voice scraped out of his throat. The fight took more of his strength than he thought. “I decided it was worth the risk.”

  “Sometimes, it is. Whoa—” He caught Micah’s arm when his knees buckled. “Can you make it to the bench?” Micah nodded, and hoped he could make good on it. By the time they crossed the yard, Ari had both arms around him, half-carrying him to the bench. “Easy, Micah. Let me do the work.”

  Ari lowered him to the bench, and Micah finally dropped the sword, his aching fingers gripping the wood to keep himself from tipping sideways. A cup appeared in front of him.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, and reached for it. Or tried to. “Damn…”

  “Let me.” Carefully, Ari helped him with the cup, filling it twice more before Micah waved him off. “Are you ready for my assessment?”

  “Does it end with this being my last lesson?”

  Ari’s laughter startled him. “You are a constant surprise, my lord. Including today. Few men would have dared take the chance you did, afraid of the damage to them. With some work, and practice, you will make a swordsman. Perhaps even a good one.”

  “Practice.” Micah sighed, already exhausted at the idea.

  “Your choice, my lord. Though your brother wished for you to have a way to defend yourself.”

  Mention of Liam closed his eyes. He pushed down the grief; he could indulge himself later, when he was alone. Ari waited for him when he lifted his head.

  “When do we begin?”

  Twenty Four

  “This way.” Damian pushed through the loiterers outside the stable, Xander behind him. “The auction has already started.”

  They ran toward the large building that housed the slave market. From here Damian could hear the auctioneer’s voice, filtering out of the open doors. He headed for them, elbowing past the overflow of bidders.

  There were a least a hundred slaves inside.

  Damian caught Xander’s arm. “You start on the other end. Once you find him, stay with him, let him know you’re here for him. We will try buying him first.” He dug a heavy pouch out of his pack, pressed it into Xander’s hand. “There’s more, if you need it. Try to keep from flashing it about. Start low, and jump the bid if that’s the only way.”

  “And if we lose the bidding?”

  Damian ignored the knot in his gut. He knew exactly what would happen.

  “That is not an option. I will meet you in the center of the stage.”

  He moved away from Xander, scanning the shackled, naked bodies lined up across the low wood stage. Bidders had already begun to climb up, examining potential purchases with a thoroughness that would make a courtesan blush.

  With their hands bound behind them, the slaves had no recourse—especially the women. Damian shoved down the urge to punch every lout who fondled one of them, under the guise of checking for potential ailments.

  He had to remind himself where he was, and that the view of life was dramatically different here. To the desert people, slavery was a necessity, to mine the quarries, run large households, and serve in positions that were life-threatening. They justified the practice by claiming that most slaves were prisoners of war, or enemies of the desert—and would have been killed outright, if not for this more humane system.

  Their humane system was one of the reasons he left. That, and Raine.

  Shaking off thoughts of the past, he kept searching the line of slaves. Liam would stand out, for his height and hair color, if nothing else. But there were no tall, dark haired young men on that stage.

  “Damn it,” he whispered, and kept moving when he received various glares from the people around him. When he met up with Xander, the guard shook his head, his eyes troubled. Damian pointed to the back of the building, and followed him through the growing crowd. “There is a holding place—cages, for the slaves waiting to be sold. There may be more there.”

  “More?” Xander looked angry and disgusted. “How in all the hells do they allow this—”

  “Keep your thoughts to yourself. Men have died for voicing unpopular opinions.” He pushed Xander toward the door, and outside. “You’re a mute, remember? Even though there are Westerners here, they understand the rules of conduct. You’re gaining attention we cannot afford.”

  “Sorry. These will be my last words, until we are out of this place.”

  Damian nodded, and headed for the lines of cages behind the stage.

  ~ ~ ~

  Pain chased Liam, even in sleep. The constant grind of it finally pulled him out, and he opened his eyes.

  His back throbbed, punishing him every time he moved. His throat was another story; every swallow tortured him, movement setting off a fresh wave of dizzying pain.

  “Awake?” The quiet, feminine voice brushed over his skin. Hair swept across his cheek as she bent over him, gently wiping at the sweat sliding down his face. “I was hoping you might sleep longer. I want you to stay still, especially if one of the slavers comes checking. If you show any sign of life, they’ll haul you out faster than you can blink. You cost them money, lounging about here.”

  Her words almost drew a smile, until he remembered that smiling would hurt.

  “I never told you my name, did I? Too caught up in trying to keep you breathing.” She knelt at the head of his low bed, where he could see her. “I am Alina T’Aront.” She touched his hand. “And it is my pleasure to be helping you, Liam Brachon.” She whispered his name, so low he barely heard it.

  He closed his eyes, fighting to stay conscious. The pain started dragging him under again, where it would only claw at him in a sleep that didn’t heal. He jerked back to awareness when careful fingers lifted his braid.

  “I’m going to wash your hair, as much as I can. I wish I’d been able to do it before, but I had more pressing tasks.” He heard the smile in her voice. “I will be right back—don’t go anywhere.”

  Her warmth disappeared, and Liam realized how much it affected him, kept him aware. He felt himself drifting when her hands touched him again.

  “You remember the hand signals I showed you?”

  He used a slight knocking motion with the hand closest to her. Yes

  “Good. Tell me if I hurt you, or you feel any kind of discomfort. Just tell me no, and I’ll stop.”

  Yes.

  “I feel like we are having an actual conversation. Now relax for me, Silver Tongue. Let me do the work.”

  Yes.

  She chuckled, and a different kind of warmth spread through him. It built as she carefully unbraided his hair, using her hands and a sharp smelling soap to clean the length. Liam closed his eyes, gave into what he felt. It may well be the last time he experienced kind treatment.

  Her fingers massaged the soapy water into his scalp, and somehow managed to rinse his hair without dampening the bed, or his bandage. Too soon, she w
as running a cloth over his hair. The gentle, constant tugging told him that she was braiding it again. He meant to have the length trimmed once he became Duke, but he had been pulled in so many directions at once that it seemed a petty request to take time out for a haircut.

  Now his braid would reach mid-back if he was standing. Not something he would be able to do any time soon.

  “Can you sleep on your own, or did you need some aid?” He had no idea what she meant by that, so he waited, hoping she might elaborate. His mind conjured up a few things—all of them physical, all of them including her. “I have some tea that will help, if you’d like some.”

  Yes.

  “Stop—you’ll talk my ear off. Stay here, while I heat some fresh water.”

  Once again, her warmth disappeared. Liam found he was getting far too used to it. To her, sitting at his side, teasing him. No courtier had dared, not since he stepped into his father’s place.

  But Alina treated him as a person, and not a Duke. She made him feel less helpless; even her simple method of communicating by hand signals gave him a control he had not had since he was taken by Gareth’s thugs.

  She returned, setting a chair at the head of the low bed, where he could see her now. Pale blonde hair fell loose to her hips, strands brushing against the crosshatch scars on her cheek. Liam wanted to ask how, who would have done such a thing to her, find a way to remind her that she promised to tell him. She distracted him by laying her hand on his hair.

  “This is going to hurt you, no matter how I attempt it, and I am sorry for that. You need to sleep, and you also need liquid inside you. This will cover both. Let me do the work. All you need to do is swallow, and smile in appreciation of my delicious concoction.”

  She leaned in, held a tall cup to his lips. He smelled chamomile, and something sweet. Honey. That might help his raging throat.

  “Slowly now, one small sip at a time.” The first swallow had him gasping in pain. She froze, pulling the cup away. “Did I hurt you?”