“Warlord Saran,” Argan greeted.
Saran flinched. He no longer deserved the title but Vaan refused to listen, insisting he stay in Kaban and train with these men since he wouldn’t come to Raasa. Saran curled his fingers, no longer surprised by the lack of response from the bottom two on his right.
The three Warlords closed in on him but only Argan spoke. “We will train behind the furthest hapfe stable away from prying eyes. We will stay until we judge you fit on your own.”
Saran parted his lips. Argan slashed his hands in the air, trails of misty shadows following the motion. “It is not to be questioned.”
Due to his relationship with his new bride, Argan now possessed powers untold. But Argan didn’t understand. None of them did. Saran lifted his right arm. “What do you propose I do about this?”
Three sets of eyes focused on his hand. He had stopped wearing the bandages once the healing finished but it was hard to miss the pitying glances of those in Kaban. Most of them said nothing but in their eyes they considered him finished. Nothing more could be done for the last fingers. They curved slightly and no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t straighten. Forcing any movement caused excruciating pain and an ache which then spread to the entire hand.
“The Overlord has always insisted that his closest Warlords learn to battle with both right and left.” Argan sighed, meeting Saran’s gaze, no pity in sight. “It was not seen as necessary by others to take up the practice. My bride as well fights with two swords as is the custom of her people.”
Brows furrowed, Saran dropped his useless hand to his side. “I know not what this would prove. I can not fight with both. The healer states the nerves too damaged to recover.”
Kavan snorted. “If you learn to fight with your left, you are still able to defend Kaban, yes? A good sword arm is all that matters.”
Hope kindled. “My brother wants me to learn a different way to battle?”
He’d thought Vaan expected him to fight through his pain and heft his sword with his right. An impossible task, since Saran had already tested this the moment he recovered. His grip constantly slipped and wielding his weapon felt ungainly. Repeatedly, he dropped his sword until the shame alone forced him to give up.
Ramar inclined his head, a smile ticking up the corners of his lips. “It is why we have come. We will teach you to use your left as if it were your right. None will best you when we are done.”
“I’m not sure what my brother hopes to prove.” Saran still felt the need to resist.
“The Overlord would have you stay in Kaban,” Argan stated.
Breath lodged in his throat. If he trained with these men, perhaps there was hope. Accepting the possibility he would still be a worthy warrior and able to continue claiming the title of Warlord stretched his sense of belief. “This is a waste.”
“It is not for you to say. Our time is our own. Overlord Vaan wishes you to be trained.” Ramar crossed his bulging arms over his chest.
“So you will be trained,” Kavan concluded with a dark glint in his eyes that dared Saran to refuse.
And Saran knew none of them would allow him to beg off. “This is a foolish plan but I will see it through.”
Vaan didn’t leave him much choice.
***
Crackling flames added warmth and staved off the chill of the late night in Saran’s sleep chamber. Behind the privacy of these walls, he allowed the weariness of the day to catch up with him. This first session of training had been harder than anything he’d ever gone through before and Vaan’s Warlords were without mercy.
Despite training behind the older hapfe stables, his fellow warriors and other Warlords managed to come by at least once to witness his humiliation. The mortifying glances, the doubt, it all weighed heavy on him.
Saran returned here to clean the sweat and dirt from his body while he drank his fill of cider. He’d skipped the bath because of fatigue but liquid overflowed the mug in his hand with the plan to slip into oblivion.
Now, though the dust settled and the sun began to fall, pleasure and the normal rush of relaxation did not find him. Instead of moving to the large fur covered bed Saran sat in his chair, legs sprawled and an uneaten meal spilled on the table beside him. Blades and handles from his weapon making were scattered over the floor where he’d kicked them. Another thing taken away by the durvish attack.
Sharp raps on the door disturbed Saran’s intent to brood on the misfortune befallen his life. Before he could rise, Casin entered and slammed it closed behind him, twisting the lock as Saran forgot to do.
“The Overlord has sent his men to aid you, yes?”
Casin’s face had not been among those who spied on his failure earlier. “Yes.”
“Good.” His friend leaned his back against the door and eyed Saran’s dirty form. “You need to begin showing those here you are still a Warlord true. Laying about and hiding in your room is a sign of weakness.”
It was an insult and not one veiled in flowery words. Casin deliberately sought to stir the flames of his temper. It didn’t take much. Saran jumped to his feet, boiling over with his inability to wield a sword, to take pleasure in his past time of creating knives. Adding insult to injury was the enforced training his brother held him to. “Have a care with your words friend.”
The only response Saran received for the dire warning was the rising of Casin’s slash like brows. “You would have me not speak truth? Should I lie to you as you lie to yourself? Where is the friendship in that?”
Shoulders going stiff, Saran set his drink down before he threw it. He tried to rein in his rolling anger. “Where is the friendship in one who would lay with a woman who belongs to another?”
Much to his surprise, Casin laughed. After he had himself back in control, he tipped his head to the side, mouth twisted upward. “You are foolish, yes? Melane does not belong to you. A short while ago you claimed she was not strong enough. You wanted a warrior for a bride and yet you forget she alone fought the healers and the Council on your behalf.”
Saran stayed frozen across the room from the other Warlord for fear he’d lash out and strike Casin. His friend did him no favors and continued to pour his truth on Saran as he pushed away from the door and thrust a finger out toward Saran.
“If not for Melane, the vote would have gone to remove your hand. Mayhap your arm. She refused. No other woman could have stood firm in the face of determined warriors. That, friend, is the actions of the strong and fierce bride you say you wish for. Any would have her and be pleased for the gift.”
All truth. Casin’s voice also carried a thread of more. He wished to say something else to Saran but held back. What did he yet hide? Saran balled the fingers of his good hand. “Am I to offer congratulations, Casin? Have you asked such a perfect Kabanian woman to bride yourself?”
“Y-you...” Casin stuttered then with a glare and cut off snarl, he spun around and smashed his fist into the stone wall next to the door. When he faced Saran again, blood dripped from the broken skin on his knuckles. He shook his head in disgust. “I do not need congratulations but if you think long and hard, you will see there are amends to be made. If you don’t want her, allow another to take your place in her bed.”
On that ominous note, Casin unlocked the door and left, slamming it behind him as hard as he’d slammed it open.
Chapter 15
Two days later
Saran wished to kill his brother. He lifted his gaze to his opponent who didn’t look the least winded. No, he wished to kill Argan. Kavan and Ramar leaned against the side of the hapfe stables, ankles crossed. They took turns fighting him until he could barely move, Kavan and Ramar never giving up when he dropped his sword. In fact, they increased their speed and efforts when this occurred, forcing him to fight to regain his weapon.
But his brother’s former right hand and friend was the worst. Argan had no mercy.
“Do you wish to quit?” Argan taunted as he circled around Saran, twirling his weapon
in his left hand.
Humiliation burned. Furthering the proof of their experience, each Warlord engaged him using their left arm only to wield their swords. They made it look effortless as they knocked him to the ground or knocked his own sword from his hand. Again and again it went on fueling his anger.
Sweat trickled into his eyes, leaving Saran’s vision hazy. He wanted to quit and the thought stunned him. Never had he conceded defeat yet he trembled like a youngling before Warlords he had once equaled in skill.
Argan paused, confusion flitting across his face. “Saran?”
Saran resumed his crouch, the unfamiliar weight of the sword in his left hand leaving him unbalanced. Forcing back the weakness, he glared. “Continue.”
Steel clashed against steel, arms strained. They broke apart and attacked again, blades glancing off one another. The muscles in Saran’s upper left arm quivered. Constantly, he battled the temptation to switch hands for the comfort of using his right. He knew better though. On the few times he gave in to the urge, Argan and the others made it a point to batter at him and the damage they did was always worst.
He had to admit their skill proved impressive. The Warlords fought with an ease he admired never resorting to using their right. If only it were possible for him to learn the same.
Pain seared his forearm, ripping him away from his deep thoughts. His inattention provided Argan the opening to disarm Saran. His sword spun in the air, sun glinting off the blade and fell to the ground with a metallic clang. A loud curse hissed from Saran’s lips as he braced his hands on his hips and stared at the weapon in defeat. It represented his new life and all he’d lost.
Frustration bubbled. Raising his right hand, Saran formed a fist, the flare of pain welcome. “It is no use. One of you would serve better in the Overlord’s place.”
Ramar pushed from the wall and came toward him. He reached behind his back and pulled out a large bundle. He extended it toward him. “Overlord Vaan said to give you this if you struggled.”
Saran accepted the folded leather. He unraveled a set of thick black gloves, with strips of brown leather at the wrist and forearm. Frowning, he turned it over in his hand. “What is the meaning of this?”
Argan approached, sword sheathed in his cross chest harness. Though he now made his home among the Shadow Warriors, he still dressed as a Kabanian Warlord in simple black leathers. “You favor the right. It is natural. Until you give in, your training will always stall. The right is useless. Accept this.”
Harsh, condemning words. Saran swallowed. It hurt to hear it said aloud from another, yet the Warlord only spoke a truth he understood. Fighting as he knew it would be different. He needed to accept another way if he wished to live his life in the manner he was accustomed. Others would eventually deem him unfit. Challenges would flare up and put Kaban in disarray. With Kuran out causing trouble this could not be allowed.
“I will never fight at the same level again.” It had to be said.
“But, it does not mean the end, though you may wish otherwise.” Argan nodded at the glove. “In training, Vaan forced us to wear that to remind us to use the left. Trust me when I say the skill will come.”
Saran slid the thick, bulky glove over his right hand. To his surprise, he experienced no discomfort. The soft lining inside fit his fingers, including the injured ones without tightness.
“Pick up your sword, Warlord.” Argan encouraged him with a rare smile. “You are far from done.”
Renewed purpose filled Saran. He fetched his weapon and resumed his stance.
***
Three weeks later
Bruised, bleeding but with a happy smile on his face, Saran staggered through the main doors and bumped into a soft, warm body. He reacted instinctively, arms entwining the female to keep her from stumbling. Her scent followed and Saran exhaled softly in recognition.
“Warlord Saran?”
Melane’s confused whisper caused him to tighten his arms. Throughout his training they’d barely crossed paths. Her justified anger and Casin’s sharp condemnation left him with guilt and the need to come to her whole. She pressed her hands against his chest and he reluctantly released her.
Her gaze went to the bulky glove on his right hand. He stilled the urge to tuck it behind his back. Next her gaze traveled up his chest with a multitude of green and blue blemishes, then his face. She paused at the long scratch on his jaw where his left cheek came in contact with an unfriendly wall and continued to his busted lip before meeting his eyes at last.
“What happened? Were you attacked?”
His laughter was unexpected but her concern set off a warm buzz. “No. I have been in training.”
Doing better than he ever imagined. Today, he’d not only managed to catch Ramar off guard and disarm him but Saran also scored a strike against Kavan. Of course Argan continued to knock him on his rear but those occasions in the dirt motivated Saran because he spent less and less time there.
Melane’s gaze softened and her mouth curved upward. “I would hope the training is...going well?”
How long since he’d gazed on her face and had her smile aimed his way? His heart thumped in excitement. “It goes well.”
“Good.” Melane brushed at the loose hair falling about her face and offered another smile. “I’m pleased for you.”
“My thanks.” He wanted to say more but nothing came to mind.
Then as if remembering the way they last parted, her smile fell and the easy camaraderie turned stiff. Melane bowed and excused herself, leaving Saran bereft. He gazed at her swinging hips in the blue and silver dress as she stepped around him and prepared to exit the front door.
The strong urge to continue speaking with her overwhelmed him and he blurted, “Melane. Wait.”
After a slight pause, she turned. Her brows arched in inquiry. Words suddenly abandoned him. Standing there with her cheeks pinkened, her brown eyes meeting his and black hair loose about her face, Saran was struck anew by her beauty.
He’d lain with her, experienced relief between her thighs and always she eased him. But she’d given him more than that. What had he been thinking to push her away? His heart squeezed with the memories of her laughter, the soft brush of her naked body against his. Casin had the right of it. Saran was more than a fool.
In every way possible, Melane showed her care for him, yet he’d been blinded by her gentle nature to consider her less. Fooled by his arrogance and fear, he taken out his displeasure on her.
The strain between them resulted from his lack of care and he accepted it as the price due. He owed her. Spurred by a cascade of emotion, words spilled from his lips. “Thank you.”
Puzzlement creased her forehead. Saran swallowed. He pulled himself up straight and clasped his hands behind his back and continued. “For your efforts that day with the durvish. For your care afterward. Just...thank you.”
Warmth lit her eyes from within and they brightened. Had he ever noticed how much her eyes spoke for her? “No thanks are necessary, Warlord.”
“Saran,” he corrected. Her brows dipped and confusion darkened her brown eyes, forcing him to clarify. “You have leave to call me Saran.”
To his shame, he realized it was the first time he’d ever made the offer. From habit, holding back the intimate use of his name had enabled him to maintain an emotional distance with the women he took to his bed. A distance he no longer wished to have with Melane.
They both jerked when the door behind her widened all the way and Casin stepped through. The other Warlord smiled at Melane, ignoring Saran. “I waited for you.”
She glanced up at Casin and the change was noticeable. A softening that killed Saran because she’d once looked upon him in such a manner. Now it was for someone else and he had no one to blame but himself.
“Sorry to make you wait. I am ready now.”
Casin made room for her to leave, stepping to the side and holding the door open. After a last look at Saran, Melane left without saying more. Ca
sin gave him a solemn nod of acknowledgement and followed. The door closed with a final thud, mimicking the sound of Saran’s heart as it lost a beat in desolation then resumed.
Chapter 16
“We have stayed overlong but with good reason.”
After many weeks of training, Saran held new respect for his brother’s Warlords. Each one worked tirelessly and without complaint to train him. Session by session they encouraged, sneered and prodded until he began to respond to the good-natured insults with humor while dancing lightly out of their reach.
Battered and sore on more than one occasion, Saran nonetheless sensed when it became easier. Now with his elbows braced on his knees, he bit into the last piece of fruit sitting on his plate after he’d ravaged the hunks of seared meat served to him. Having his appetite back was a welcome respite.
“My thanks.” Saran spit the pit to the side of him and waved for Ramar to keep talking.
Seated across from him, Ramar leaned forward over the table in the small alcove they used to have privacy from others. “The warriors based here in Kaban are leery and worried. Kuran strikes in small stages but enough to rouse their ire. Many mutter about retaliating with or without the Overlord’s consent. Argan, Kavan and I think it is time you show that your injury has not weakened you.”
The fruit in Saran’s belly soured. He was weakened. He’d never regain full use of his right hand. Learning to fight with his left was one thing, being confident in the use another. Still, he would listen. “What would you suggest?”
Ramar’s gaze shifted toward Argan. The Shadow King sprawled back in his chair, twirling spires of dark shadow in his palm. Grey and black streams looped about his fingers then faded as Argan clenched his hand tight into a fist. He lifted his head and stared directly at Saran. He felt the impact of the forceful look down to his booted feet.
Unexpected Bride (Warlord Series Book 6) Page 11
