by Holly Bargo
“No. Magic has little or no effect on gargoyles. He can neither compel us nor deceive us with a glamor. Magic used against us will fail. It is a testament to his power that his castle does not crumble when we set foot in it.”
“And why would the castle … oh, it’s magic, too.”
“King Uberon awakened the mountain and used its sentience to raise the castle. Because gargoyles are of stone, the mountain’s magic is actually sympathetic to our resistance to magic.”
Samuel scratched his head. “A sentient castle, huh?”
“Should the castle deign to acknowledge you, you will know it. It’s quite fond of your sister.”
Golsat rose to his bare feet, soles of stone not needing protection from grit or pebbles underneath. “When you are able, come to the arena. King Uberon has many warriors with whom you can spar. The exertion will benefit you.”
Having much to think upon, Samuel started taking long walks. Soon he found himself accompanied by Ari’valia who easily kept pace with his slow stride. They amused each other by learning one another’s languages. He found her a quick study, glad to see that a pampered, constrained life had not dulled the girl’s wits.
As his strength and stamina grew, he found his way to the arena where burly men and men-like creatures lifted heavy weights, ran laps, and fought with blunted weapons. The quartermaster sized him up and handed him a breastplate, a pair of vambraces, and a saber.
Holding the weapon awkwardly, Samuel said, “A sword really isn’t my kind of weapon.”
“They don’t have gunpowder here,” Golsat said.
“Jesus H. Christ! How do you do that?” Samuel spun around. “And what do you know about gunpowder?”
The gargoyle favored him with an unperturbed look and answered, “The properties of gunpowder make it too volatile for practical use here, so King Uberon forebore to import it.”
“This is ungodly primitive.”
“By your technological standards, yes. But a good warrior adapts. Are you a good warrior, Samuel?”
“I’m fucking fantastic,” the man growled through clenched jaws.
“Good, because I’ve been looking forward to testing you.” Golsat held out his hand and the quartermaster placed a longsword in his palm. The gargoyle spun the heavy weapon with ease and delicacy.
“Let’s go, Pebbles,” Samuel muttered.
Golsat inclined his head and turned on his bare heel. Samuel followed him out as soon as the quartermaster helped him buckle on the breastplate and vambraces.
Under the glare of the tropical sun, the sand’s heat traveled through the leather soles of Samuel’s boots. He hefted the sword, testing its balance and weight.
“It’s just a big knife,” he told himself. “Think KA-BAR, just bigger.”
That seemed to help.
“Attack when ready,” Golsat invited as Samuel circled him. “You can’t hurt me.”
Samuel muttered imprecations about rock, paper, and scissors and lunged when the opportunity seemed ripe. The gargoyle moved with incredible lightness and speed, blocked the blow, and parried hard enough to knock the sword from the human’s grip.
“Again.”
Samuel picked up the sword and tried again. And again. And again. He quickly realized the gargoyle toyed with him, tested him. Experienced at combat, Samuel did not forsake his concentration to annoyance or anger, but used the emotions to strengthen him. However, his recent state as an invalid had taken a toll on his strength and stamina. All too soon, sweat streamed down his skin and plastered his short hair to his scalp. His lungs heaved like bellows. His muscles trembled with exhaustion. Samuel knew when to quit or risk relapse. He dropped the sword and shook his head. No, the sword bore no resemblance to his missing KA-BAR.
“No more.”
“This afternoon you will spar hand-to-hand with Sin’clannad’s husband. He is a fine, human warrior.”
Samuel looked at the gargoyle without speaking and wondered how the heavy stone male could move with such lightness and agility and speed and endure the crushing heat of the sun. Then he remonstrated with himself for so readily accepting the new reality of animated stone and magic.
“Tomorrow morning, you shall meet me here to continue your instruction with the sword. You show promise, young Samuel.”
Samuel nodded, sweat dripping from his chin, and thought, “Aye aye, Pebbles.”
He knew better than to say that aloud. A good soldier or sailor recognized superior authority when it saw it.
He groaned as he bent down to retrieve the sword. Returning the blunted weapon and the dented, scratched armor to the quartermaster who directed him to the baths, Samuel took a moment to reflect on his progress. He did not notice the silver gaze that watched and evaluated him from a shaded spot in the arena seating.
“I hear you sparred in the arena today,” Corinne commented at supper that evening.
Samuel looked up, as did the Merogis sisters.
“I did,” he replied, rolling shoulders that ached from the afternoon bout with a human opponent. He resisted the urge to squirm under a disapproving gaze that looked altogether too much like their mother’s. “Golsat invited me.”
Her brow creased with worry. “Do you think you should engage in such strenuous activity so soon?”
Samuel relaxed, realizing that Corinne only fretted for his good health. “I need to exercise, Sis. Lying about won’t rebuild my strength, and I don’t want my skills to get rusty.”
Doe eyes round with wonder and admiration, Ari’valia asked, “Are you a mighty warrior then?”
He smiled. “I’m a Navy SEAL, princess.”
She frowned. “I am not a princess.”
“It’s a word of … of …”
“It’s a term of endearment,” Corinne explained in the girl’s own language.
Ari’valia beamed at him. Corinne snickered.
Samuel began to meet Golsat every morning for continuing instruction in swordsmanship and found himself popular every afternoon for sparring in hand-to-hand combat. Even as he taught Uberon’s soldiers the mixed martial arts he knew—a brutal combination of krav maga, the system, jiu-jitsu, taekwondo, karate, and kung fu—he learned from them. Focused on the sessions in the arena, he did not notice for some time the audience that gathered.
“He’s quite good, isn’t he?” Corinne murmured as she watched him parry Golsat’s strike.
“He’s a bit weak on the left.” Uberon turned to face her disgruntled frown and grinned. “Yes, he’s very good.”
“Hah. Don’t humor me. If you’re such an expert, you go down there and spar with him.”
Seeing an opportunity to impress his mate, Uberon agreed. “I’ll arrange the match for tomorrow morning when he’s rested and fresh.”
“Humph.”
He appreciated the sway of her hips as she walked away from him.
Sitting on his other side, Golsat murmured in a dry tone, “She’s never seen you fight, has she?”
Uberon chuckled. “Either way, I win. She’ll either be impressed with my prowess or she’ll want to soothe my bruised ego.”
Golsat laughed. “I look forward to the day when I can enjoy such attentions from my mate.”
The king’s humor disappeared. “That is not for several years yet.”
“I can wait. Stone is patient.”
The next morning brought packed seating, a rare overcast sky, and the delicious sight of the Quoliálfur king wearing nothing but a leather battle kilt. The locks of hair framing his face had been braided and pulled back. His towering figure of lean, defined muscle drew admiration from both male and female members of the audience. He held a long saber in a loose grip and waited for his young opponent.
Samuel allowed none of his surprise to show at the proud display of silver and black diamonds that draped across his opponent’s chest, ran over his shoulders, and dipped low down his back. The clouds parted just enough to allow a ray of sunshine to envelope the imposing male and set the silv
er and jewels ablaze. Unaccustomed to seeing such a blatant display, the spectators buzzed with awe.
Uberon, did you do that?
Do what?
Part the clouds so you lit up like a Christmas tree. Corinne forebore to mention how the blatant display impressed her. Knowing her mate, he probably picked up on it anyway.
Do you have any idea how heavy clouds are?
Seated in the stands, Corinne sighed and accepted that Uberon had no intention of answering her question, which indicated that he probably manipulated the weather—but in whose favor?
He will not suffer defeat because the sun blinded him.
You’re very sure he’ll lose. My brother’s a Navy SEAL. Do you know what that means?
I’m one of the three most powerful fae in this world with over a hundred thousand years of practice with the sword. Do you know what that means?
Don’t kill him, Uberon. He’s my brother.
I have no intention of killing him. But a little humiliation wouldn’t go amiss.
“No armor?” Samuel, unaware of the mind-to-mind conversation between his sister and her mate, observed aloud as he checked the fit of the vambraces and greaves protecting his forearms and shins.
“I won’t need it.”
“Even a blunted sword will cut.”
“Then I shall enjoy your sister’s tender care.” Uberon grinned with unadulterated male anticipation.
Samuel frowned, not liking the allusion of his sister’s intimate relations with the intimidating man facing him. Or any man, really. He spat into the sand and said, “No magic.”
“Of course, not.” Uberon turned his body, raised his blade, and his other hand. “En garde.”
Samuel positioned himself.
“Attack when ready,” the king invited.
Samuel waited a few seconds, gauging the king’s stance, his hold on the sword, his attitude. Feeling he had the fae’s measure, he struck.
With an ease that smacked of nonchalance, Uberon parried the blow and taunted, “Is that the best you’ve got?”
“Just testing,” Samuel answered. With economy of motion rather than fancy flourishes, the SEAL gave it his best. Within seconds, he realized that the fae toyed with him. None of his strikes landed anywhere near the smooth bare skin of his opponent whose sword licked in and out with blinding quickness and accuracy. Soon his body bore stinging nicks and welts from the blunted edge. Harder blows dented his armor and left bruises beneath. He redoubled his efforts to no avail.
Then the point of Uberon’s blade hovered at his throat.
“Do you yield, Samuel?” the king inquired in an urbane tone.
Samuel swallowed, the bulge of his Adam’s apple grazing the metal. His chest heaved with every harsh lungful of air. Recognizing the king outclassed him as a swordsman, he opened his fist and dropped the sword.
“I yield.”
The sword’s point withdrew and Uberon took a step back. “You’ve become quite good. Swear fealty to me.”
“I gave my oath to serve my country.”
“That vow means nothing here. You cannot return there, so you honor an oath that no longer has value.”
Samuel lifted burning eyes to the king’s and said, “I am a free man, no one’s subject.”
“You served one country and its laws. It is no longer your country. Why not serve Quoliálfur?”
“Who would be my commanding officer?”
“Golsat. He thinks you eminently suitable for the palace guard.”
“To stand around all day in livery? I don’t think so.”
“Do you so despise the Swiss Guard in your world’s Vatican City?”
“Of course not.”
“Then consider my palace guard the same as that Swiss Guard. The palace guard are the elite warriors of Quoliálfur. I would entrust the safety of your sister—my mate—to the protection of none other than the best I have to offer.”
Not really understanding the whole “mate” thing, Samuel bowed to destiny. “All right, then.”
Uberon chuckled, the sound low and not cruel. “Not the most enthusiastic reception I could hope for, but it will do.”
“I don’t renege on my promises.”
“I know,” the king agreed, not mentioning that he’d dipped into Samuel’s mind for such certainty.
“If I ever return to my world, that oath takes precedence.”
“Of course.”
“Then, yes, I’ll swear loyalty to Quoliálfur.”
Uberon did not miss the careful phrasing, but neither did he remark upon it. He had other incentives to bind the warrior to him. He looked into the stands, gaze drawn to his mate wearing deep gold silk. The Merogis sisters sat with her, the fabric of their colorful dresses rippling in the tropical breeze. Samuel’s gaze followed the king’s and he nodded in acknowledgment, but did not wave.
“You think yourself disgraced,” Uberon commented.
“You beat me.”
“I’ve had a lot more practice than you.”
“You look younger than me.”
“A benefit of immortal youth.”
“That’s absurd.”
“If you say.” Uberon looked up into the stands again, then back at Samuel. “Kneel.”
“What?”
“Kneel. If you would swear fealty to Quoliálfur, then kneel.”
Samuel nodded and, with a grunt, knelt. He clenched his jaw against the pain of sand grinding into the nicks on his knees and the stinging salt of sweat.
“Repeat after me.”
Samuel nodded and repeated Uberon’s words, “I promise on my faith that I will be faithful to the kingdom of Quoliálfur, now ruled by Uberon, King of Quoliálfur, and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”
“I accept your oath of loyalty and service,” Uberon replied. “Thus you are bound to Quoliálfur and its crown by witness of the sky, the sea, the mountain, and all who live to hear it.”
Samuel gasped as a feeling like a heavy cloak settled over his body, weighing him down. He felt the cooling, drying touch of a breeze then the slide of fine linen and leather over his skin.
“Rise, Lieutenant Samuel of the royal guard of Quoliálfur.”
Samuel blinked, mind stuttering at the magic he’d just experienced. From soiled, sweat-soaked, and mildly injured, he stood refreshed, healed, and clothed in a guard’s uniform. A delighted squeal from the audience drew his attention.
“Ari’valia is yours, if you want to take her to wife.”
Samuel’s surprised gaze flew to Uberon’s. He gulped, because he could not deny the desire he felt when he looked upon her. However, her youth contrasted sharply against his years and experience which rendered him older than his true age of thirty-two. “She’s too young.”
“She’s of marriageable age and it appears she wants you.”
“If I marry her, you know I won’t leave her.”
“I know. But she will make your life here much more enjoyable.”
“If I have the chance to go home, I’ll take her and Corinne with me.”
That didn’t phase the king either.
“If Ari’valia consents to accompany you, I will allow it; however, Corinne stays with me.”
Samuel met the king’s eyes, solid silver with slitted black pupils. He noted the elongated, pointy-tipped ears. He glanced aside at the obviously inhuman gargoyles with the dull gleam of their stone hides reflecting the sunshine. A good soldier or sailor learned one crucial lesson in service: embrace the suck. He’d always prided himself on being an excellent sailor, the best of the Navy SEALs. That mean he needed to embrace the suck, accept the circumstances, and adapt. Now.
Samuel looked back into the arena seating and knew that, even still in many cultures around the modern world, guardians settled young girls upon men without thought for those girls’ preferences. He at least liked Ari’valia and she appeared to enjoy his company. Successful marriages throughout history had
been based on less.
“Aye. I’ll care for her.”
“You shall wed tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Sam echoed, dismayed at the squeak in his voice.
“No need to waste time; you humans have so little of it,” Uberon murmured. Then, to disconcert the man even more, he leaned forward and said, “You are what she needs.”
“I feel like I’m robbing the cradle,” Sam muttered.
Uberon ignored his misgivings. “You’ll need a crest for the noble House you will establish.”
Accepting his fate and adapting to it, Samuel smiled and thought of the eagle, anchor, and trident of the Navy SEALS. “I already have one.”
CHAPTER 24
Corinne hugged her brother and the young woman who was now her sister. She looked at the other Merogis sisters and realized that the futures of each had been settled. She was no longer responsible for their well-being. The realization engendered mixed feelings of satisfaction and melancholy. She wondered if, perhaps, she would feel like that with her own children if she and Uberon ever had any. That thought led to whether he even wanted children, especially since he had lost his son.
“I will welcome and cherish any child we may have,” he reassured her, although she’d said nothing. He cupped her shoulders, palms resting lightly upon her as the wedding party made their way to the great hall where the wedding banquet would be served.
“You’re reading my thoughts again.”
“Only those you broadcast.”
She sighed and supposed she couldn’t blame him for “overhearing” her loudest thoughts.
“I look forward to the procreation, whether we produce a child or not,” he whispered into her ear. The warm, velvety timbre of his voice sent shivers of desire up and down her spine and well he knew it. He inhaled, nostrils flaring. “You’re ready for me.”
“Always,” she murmured in agreement as his fingers tightened over her bare skin. Again, the gown he chose for her bared the extent of the soul bond made manifest. Upon seeing her exposed thusly, Samuel had pressed his lips together in a thin line of disapproval. He much preferred she dress more modestly, although he acknowledged that his opinion no longer held primary influence over her sartorial choices. She hadn’t the courage to admit that her mate chose her gowns.
