Paladin

by Sally Slater

  “Give up!” someone shouted.

  No. Gritting her teeth, Sam clamped her ankles and forearms around the stone and squeezed with everything she had. As she straightened, the stone inched off the ground. She pinched her legs together and re-bent her knees, forming a shelf. Taking a moment to center herself, she adjusted her grip and then pulled back explosively.

  It was up.

  She staggered forward, first with her right foot, then with her left. Her entire body screamed at her to stop, to quit, to let go of the weight. She pushed on, moving so slowly she was hardly moving at all.

  It might have taken her an unreasonably long time, but her grip was sure and her feet kept plodding, and eventually, she made it. She dropped the stone with a sigh of relief and returned to her place in line.

  Braeden was the last to go. Every trainee had been heckled during their turn, but the insults hurled at him went far beyond good-natured ribbing. Braeden, however, didn’t so much as acknowledge their presence. Sam supposed whispers of demon and monster followed him everywhere. He was probably used to it.

  He lifted the first stone as though it were no heavier than a pebble, hefting it up onto his shoulder and holding it in place with one hand. Only when he got to the ninth stone did he resort to using both arms, and even then, he made it look easy.

  By the Gods, thought Sam, he’s going to get the tenth stone.

  The courtyard was silent as Braeden crouched behind the boulder of a stone that had foiled all of them. When he wrapped his arms around its girth, his hands didn’t meet. He rocked back on his heels and then shot up, the stone tucked under his chin. Without any obvious effort, he completed the two hundred paces to Paladin Rendon and back.

  “Demon,” a voice hissed into the quiet. No one else said anything.

  He should have stopped at the ninth, Sam thought, or at least feigned some difficulty on the tenth. The other boys didn’t need any more reason to hate him, and from the sour look on his face, Paladin Savage was no warmer to the idea of a half-demon in their midst than the trainees.

  Then again, were she in his shoes, would she not have done the same?

  After the early morning’s strength training, the trainees were separated into smaller groups. Sam and two dozen others went with Tristan, while Braeden stayed with Paladin Savage. Though she and Tristan hadn’t exactly clicked, she didn’t envy Braeden.

  Tristan brought Sam’s group to the inner ward of the fortress, a flat, grassy enclosure surrounded by four curtain walls. “All right, lads, line up,” he ordered. The trainees shuffled till they stood in a single line, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Good, good,” he said, taking their measure. “You lads look like a sturdy lot—” he paused, his gaze honing in on Sam “—for the most part.”

  Her hands clenched into fists. So much for the benevolent hero from her memories. This Paladin Lyons was a real louse.

  He continued, “Now, today’s just a warm up, boys, before the real work begins. I want to see what you’ve got. Grab a practice blade from over there”—Tristan pointed to a barrel full of wooden swords—“and find a partner.”

  There was an odd number of trainees, and to no one’s surprise, including her own, it was Sam who was left without a partner. She’d expected as much: by a woman’s standards, her arms were full and muscular, but next to Tristan and the other trainees, she looked pathetic and scrawny. There was no honor in fighting a weakling like her.

  So what if they thought her weak? She’d proven herself at the stone carry and she’d prove herself again with a sword.

  Tristan looked heavenwards and sighed. “I suppose there’s no hope for it then.” He tapped her on the shoulder with the flat of his sword. “Hello, partner.”

  Sam felt a grin tug at her lips; that he deigned to spar with her was a victory in and of itself. What better opportunity to prove herself than to best the Paladins’ finest swordsman? But she hid her excitement, inclining her head in an almost-bow. “You honor me.”

  Tristan didn’t seem impressed by her humble act. “Drop the practice sword, Sam.”

  What, had he already changed his mind? Her face fell. “Excuse me?”

  “Drop the sword. When you practice with me, I want you to use a real blade.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I get to use a real Paladin’s sword?”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “For now,” he said. “Take this.” He unstrapped a sheathed sword from his hip and tossed it to her.

  Sam tugged the sword free from its sheath. Up close, the weapon was even more spectacular than she’d imagined. The silver of the steel gleamed in the sun as she twisted it this way and that, and she ran her fingers along the Paladins’ sigil, deeply etched into the pommel. It was the finest sword she’d ever had the privilege to hold.

  “Are you crying?” asked Tristan, his expression aghast.

  “N-no!” she sputtered, her cheeks reddening. She was a little overwrought, that was all.

  Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy sigh. “All right, Sam, let’s get this over with. First to draw blood wins. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

  “I will, if you do the same,” she shot back, before she could think better of it.

  Tristan’s mouth twisted. “Don’t talk that way to your betters, boy.”

  A loud snort escaped her nose. She clamped her hands over her face, but it was too late. Tristan had clearly heard her.

  Tristan made a strangled noise. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, after he’d calmed down enough to speak. “You win, and I’ll let you keep that sword. If I win, you take a vow of silence for the rest of the day.”

  Sam had her own fair share of arrogance, but she wasn’t fool enough to believe her swordsmanship equal to that of a paladin. Not yet, anyway. And yet she found herself saying, “It’s a deal.” She could hold her tongue if she needed to.

  “Do I have your word on that?” he asked after a short pause.

  Sam placed her hand over her heart.

  Tristan slid his own sword free from its scabbard. “On my mark.” He lifted his blade with a single-handed grip and gave her a definitive nod.

  They’d begun.

  Sam watched him warily. She’d have to attack first; if she had any hope of winning she’d have to rely on the element of surprise.

  She lunged forward . . . and promptly tripped.

  His free hand shot out to steady her. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was full of concern, but his dancing blue eyes betrayed his amusement.

  Her skin heated with embarrassment. “I’m fine.” Gathering the remnants of her pride, she straightened and plucked his hand from her elbow. She backed up a fair distance, and then she raised the hilt of her sword to her temple, her thumb curved under the blade. Ready, she signaled with a jerk of her head.

  “This is pointless,” Tristan muttered, but he readjusted his feet and weapon into a proper stance.

  Careful not to trip over her own feet a second time, Sam crept forward in small stutter steps. As soon as she was within range, she lashed out with her sword, aiming for Tristan’s shoulder. His blade met hers before she could see him move his arm. The force of his parry shook her hand to elbow, but she didn’t lose her grip.

  She struck again, harder this time. He deflected her swing effortlessly, as though she were attacking with a willow switch.

  Damn it. She’d put her full weight into that blow.

  Sam shuffled back, raising her weapon high above her head, the cross-guard cocked toward one ear. With a shout, Sam rotated the sword down with all her strength, hoping to throw Tristan off balance. Steel clanged against steel, but to her it felt like beating a stick against a stone wall.

  Not one to give up, Sam swung at Tristan with a vicious chop. She tried every posture, every technique, every trick she’d learned: she thrust, she struck, she doubled, she feinted. She thwacked at his sword till the front of her shirt was soaked with sweat and she was panting for breath.

  Tristan appeared to be
unfazed. Bored, even.

  Bastard.

  “Stop smirking and attack already!” she snapped. That his skill so significantly outclassed hers rankled, but his patronizing behavior irritated her more.

  Tristan made a great show of sighing. “I am yours to command,” he said with mocking deference.

  His hand tightened around the grip of his sword and he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.

  It was over before she could blink.

  Dumbfounded, she stared at her empty hands. Her precious sword lay in the grass, well out of reach. Tristan had disarmed her with a single stroke.

  Gods, how mortifying.

  “You lost,” he said bluntly. A nicer man would have commended her for her efforts, but whatever Tristan’s virtues, nice wasn’t one of them.

  That suited Sam just fine. Not only had he disarmed her, he’d done her pride serious injury. False platitudes would have been salt in the wound.

  It wasn’t that she had believed she could win, but she had thought she could fare better. She’d expected to put Tristan on the defensive once or twice, to make him work to earn his victory. She’d wanted to show him she was more than just some ninnyhammered noble who’d joined the Paladins on a lark. She’d wanted to impress him.

  Instead, he probably thought she was a fool. And maybe she was a fool. Who was she, Lady Samantha of Haywood, to think she was worthy of the Paladins?

  “You know,” Tristan said, intruding on her self-pity, “your technique isn’t half bad.”

  The compliment was just backhanded enough to ring true. “It’s not?”

  “Aye, your form is decent, if basic. Where you fall short is strength and speed. You have no power behind your sword, though I suppose for your size you have more than most.” He clapped her on the shoulder, offering her a faint smile. “Well fought, Haywood.”

  You could have knocked her over with a feather. “Th—thank you,” she said, thoroughly confused. “What about our bet?”

  “Oh, aye, that’s right,” Tristan said, as though he’d forgotten all about it. “Best find yourself some parchment and a quill.”

  Her shoulders sagged. Whoever said the pen was mightier than the sword had never met Tristan.

  CHAPTER 4

  Braeden pinned the dragonfly to the ground with his dagger and watched with mild interest as it struggled against the thin blade. The dragonfly had only three wings, two on its right side and one on its left. He felt little sympathy for the three-winged anomaly; its four-winged brethren would never have found themselves in such a predicament. He removed the dagger from its wing, but before it could launch itself into the air, he slit the dragonfly from abdomen to thorax.

  Braeden scowled at the insect carcass. With his one pathetic enemy now dead, he was insufferably bored.

  He propped up his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his hands, watching the other trainees trade blows. Paladin Savage wove in an out, murmuring encouragements and chastisements in tandem. From afar, the paladin’s catlike grace reminded Braeden of his former master. But the similarities ended there.

  Braeden didn’t know why he’d expected the Paladins to be different from anyone else. They listed neither virtue nor tolerance among their prerequisites; all a man needed was the ability to kill and the desire to act on it.

  “Demon!” Paladin Savage had advanced on Braeden the moment the trainees had dispersed into smaller groups. He’d even gone so far as to draw his sword.

  Braeden had showed empty palms and backed away slowly, as if from a rabid dog. “You mistake me, Paladin. I’m naught but a trainee.”

  Paladin Savage paused, but did not lower his weapon.

  “Perhaps you know of my paladin? Tristan Lyons?” Braeden looked around at the other trainees, half-hoping one of them would support his story, but they either avoided his gaze or stared at him with revulsion. Not surprising, but annoying just the same.

  He tried again. “I was originally assigned to Paladin Moreau. He’s gone, as you may have heard.”

  Finally, comprehension dawned. “So you’re the reason Moreau left.” The paladin slid his sword back into its sheath. “They should’ve tossed you out instead.”

  Braeden inclined his head. “The High Commander does not share your opinion.”

  “That may be, demon,” Paladin Savage said, “but in the practice yard, I am the law. And I will not teach you.”

  Braeden gritted his teeth. “Fine. Will you inform the High Commander or shall I?”

  Paladin Savage didn’t much like that. “I will permit you to observe the training as a spectator,” he conceded.

  And so here Braeden was, alone and a good ten yards away from the training yard. The black cloth of his robes soaked in the heat of the sun like a sponge, and the warmth made him drowsy. To keep himself awake, he began pricking the tips of his fingers with his dagger, watching the small dots of red form at the surface. Wasteful, his old master would have scolded. Braeden ignored the imaginary rebuke, digging deeper into his skin.

  His grasp on consciousness continued to slip. He hadn’t slept well; he’d spent the better part of the previous night trying to figure out what it was that bothered him about his new roommate. Braeden generally categorized people into one of two buckets: those who feared him and those who wanted him dead. Sam didn’t fit neatly into either bucket, but that wasn’t what set off Braeden’s internal alarms. Something was off about him, in a way Braeden couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “What are you doing?”

  Braeden looked up to find Sam staring at him in horrified fascination. He followed Sam’s gaze to his hand, where his dagger had pricked deep into the skin between his knuckles. Blood pooled in a dark red circle.

  “Sorry,” Braeden said, withdrawing the blade and wiping his hand clean on the grass. Letting his blood was as natural to him as breathing, but it wasn’t a habit he liked to publicize.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  Braeden must be hearing things, because he could have sworn he heard concern in Sam’s voice. He shook his head. “The pain is insignificant. And I heal quickly.”

  Sam reached over and grabbed his wrist, lifting it up to inspect his hand. “Amazing. The cut is already sealed over.”

  Now it was Braeden’s turn to stare. No one ever touched him so casually, not even his old master. Who was this Sam of Haywood?

  Sam flushed a brilliant shade of red, dropping his wrist. “S-sorry,” the boy stammered. “I was curious.”

  Braeden shrugged, hiding his shock. His skin still tingled where Sam had touched him. “Why aren’t you with Paladin Lyons?” he asked, rubbing his wrist.

  “Training ended ages ago,” Sam said, sitting down in the grass directly across from him. “You don’t mind, do you?” Bewildered, Braeden shook his head.

  “Thanks.” Sam shoved a small wrapped bundle between them. “I didn’t see you at the midday meal, so I came to find you. I thought you might be hungry so I nicked a few extra pastries from the kitchens.”

  Braeden had no idea what to make of Sam’s thoughtful gesture. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. He unraveled the handkerchief, revealing three miniature fig pies and a half dozen crispels basted in honey. His mouth watered at the sweet, fruity smell, his stomach growling. He hadn’t even realized he was hungry.

  Sam laughed. It was a soft, husky sound that made Braeden’s spine tingle. “You’re drooling,” Sam said.

  Braeden responded by throwing a crispel at Sam and then wolfing down three himself.

  Once Sam finished licking the last of the honey off his fingers, he asked, “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

  Between bites, Braeden nodded, his curiosity piqued.

  Sam looked down at his lap, his face slowly flaming to red. “I lost to Tristan today.”

  “You do that a lot,” Braeden said.

  “Do what?”

  “Blush.”

  Sam moaned, slapping his hands to his cheeks. “I know, it’s horrible
. It’s the curse of my Gods-forsaken skin. I take after my moth—” He stopped mid-sentence. “Never you mind.”

  “You do know Paladin Lyons is considered the best swordsman among the Paladins, if not the whole of Thule, do you not? It’s no shame to lose to a man like that.”

  Sam slammed his fists on the ground. “The next time we fight, I’m going to win. I’ll defeat him if it kills me.” He heaved a deep sigh. “In the meantime, I shall have to live vicariously through you.”

  “Whatever would you want to do that for?” Braeden asked incredulously. He wouldn’t wish his life on anyone.

  Sam looked at him as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the strongest trainee here.” He flung himself backward onto the grass. “Gods, what I would give to take Tristan down a notch.”

  Sam made quite the picture, one hand over his forehead and the other clutched over his heart. He looked ridiculous, Braeden thought, rubbing at his wrist again. “I have come to the conclusion,” he drawled, “that you are an even stranger duck than I.”

  Sam sat up at that. “Oh no,” he said, once he regained his composure. “No one would ever mistake you for a duck. A cat, maybe, with those eyes, but never a duck.” He grinned, the pink of his tongue peeking out between his teeth.

  Braeden was taken aback, at first, by Sam’s blatant dig at his appearance. But before he could stop it, a low rumble grew in the pit of his stomach till it burst out of him, beyond his control. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound of his mirth carrying across the courtyard.

  “I take it back. You are a strange duck,” Sam said. “Absolutely quacking.” He stood up, brushing remnants of crispel and grass from his breeches before offering Braeden a hand.

  Braeden allowed Sam to pull him to his feet, ignoring the tingling sensation that traveled up his entire arm.

  He wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here.

  CHAPTER 5

  It took Sam a week to gather the courage to join Braeden for breakfast. She wasn’t afraid of his reception so much as the reaction of the other trainees. And sure enough, as soon as she sat down, the entire hall was gossiping about the trainee who dared sit at the half-demon’s table.