Sword's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  “I’d let you slap her, but Lord Varthan said unharmed. You can have a turn later. If he sees a mark on her, you know you’ll regret it.”

  Markus growled and brandished a fist.

  Cera grinned. He looked like a child about ready to stomp his foot. She didn’t regret maiming him one bit. She could use his anger as a weapon against him later, especially since it appeared to be linked to his magic.

  He took a deep breath. Snatching his sword, he shoved it into its sheath, his free fist clenched at his side. The glow of his skin started to dim.

  “Take her other weapons, at least,” Markus ordered.

  She uttered a protest when Varthan’s son searched her and stripped her of her dirk and bow; more of a groping than a patting down; the gleam in Athas’s dark eyes told her he’d intended it, the bastard. Unfazed by her low growl, he flashed a smile. It made him appear handsome and harmless—far from the truth.

  Narrowing her eyes, Cera said nothing. Since he’d been the voice of reason thus far, she saw no reason to make him as angry as Markus was, or she wouldn’t make it to Varthan unharmed.

  Markus grabbed her right biceps, yanking her away from the wall, and Cera felt the tip of a sword in her back as the other shade fell in behind them.

  If she had to wager a guess, she’d bet was being prodded with her own weapon. “Get going,” Markus barked.

  Cera started down the corridor without further protest, biting back a smile.

  So far, things were going as planned.

  Could she hold onto the upper hand?

  Chapter Nineteen

  The elaborate double doors to the great hall of Castle Lenore opened.

  A slow smile spread across Varthan’s lips as Markus and Athas led the little Ryhan bitch into the vast room. He shot a look to where Lenore lay, but the man was still unconscious.

  Varthan had time to play with her.

  “We have her, my lord.” Athas tossed a sword, dagger, a quiver full of arrows and bow to the floor in a pile.

  Athas had been with Varthan longer than any other shade. Too bad the boy couldn’t understand or appreciate what that said about him; but then again, Athas had no idea he was Varthan’s bastard son.

  It was a wonder, because the boy looked just like him. They had the same black hair and dark eyes, facial structure; they were the same height and build.

  Shame Varthan couldn’t claim him. He preferred Athas to any of his legitimate sons. The lot of them were pawns of the king, just as their mothers had been.

  He hadn’t had much luck with wives either. Hadn’t taken a fourth after killing each of the previous three. Varthan hadn’t been named murderer by his wives’ families or anyone in the King’s Court, but Varthan did hate to have to play the grieved widower. Quite a point in favor of sticking to whores.

  Nodding at his son, Varthan glanced at the sword. Disappointment flooded him. It wasn’t the magic sword.

  Glaring at the little bitch, he rose from Lenore’s ornate chair.

  Varthan looked the girl up and down.

  Very attractive.

  Her dark red hair was long and curly, and she was looking at him with lovely rage-filled gray eyes. She had high cheekbones and even though her mouth was currently an angry tight line, her lips were plump. She had a nice curve to her hips, and long, long legs. Her leather jerkin didn’t adequately hide her full breasts, either.

  Perhaps he’d see if she was as sweet as her sister.

  Tall, too. Both Athas and Markus were several inches over six feet, yet her head was above their shoulders.

  She was struggling to keep her emotions in check, her body shaking, seething; her expression full of disgust at his perusal.

  Oh, how I’ll enjoy our time together.

  Dagonet entered the great hall, distracting him.

  Varthan looked at him, and the boy nodded and strode to stand next to Lucan.

  He scowled.

  But he couldn’t allow anything to bother him; nothing mattered right now but his sword.

  ****

  Cera gritted her teeth to keep from showing a reaction to the painful grips on her upper arms. She could feel Markus’s rage to her right, his hold on her was much tighter than that of the other shade.

  This was what she’d wanted; the way it had to be.

  I will endure.

  Markus grinned and stepped in front of her. He nodded to Athas, who released her arm and took a step back.

  Grimacing, she braced herself for anything.

  Markus grabbed her face and slammed his lips into hers.

  She made her mouth a firm hard line as he tightened his fingers on her face and tried to force his tongue inside.

  Cera wished she could vomit on command.

  When Markus squeezed her right breast painfully, she struggled and stomped on his foot.

  Yelping, Markus raised a hand to strike her.

  “Enough,” Varthan roared. “Seize her. Now.”

  Though his eyes promised violence, Markus said nothing. His skin was glowing ever so slightly.

  Both shades resumed their previous positions, holding her upright between them.

  Cera didn’t struggle.

  “I will get you, bitch,” Markus whispered in her ear.

  Varthan didn’t notice, or chose to ignore the tow-headed shade.

  She didn’t react, but fantasized about how good it would feel to run the shade through. The slash on his arm wasn’t enough.

  Cera should’ve gutted him.

  Sneering, Varthan stood on the dais in front of the head table. “Where is the sword?”

  “I lost it.” Cera prayed her voice was steady.

  Before she could even blink, the former archduke strode down and backhanded her.

  Cera reeled, and both shades had to take a step back to keep them all on their feet.

  “Impertinent bitch,” Varthan said in a deadly low tone, shoving his face in hers. “Athas?”

  “She lies, milord.”

  “I could have surmised as much. Any other clues?” Sarcasm dripped from Varthan’s tone.

  The shade on Cera’s left winced and shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening.

  She bit the inside of her mouth to stave off a wince. Her cheek smarted, her head pounded from Varthan’s slap, but she banished tears.

  “Lucan.” Varthan gestured with his hand, his gaze locked with hers.

  “Then why bother asking him?” Cera drawled.

  He slapped her again, harder than the first time.

  Her head lolled back and she fought the blackness creeping in from the corners of her vision. She blinked, forcing her eyes to remain open. Both cheeks burned now.

  Steeling herself, Cera built the strongest walls in her mind she could. The next assault would be magical.

  Looking the boy over as he took a timid step forward, Cera could sense his hesitance, and offered a smile.

  A smile?

  When he was about to attack her?

  When the boy’s eyes widened and he looked away, Cera wanted to make him feel better. Wanted him to know she didn’t blame him. Although she could tell he was powerful, she wasn’t afraid of him.

  Odd.

  This shade was the greatest threat, even according to Aunt Em.

  Had Cera finally lost it?

  She should be shaking before him.

  Varthan grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked him forward. “Probe her mind. Tell me where the sword is.”

  “My sword is right there, where it was tossed when I was disarmed.” Cera cringed at the look Varthan shot her. She braced herself for another slap, but he didn’t hit her.

  “Yes, milord,” the boy answered, as if she’d not spoken.

  ****

  Tristan gritted his teeth as Varthan continued to pummel Lady Ryhan. He wanted to thought-send to her, but Markus would pick it up, especially standing so close.

  He wanted to pound Markus i
nto the ground for the kiss and rough handling. The healer vowed when all was revealed, he’d kill the shade so Lady Ryhan wouldn’t have to. Tristan had seen the rage in her eyes; had she had a weapon, Markus wouldn’t be breathing right now.

  Looking at Lucan, he prayed the boy would lie and get away with it if the youngest shade discovered where the sword was.

  Athas could detect lies with his gift, but if Lucan could convince himself he was telling the truth, it’d be harder for Athas to detect. And Varthan would never suspect Lucan of lying to him.

  She’d turned herself in.

  There was no other explanation for Markus and Athas dragging Lady Ceralda Ryhan right to Varthan.

  What the hell was she playing at?

  Instinct told him everything she’d done was with a purpose, but what?

  Where the hell is her wolf?

  Bondmates were always together.

  Tristan hoped for the Blessed Spirit’s sake he could maintain his cover and keep her alive. There was no way he could fail to act if Varthan actually tried to kill her. Or . . . rape her.

  He’d flattened himself against the corridor wall and witnessed the tail end of her sword fight with Markus. Saw the girl slash Markus’s arm, when she could’ve easily killed him.

  Lady Ryhan fought like a man.

  Her weapon had not been the broadsword used by many a knight, but it’d been the perfect size for her and she’d used it well, with practiced ability.

  “I sense nothing, milord,” Lucan whispered.

  Tristan winced as Varthan backhanded the lad. He flew sprawling to the ground before the healer could even soften his fall.

  “Nothing?” Varthan roared. “Get. Up. Now.”

  Lucan whimpered, earning a glare.

  “Must you beat on a child?” Lady Ryhan asked, her tone equaling Varthan’s.

  She needed to stop goading him before he really hurt her. Tristan would be ordered to heal any damage Varthan inflicted, but if she kept her mouth shut, her silence would go a long way.

  He had to admire the way she stood tall as Varthan towered over her and smacked her face for the third time, but her lack of reaction infuriated the man all the more.

  “Tell me where the sword is. You only have yourself to blame for my rage against the boy.”

  Lady Ryhan laughed.

  Tristan closed his eyes, sucking back a gasp as Varthan’s hand slammed into her face for the fourth time.

  She slumped, unconscious, in Markus and Athas’s hold.

  “Dagonet, make her wake up. Now,” Varthan barked, without even looking in his direction.

  Tristan hurried over, looking at the two shades. “You have to let her go.”

  He could thought-send to her during healing and it’d remain undetected by all but Lucan, disguised by his healing magic. Blocking his words was no problem, but the lad wouldn’t give him away to Varthan, even if he didn’t hide his words.

  Gently, Tristan pulled Lady Ryhan into his arms and laid her across his lap as he squatted down. Even unconscious, her beauty was stunning, and he’d soon rid of her of the bruises the bastard had inflicted. Brushing a dark red curl from her forehead, Tristan winced at Varthan’s damage. Both high cheekbones were stained and swollen.

  Tristan cupped her face, concentrating on healing and willing her to awaken. His forehead beaded with sweat and his limbs tingled, but he didn’t have to use as much effort as if she’d been cut.

  Closing wounds was more complicated; bruises never sapped as much of his strength.

  His skin began to glow, and his hands warmed as his magic began to work.

  As soon as she blinked gray eyes at him, Tristan smiled. He had to move quickly. Stop intentionally angering him, he’ll be more brutal because of it. I promise I will get you out of this.

  Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  Good. He couldn’t chance telling her more. Tristan reluctantly relinquished her to Markus and Athas.

  Lady Ryhan’s gaze burned him.

  Tristan wished he could explain everything. He’d have to hope she’d be sharp enough to catch on when it was time to make a move.

  Taking a moment, Tristan healed the cut on Markus’s arm. The other shade gave him a nod when it was done. Then Tristan forced a deep breath as dizziness threatened to overcome him. Rushing his magic always made his head reel. He took a few more breaths, stepping away slowly.

  “Ah, the shade who will help prolong my misery,” Lady Ryhan drawled.

  Tristan, still struggling on his feet, looked away from her and the jibe. The constant state of exhaustion lately was taking its toll on his body and his magic. Widening his stance, he crossed his arms over his chest, sweat dripping from the bridge of his nose. Tristan prayed he’d regain his strength in a moment as his pulse thundered in his temples. He should’ve taken his time with Markus’s arm.

  Or not healed the bastard at all.

  Varthan let out a malicious laugh. “That’s the beauty of it, Lady Ryhan,” he said, making her name and title a slur. “I can bring you to the brink of death, yet pull you back at a whim . . . my whim.”

  “Oh . . . you frighten me so.” She arched one delicate eyebrow.

  Tristan winced as Varthan’s hand connected with her face yet again. Why hadn’t she heeded him?

  Perhaps she did have a death wish.

  Her lip split open and the lady winced. Blood trailed down her chin.

  “You will be more than frightened,” Varthan said, nose to nose with her, tone deadly.

  Lady Ryhan shuddered. She grimaced at the smile that spread across the former archduke’s thin lips.

  The bastard was already getting off on her reaction to him. He liked it best when women fought him so he could bend them to his will.

  Swallowing a growl, Tristan planted his feet and chided himself to calm down. He couldn’t be discovered.

  Varthan caressed her face, and she jerked away, but he gripped her chin and dragged her face back to his. “You are quite beautiful.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she ordered, tone shaky for the first time as her shoulders trembled. She locked her legs together.

  Tristan’s stomach churned.

  He wanted to kill Varthan on the spot.

  Lady Ryhan spit in Varthan’s face.

  The evil man gave a scream of rage. Varthan punched her, closed-fist to her face.

  Lady Ryhan and the two shades were thrown backward from the force of the bastard’s violence. In a pile of limbs on the floor, his mentor’s daughter was the only one who didn’t move. Neither shade said anything; they just returned to their feet and began to brush themselves off.

  Tristan rushed to her without an order from Varthan. Her neck was at an odd angle. He needed to heal her, now.

  He couldn’t heal the dead.

  Not bothering to pull her into his arms, he knelt by her side.

  Her face was covered in blood, nose broken.

  Tristan looked up at Varthan, who gave a curt nod as he wiped her bloody spittle away with a silk handkerchief.

  Good. Hope she got her blood in his eyes.

  Laying both hands on her neck, Tristan’s breath exit in a rush.

  Not broken.

  She’d be all right, but mending a broken nose wasn’t much different than a broken bone. It’d take a great deal of energy.

  Closing his eyes to concentrate, he paused, still a bit woozy. Sweat bathed Tristan’s face and neck; his chest burned as he struggled to hold himself together enough to heal Lady Ryhan. A jumble of emotions washed over him.

  It’d do no good for him to pass out as well.

  Tristan took a deep breath, calling to his magic. The familiar warmth greeted his extremities as his healing-touch took over. Without opening his eyes, he knew his skin was glowing brightly, increasing with his exertion.

  Minutes felt like hours, but the cartilage of her nose moved back into place. At least Lady Ryhan wouldn’t look l
ike it’d been broken. Her beauty wouldn’t be permanently marred. Little or no scarring was a benefit of the healing-touch.

  Tristan helped her sit up as she opened her eyes and he wiped as much of the blood from her face as he could.

  I’m sorry, Lady Ryhan thought-sent, meeting his eyes.

  Her strong voice in Tristan’s head took him off guard, but he didn’t react as he pulled her to her feet.

  Athas grabbed her by the arms and threw her into a chair Markus had removed from the dais. The other two shades had obviously not enjoyed being a buffer to their master’s blows.

  Tristan shot a look at Varthan, who said nothing about their decision.

  “Tie her down,” Varthan barked.

  “I’ll do it,” Tristan offered. He tied the best knots.

  No one offered a comment, let alone an argument. He could make it so her bindings could be easily exited and without being questioned, or the adjustment being noticed.

  Shooting Lucan a look, Tristan silently promised he’d heal the giant bruise that was already forming on the boy’s face as soon as Varthan’s back was turned.

  The lad studied his small boots as he stood silently at the master’s side, forlornly waiting for the next order.

  I’ve made it so you can pull out of the rope when the time is right. Don’t struggle against the bindings and it’ll go unnoticed, Tristan told Lady Ryhan as he wrapped thick ropes around her slender wrists at the back of the ornate chair.

  He’d taken a chance with the thought-send, but he needed her to sit still. One glance at Markus told him he had gotten away with it for now.

  Who are you?

  Hiding his surprise at her response, Tristan met her eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. He couldn’t risk answering her any other way.

  Markus could be sharper than expected at times.

  Even without another word, Lady Ryhan’s expression told him she understood.

  “Get away from her. She is secured,” Varthan ordered.

  Tristan didn’t even look at the man as he obeyed.

  Resting a hand on Lucan’s shoulder as Varthan took a step toward the girl, Tristan took the opportunity to heal the boy.

  When it was done Lucan looked up at him, thanks written on his young face. One corner of the youngest shade’s mouth lifted.