by AJ Nuest
Caedmon pursed his lips. Clever, clever girl. “You were saying? Her petition to the king?”
“Oh yes, that.” Fandorn dismissed Caedmon’s interest as if he were swatting a gnat. “She traded some bauble in her possession. Quite surprising, really, considering the king has gold and gemstones to spare. However, once he displayed an interest in the ring, she offered it without hesitation.”
Caedmon collapsed against the seat, his jaw hanging slack. His mother’s ring. She’d traded his mother’s ruby ring for a chance to train with the guard.
Two opposing sides of a battle took up arms in his mind and set to warring. One proud, adoring, in awe of her resourcefulness…the other infuriated beyond all measure.
Blast and damn! Should he wrap her in his arms and kiss her senseless? Or bend her over his knee and apply a sharp smack to her bottom? Mayhap both. His cock twitched in agreement.
“That’s not the last of it, my boy,” Denmar broke into his musings. “Your escape was flawlessly timed. Tomorrow at Apex, she faces her final test.”
Caedmon’s shoulders fell. “What?” Implausible. Only the finest of the guard achieved such an honor, a rarity in its own right. To do as much, she would have had to trounce every man among them—a task he had toiled five seasons to attain.
The dark bruises on young Urich’s face came to mind, the way her entourage followed her slightest command. His stomach sank to the region below his knees. She’d gained their admiration, loyalty, and in return, they set forth the respect due her station.
He shoved up from the chair and paced the room, pinching his bottom lip. Every guard who earned their crest was granted a heavy purse, a parcel of the king’s land and their choice of horses. Once accomplished, she would be free to go where she would, could ride from the castle grounds without hindrance—assuredly her objective since the day Braedric had assaulted her.
Caedmon shook his head. But he could not let her leave. The hazards of such an undertaking were too great.
He stopped in his tracks. “No. She cannot depart the safety and protection of the castle. It’s too dangerous. I will not allow it.”
Denmar sputtered. “Allow what you will, Mistress Rowena comes and goes of her own devising. She has for quite some time.”
“The few who have tried to intervene met up with the sharp ends of her blades,” Fandorn said.
“Or the medicant,” the captain muttered.
Caedmon darted a sharp glance between them, the seeds of a scheme taking root in his mind. “Then we must be crafty. And I believe I know the perfect course.”
Denmar adamantly shook his head, slicing his hands across the space in front of him. “I decline. Should the guards catch wind of a ruse, they would surely renounce me. The lot of them worship her with an allegiance due the nine. Moreover, I respect the lass too much to cast trickery in her path. She’s earned her chance, Caedmon, fair and with the hard knocks.”
Ah yes, the guards. Caedmon fisted his hands on his hips. Mayhap therein lay the perfect opportunity. She’d beaten men twice her size and half again as strong. Her ability with a blade was no doubt sound, and he’d suffered the last two years sequestered in a dungeon. The stakes were high… “Yet none of those men had as much to lose as I,” he whispered.
And he, as well, had rightfully earned his chance.
He placed a foot on the seat of the chair and leaned toward his friends, his forearm braced over his thigh. “The woman fancies a fight, you say? Tomorrow at Apex?” He inclined his head and swept his hand to the side. “Then as her prince, I am duty bound. Her wish is my command.”
Chapter Five
Wind from the north, crisp and clear with a lofty gust. Perfect for a southward descent.
Rowena absently stroked Dart’s breast, his cream and brown-spotted plumage gliding like silk along the edge of her index finger. Feet braced upon the wide window ledge, wind rider flapping in the breeze at her back, she sized up the bustling activity occupying the lawn five stories beneath her chamber window.
Several of her brothers-in-arms cranked the giant gear which manipulated the pendulum swing of the massive sand bags, and the first obstacle she would need to clear along the narrow beam at the gate of the Gantlet. Five held the tension in the release cable as one locked the iron catch in place. Eibel bounced his significant bulk on the rope bridge, testing its durability and strength. The ends chafed against the high wooden platforms topping two vertically reinforced poles, the thin pieces of twine connecting the hand ropes to the base twanging like a mistuned lute. Master Denmar perused the labyrinth of walls, dead ends and various nooks and crannies which comprised the course. He occasionally tugged a length of rope here or a shoved his booted heel against a wall there, shouting instructions before moving onto the final section—a circular teetering base the guards had affectionately dubbed “the table of doom.”
Four of her five opponents waited nearby on the lawn, just outside the cordoned-off area for the nobility, but close enough to be ogled by a flock of gushing, hankie-fluttering maidens. Rowena rolled her eyes even as her respect for the men elevated several degrees. Without a doubt, they noticed the ladies’ blatant attempts at flirtation, but her challengers weren’t known as the best of the best for nothing, and not one among them wavered in their keen assessment of Master Denmar’s last-minute course modifications.
Each wore a leather chest plate stamped with the royal crest, an arsenal of lethal weapons dangling off their shoulders and hips, shields either waiting near their feet or decorating their backs like dented, scarred turtle shells.
Rowena smirked. Apparently her reputation preceded her. Luckily, so did theirs.
Keegan—over-confident, eager, ready to barrel into any situation and take the lead. He would position himself first, and thereby make a hazardous mistake. Syme—the best archer in the guard. His arrows accounted for more kills than a dozen of his brothers combined. He would hide, let his deadly aim do the work, and hopefully back himself right into a corner. Rinald—the jester. His valiant tales of victory through insurmountable odds were legendary…and also worth a wagonload of dung. He would most likely try to distract her, perhaps play a game of wits. Too bad no one had told him women were the smarter of the sexes. Tristan—now he was a threat. A warrior in his prime yet with enough experience he didn’t suffer fools lightly. He would be methodical, engage her in physical combat in hopes of wearing her down. She would need to strike fast.
But where was the fifth? Her wide sweep of the surrounding grounds and forest edge came up empty. Maybe, like her, he preferred to stay hidden until the grand bell tolled the commencement of the game.
This was allowed. Hell, when it came to the Gantlet pretty much anything was allowed. Only one rule prevailed from start to finish. One important phrase: I submit. When a contender spoke as much, those two words signaled their concession, opted them out of the game and abdicated their skill as the lesser of the two. Unless, of course, they were unconscious, which basically amounted to the same thing.
So far, she’d heard those words from every member of the guard’s elite. All, except these last few.
Dart danced along the padded leather patch covering her left shoulder and burrowed the top of his round head against her cheek. Her secret weapon, and a loyal friend to the end.
She fed him a scrap of raw meat from the leather pouch on her belt and he chuck-chucked his delight. In hindsight, his discovery had been a fortuitous stroke of luck.
After several weeks sleeping in Belial’s stall, familiarizing the rebellious stallion to her presence, she’d finally garnered enough of the beauty’s trust to lead him out for a stroll through the countryside. When they’d stumbled upon Braedric’s hunting party, the horse had reared and run off, and her first instinct had been to march over where the men were distracted by taunting a wounded falcon and deliver a sharp smack to their faces. Yet, on second glance, she found the group of nobles passed a heavy wineskin between them, their vulgar language and lewd behav
ior a grim deterrent, and she’d not been far enough along in her training to be confident facing off against a dozen drunken men.
So she’d waited, hidden behind a thick copse of trees and, once they’d moved on to other, more fruitless pursuits, she had rushed to aid of the keening bird. Her heart wept to learn the poor thing was no more than a nestling, its downy feathers barely dry, wing tip broken and bleeding, one of its legs sporting a nasty gash. Using her skirts to shield her hands from his razor-sharp talons and beak, she’d wrapped him up and secreted him back to the castle.
Over time, she nursed the falcon back to health. Dart’s strength and trust in her grew and, in return, she’d gained a loyal ally. One who utilized the “there are no rules” decree of the Gantlet to his fullest advantage.
She’d not expected his appearance during her first test, albeit the falcon’s surprise attack had created a sidesplitting interruption. What brutal warrior wouldn’t shriek and scurry for cover with a screeching, enraged bird of prey hot on his tail?
Master Denmar had stunned everyone present by hooting and guffawing his way through ruling Dart’s participation as legal. Even when her opponents balked, the caption held firm. And if they had the wherewithal to capture and train their own falcons, he’d be more than happy to allow those birds entrance as well.
That was all the incentive she’d needed. Every spare moment prior to her next test, she’d spent dedicated to running her newfound champion through his paces. Dart learned her series of calls and hand signals as if he’d been born to them, and henceforth aided her by stealing daggers, obscuring her opponent’s aim and, one time, even ambushed an arrow in midair.
The two of them comprised a lethal pair. In the end, saving him had saved her…in more ways than she cared to count.
Her heart warmed with admiration and love for her most-trusted companion. Above all others, his was one heart that had always remained true. She offered him a second scrap of meat before cinching the drawstring at her waist. “One more day, my friend. By this time tomorrow, we will both be free.”
The grand bell pealed the onset of Apex and Dart launched from her shoulder as if he’d been shot by a bow. Her opponents gathered their accoutrements and leapt to various positions throughout the course. Denmar released the iron catch and the ropes creaked as the sandbags swung into motion.
Good. It was about time.
Her pulse ratcheted several beats, fingertips tingling with adrenaline as she checked the silver throwing stars embedded in the belt around her hips, the lethally honed blades tucked along the outside seam of her gray leather breeches. Thin cords reinforced with silver threads hung in loops from the tops of her knee-high gray boots, a circular metal jot tied as a weight on one end. The stays of her fitted leather chest plate had been replaced with deadly silver spikes. In total, forty blades and weapons covered her body, hidden in numerous, devious ways. Designing this sorceress’s ensemble, she’d transformed herself into a flash of silver and white. An eerie specter with the power of flight. An angel of death from above.
Tossing her thick braid over her shoulder, she checked the lines of her wind rider remained clear, shoved up her boobs and leapt after Dart into the sky.
A blast of cold air numbed her cheeks. She arched her back, keeping her arms and legs spread eagled. Above the steady thrum of the wind in her ears, the silk sheet fluttered and snapped. Her shoulders wrenched tight. She crossed her ankles and extended her arms to the sides as her wind rider caught the breeze and boosted her toward the crowd.
Several women screamed, grabbed their children and scrambled for cover under the tented canopies. Maidens swooned, chairs toppled. The milling throng parted and spilled beneath her in a wave of rich color.
All, except Fandorn, standing beside King Austiere, who remained pinioned to his throne. And while the wizard’s face beamed with joy, perhaps even a bit of fatherly pride, the king’s shocked countenance blinked up at her like a glowing white pearl.
Dart screeched and dove low, spiraled under the rope bridge and grazed the top of a freestanding wall with his wingtips. Rowena hooked her fingers around the cord over her left shoulder and yanked. The angle of her descent keeled left. The Gantlet floor rushed up to greet her. She flicked her wrists and her blades sprang forth into the centers of her palms. Unleashing an ear-shattering wail, she crossed her arms overhead, slashed the silk tethers and plummeted straight for the lead sandbag.
The soles of her boots bounced off the side. The swinging momentum propelled her forward and she dodged the second bag even as she spun and released a barrage of silver stars. A series of heavy thumps split the air as the weapons embedded in Keegan’s chest plate. He stumbled back several steps. His spine slammed the foremost support of the bridge. Two more stars and she’d pinned his shirtsleeves to the wood, delaying his escape.
“Hie!” She tore a cord from her boot, whipped the weighted jot in a wide circle and pitched it high into the air. Dart swooped in, snagged the target in his talons. She tied the end to a wooden plank as he banked a dizzying spiral around a wide-eyed Keegan. The guard’s hands grappled with the restraint as it tightened around his throat. His booted heels tapped a stuttering tattoo.
She ducked past the two remaining bags and sprinted with full force toward her struggling hostage. An arrow lanced the top of her shoulder. Dammit! But Syme’s daring strike also relayed his position—on the right, behind a rectangular partition. She veered left, dashed four paces up a freestanding wall and flew back, tucking her knees to her chest.
One—two—three, she hurled the blades from the small of her back before her feet touched ground. All three snicked into their intended destination. Syme clutched the sides of his thigh, the handles protruding from his thick muscle like broken twigs, and crumpled to his knees.
She’d gained a few precious moments and, if luck stood with her, the pain would disrupt his aim.
“Release!” She hop-skipped and leapt into a front handspring. Dart zoomed past. The jot dropped from the sky. Rowena snagged the cord and with one jerk of her arm, the weighted end whirled to the center of her hand. Wedging her heel against the base of the rope bridge, she leaned back and gathered the slack, wound the cord from elbow to palm and took up the slack a second time.
Keegan sputtered as she climbed up behind him, using his hips and shoulders as leverage. Three revolutions of the rope immobilized his neck to the pole. Dart was getting good.
She hugged the beam between her thighs and crossed her ankles over the guard’s stomach. “Two words, Keegan,” she breathed in his ear. An arrow thudded into the wood immediately above her head. “And I don’t have much time.”
He wheezed, gasping for air, grimaced and shook his head.
She snaked her fingers around the cords at his neck and wrenched them tight. His feet sprang out straight in front of him and slammed back to the wooden platform. “How about now?” she asked. “You got anything to say?”
“I su-u-bm-mit,” he choked out the words.
“Good boy.” She pecked his cheek.
Another arrow streaked past her side. A spinning axe blade winked in the sunlight, flying handle over head straight in her direction. She slashed the leather strap of Keegan’s shield and braced behind the cover just as the axe thudded home.
Enough! Syme’s reign of terror was over!
With the shield at her back, she scuttled to the top of the pole, pried the axe loose and hacked at the end of the rope bridge. One final smack, the bridge freed and she careened through the air in a death-defying sweep. Extending as far as her reach allowed, she hung tight to the support, her foot braced in the tangled ropes. The meaty section of Syme’s biceps split and peeled back under the sharp blade of the axe. A victory cry rushed her throat. Two down, three to go.
He bellowed and flailed, tumbled, still thrashing, onto his back. On the return swing, she pounced on top of him, one knee pressed to the injury in his arm, wrist blades crossed against his throat.
“You got so
mething to say to me?” she panted. A droplet of blood left her shoulder for his cheek.
“The sorceress bleeds.” He bucked and nearly unseated her from his waist.
She increased the pressure of both her knee and blades and an enraged growl curled his lips. His face crumpled in a mask of pain. “As do you, my friend,” she whispered. “And I got no problem draining what remains in your veins all over this floor.”
“Tits of the nine!” he snarled. “I submit to your will.”
“Now see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She retracted her blades and ruffled his sandy hair. “I accept.”
She rolled off of him, crouched on the balls of her feet and scanned the course. Exhilaration heightened her senses so that every sharp edge of the walls, each shift of the ropes in the breeze stood out in stark relief. Yet the rest of her opponents were nowhere to be found. So they hid, watching and waiting, no doubt assessing her skill. Excellent. Let the seasoned warrior’s strategy begin.
“Dart, search!”
The falcon flew in, circled over a high bastion of sharpened spikes and disappeared. She stole to the partition, pressed her back to the wood and peeked over her shoulder inside the small fort.
Rinald fell to his knees, hands clasped near his throat. “Never before have I witnessed such a thing, my lady,” he blubbered. “Truly, your ability with a blade is both cunning and quick.”
She frowned, swiveled to face him and crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip. Not for one second would she trust his ridiculous charade. “How lovely, Rinald. Thank you.”