Storm Warrior (The Grim Series)

by Harper, Dani

  “It’s incredibly beautiful, but honestly, I don’t know what it is,” said Starr. “Vanessa? Have you ever seen a stone like this?” Her partner came over to look at the pendant.

  “It’s a bit like labradorite, just the way it’s got depth and fire to it. Almost a cross between a black opal and a pearl.” The woman shook her head. “But you don’t carve pearls or opals, and you certainly don’t facet them, so I can’t even hazard a guess. Lovely, though.” She left to help an elderly woman choose a large piece of rose quartz from a display.

  “Your event’s been announced, Starr,” called someone from the crowd.

  “Thanks, Norrie. I’ll be right there.” Starr ran a finger over the pendant once more and shivered. “Amazing. Just amazing. I’ll try looking it up in some of my books at home,” she said to Morgan. “Even the setting and the chain are a wonder—it looks just like something the elves would make in one of Tolkien’s books.”

  Morgan thanked her and tucked the necklace back in her bag as Starr bounced away. If anyone could find out what the stone was, she knew that her friend could. But Morgan wished she hadn’t mentioned elves—they were way too much like faeries, and Morgan had had more than enough of that subject.

  She dodged a trio of stilt walkers, tossed coins in a minstrel’s bowl, and joined Leo in the stands to watch the rest of the events. He had a spot open on either side of him, and she headed for the one on his left, but he put his hand up. “Best to sit on the other side,” he said. “Um, my right ear’s the good one, you know.”

  “Sure,” she said, although she didn’t remember him ever mentioning having trouble with his hearing before. She sat on his right. “Wow, it feels good to get off my feet.”

  “I’ve done enough walking for one day too,” he said. “And way more than enough eating. After I finished an apple dumpling and a custard tart, I told Rhys he’d have to save himself—it was too late for me. I’m staying right here till the fat lady sings. And I just might sing with her.” Chuckling, he patted his waistline.

  “I hear you,” she laughed. “Either medieval people were very active or they were all very round. I just had a little chicken pie that’ll keep me full till next week. I’m sure there was real cream in it. Everything seems really rich.”

  “Oh, everything is rich, believe me. One of the cooks was telling me they use authentic ingredients from medieval times—lard, suet, pork fat, all that good stuff.”

  Morgan made a face. “I’m not sure I wanted to know that,” she said.

  “My wife, Tina, would certainly have had a conniption and lectured me on my cholesterol and all that.” Leo leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “But I have to admit, it tasted pretty damn good.”

  They laughed and enjoyed the events. Starr won the women’s archery competition handily with a small recurve bow that packed a lot of power despite its delicate appearance. Just like Starr herself, thought Morgan.

  Jay seemed to surprise himself by placing third in dagger throwing. Rhys had helped him with his technique at the farm, and Morgan had marveled at the strange little knives—they were all metal, the handles being simply blunt extensions of the blades themselves. For balance, Jay had said. She jumped up and cheered loudly when he took second in throwing hatchets. The targets were metal shields and the armor-piercing capability of the small axes was amply demonstrated. It was a little chilling to think of that, but she was excited for her friend and partner just the same.

  Mike, Brandan, and Rhys were all entered in the longbow event. Morgan had been trying to ignore Rhys’s existence all day, and the fact that he looked good no matter what he was doing didn’t help a bit. Nor did the appreciative comments she overheard from the women seated around her in the stands. And especially not the tittering remarks between some of them as to what else might be long about the tall, dark warrior besides his bow. Still, Morgan wanted to be supportive of the team, so she wasn’t going to miss the event. Leo seemed to be glad she was there, and she had to admit, the old man’s enthusiasm was contagious even in her present state of mind.

  The ten contestants had drawn numbers to determine their order. Mike was up third and sent three arrows into the straw targets at the end of the field. Two were in the bull’s-eye, which put him in first place. Brandan only got one in the center of the target, but he seemed happy with that. Rhys had coached both of them, and they’d improved a lot in the past few weeks. Rhys was last on the roster, and for a moment Morgan considered not watching—but decided that was just too high school. Besides, Leo was intent on sharing the moment.

  “Look at that form,” he said, patting her arm. “Our boy is rock steady. Do you know how much power it takes to draw a bow like that? It’s six feet tall!”

  Morgan had no idea, but even from here she could see Rhys’s muscles bulge. He didn’t draw the wooden bow as much as lean into it, and the great bow yielded accordingly. Three arrows were nocked and sent into the bull’s-eye in quick succession.

  “He’s in first place now,” declared Leo. “Let’s see if he can stay there.”

  The next phase involved setting the targets farther back. Mike, Brandan, and Rhys retained their places through three more rounds, although Morgan imagined their arms must be feeling like spaghetti. During the last round, she could see the shine of sweat on Mike’s face as he sought to hit a target that was now a daunting two hundred yards away, agreed to be the maximum possible range of an English longbow. All three of his arrows stuck—but not in the bull’s-eye. Brandan managed to get two lodged in the outer rings. The other competitors achieved one at the most. All other arrows missed entirely.

  It was Rhys’s turn, and Morgan found herself holding her breath. It didn’t matter that she was at odds with this man, didn’t matter if he believed himself a Celtic warrior or a dancing bear. All that mattered in that moment was that there was dead silence in the arena and that every eye was on him as he drew the enormous bow, bending it nearly in half with the effort. The arrow loosed and a great roar went up from the crowd as it not only struck the target but grazed the bull’s-eye. The second and third arrows were within the ring surrounding it.

  “He’s done it!” shouted Leo, but he was all but drowned out in the roar of the crowd. Morgan stood and clapped until her hands were sore. Brandan and Mike slapped Rhys on the back and punched him in the shoulders. Their other teammates emerged from the onlookers and mobbed him, throwing pitchers of beer over him, bouncing their chests against him, and rubbing his head until his hair stood up. Like watching the winning touch-down in a football game, thought Morgan.

  “This puts the whole team in first place now,” Leo explained, as things settled down and they took their seats again.

  Rhys and Mike dominated the next few events as well, all with various combinations of swordplay. Brandan, Jay, and the others stood on the sidelines and cheered them on. Morgan was just thankful that the blades were either padded or were substituted with thick rattan staves. Even then, one contestant was knocked out cold and another had an injured arm, probably broken.

  “Holy crap, are they trying to kill each other?”

  “Brandan told me that they don’t hold back. Everyone who participates signs a waiver,” explained Leo. “Of course, nobody enters unless they’re gonna give it their all.”

  It has to be a guy thing. Morgan shrugged.

  Starr came and squeezed in beside her. “Vanessa’s got the booth. I promised Jay I’d watch the heavy combat. This is the first year they’re putting on a Capture the Castle event,” she said. “It took them three weeks to build that castle facade. One of the board members is an engineer, and he designed it to withstand an army. Literally.”

  “I’ve got twenty dollars that says Rhys’s team will come out on top,” said Leo.

  Both Starr and Morgan rolled their eyes. “No way am I taking a bet like that!” said Starr. “You’ll have to find someone who hasn’t watched them practice. The guys have been at the farm almost every night for the past two wee
ks.”

  “I’m surprised they’re still talking to Rhys,” said Morgan. “He’s really pushed them hard.”

  Leo nodded. “He’d have made a great drill sergeant, that’s certain. Puts me in mind of the one that made my life hell when I signed up.”

  “Well, at least he doesn’t call them names,” said Starr, passing out bottles of cold water from her big straw tote.

  “Shit, he doesn’t have to insult them to motivate them,” snorted Leo. “Every one of them wants to be him when they grow up.”

  “I know Jay does,” said Starr, rolling her eyes. “It’s all he talks about at home.”

  “He talks about Rhys at work too,” said Morgan. What she didn’t say was how much she wished Jay wouldn’t, at least not lately. She turned her attention to the field where the contestants were gathering. It certainly promised to be a colorful spectacle, with many of the dozen or so teams striving to accurately portray a particular era—or in some cases, a particular movie.

  “The Lord of the Rings has plenty of fans by the looks of things,” said Morgan.

  Starr nodded. “In order to get enough people, the board decided not to restrict the event to specific historical periods. It’s just for fun, really, although there are strict rules for safety.”

  “Huh. You can’t keep that many people totally safe even if you arm them all with feathers,” said Leo, as he scanned the teams. So far, they were assembled into fairly tidy groups across the field from a great wooden castle—but there were a lot of them.

  “Well, the weapons aren’t feathers, but they’re not steel either. Not for this. They have to be bamboo or rattan. And all vital parts of the body have to be shielded with armor of some kind.”

  “I don’t see much armor on our team,” said Morgan. “Most of them seem to just have helmets.”

  “It’s a rule that all helmets have to be steel. Body armor doesn’t have to be,” explained Starr. “Our team is wearing chain mail. But under that, Jay’s got carpet duct-taped around his shins and a Kevlar vest. Some of the guys are using hockey gear under their mail.” She pointed. “Brandan and Mike are the only ones who own real armor. It’s really expensive.”

  Morgan could see that Mike’s exquisite helmet matched his hand-tooled steel suit. He looked like Lancelot from a King Arthur movie, and she wondered how he moved. Or saw anything. Or even breathed comfortably. A few others in the crowd sported full body armor too, and much of it was very ornate. Many of the participants—including Jay’s group—wore very plain helms with a brim and a cage protecting the face. In fact, Morgan thought their team looked outstanding with their blue-and-white hound tabards over their chain mail—and thankfully, they were easy for her to spot in the midst of the crowded field.

  A tall figure in blue was standing apart from the others. The wind stirred his dark hair and stirred Morgan’s memories at the same time. She’d run her hands through that hair, clutched at it in her ecstasy, nuzzled it in affection—

  As if aware of her, Rhys raised his head and met her gaze across the distance. She couldn’t see his expression, but she could feel him. Then he jammed his helmet on with both hands and turned to the others as loud trumpets blared.

  The battle was on.

  EIGHTEEN

  The teams had formed alliances in advance, but if there had been strategy in the beginning, it quickly degenerated into a free-for-all. Combatants engaged one another with rattan swords and maces, and Morgan winced at the sounds of impact. The weapons might not kill anyone, but surely the blows had to hurt.

  “There’ll be plenty of bruises and bruised egos at the end of this war,” Starr said. “I don’t know why Jay always wants me to watch this violence. He knows I don’t enjoy it.”

  “He just wants you to see him being manly.” Leo laughed.

  Morgan grinned. Her attention was then caught and held by a powerful man who was systematically clearing a path through the fighters. It was Rhys, of course. All her wishes to avoid watching him, to keep her views of the man to a minimum, vanished abruptly, and she couldn’t pull her gaze away. She’d expected he would be good, but the practices at the farm hadn’t begun to prepare her for what the man was like in action. The words irresistible force had new meaning as he literally hewed down his competitors and tossed them aside with seeming ease.

  Leo thumped her knee. “Lookit him go! Holy moly, our man’s like a hot knife through butter!”

  He was indeed, and Morgan felt sorry for whoever stood in his way. She didn’t know much about battle, but as she watched Rhys make his way forward, she noticed something odd. He wasn’t engaging the opposition, at least not in the same way as his teammates. She saw Mike and Brandan struggling with their opponents—each pair forming a separate fight within the overall battle. Rhys, on the other hand, was making extraordinary progress by simply wading through the enemy lines, disarming each foe with one hand and knocking him down with the other.

  Morgan wasn’t certain that the men were simply falling down on cue either. The rules of heavy combat stated that if you were struck with sufficient force, you counted yourself as wounded or dead and fell accordingly. As far as she could tell, most of Rhys’s challengers weren’t getting the opportunity to decide for themselves…

  “He’s pulling his punches,” said Leo in wonder.

  “What?” Morgan almost took her eyes off the field to stare at her friend. “Are you kidding me? Look at what he’s doing to his opponents!”

  “Look at what they’re doing to him.”

  It was true. Rhys was making his uncanny progress despite a countless number of stabs and slices from the castle defenders’ staves. She squinted and discerned that Rhys appeared to be anticipating the blows, turning his body aside at the last moment to shield his vitals and often ripping the weapon from their hands at the same time. There was a rhythm to it like the swing of a pendulum—twist, bend, seize, with a follow-through of collected force. The offender was either clubbed with his own bamboo sword or felled with Rhys’s fist. One enemy, one blow.

  What kind of skill and calculation did that take in the midst of chaos?

  Their team’s tactic was simple. Rhys was the point of an arrow, with Brandan, Mike, Jay, and the others forming a wedge behind him. Together they drove a path through the defenders to the faux castle, and it wasn’t long before they had gained the uppermost tower and claimed its flag. Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd, even from those who had originally been cheering for other teams. Many of the fighters Rhys had knocked down were clapping and cheering and waving as well.

  Men, thought Morgan. Beat the living daylights out of each other, and then they’re all pals.

  The humor was lost, however, as cold realization chilled her blood. Medical attendants were on the field, checking everyone over. It didn’t look like anyone was too badly hurt. And all of Rhys’s opponents were on their feet. But if he’d been armed with a real blade, she thought, none of them would be getting up. Not one. And the body count would be enormous. Jay’s words echoed in her brain: His style of swordplay isn’t play. It’s kill or be killed. It’s the real thing, Morgan. And you can only get that kind of skill one way.

  From one place…

  Leo’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Will you look at that dog,” he said. “I’ve never seen a hound so big.”

  Morgan looked in the direction he was pointing. “Where?”

  “Right there, down at the bottom of the stands. The big black one.”

  Rhyswr? She jumped to her feet even as her heart leapt in hope, but she saw nothing but the crowd of people emptying the bleachers and heading out to the field. “I can’t see it. Starr, do you see a dog anywhere?”

  Her friend had risen to follow the crowd, no doubt to get to Jay, but the frantic note in Morgan’s voice made her stop. “Is there a dog? There shouldn’t be—the board didn’t allow dogs this year because people didn’t pick up after them at the last fair.” She glanced around, appeared to see nothing, and continued down
the steps.

  “Where is it?” Morgan asked Leo, and was surprised when he stood and pointed.

  “How can you miss it? It’s right there in front of us. Biggest dog ever. Looks like a goddamn pony and black as sin.”

  The area directly in front of the bleachers cleared, and for a moment Morgan saw absolutely nothing but bare, hard-packed ground with a few fluttering bits of debris stuck to the brave few blades of grass. She blinked—

  And suddenly she did see a dog. It wasn’t Rhyswr. It wasn’t even a mastiff. Rangy and tall, more like a wolfhound from hell, it sat with grinning jaws that seemed too wide for its face and looked directly up at Leo.

  “I’ll bet it eats a whole bag of dog food in a sitting,” he said.

  Morgan wasn’t sure the animal ate anything so benign. Maybe she was overtired and her imagination was running off with her, but there was something downright creepy about this dog. And how on earth had she missed—

  A movement to her left drew her attention back to her friend. His left arm was jerking spasmodically away from his body and back again. “Leo, are you all right?”

  The old man appeared to be talking to his disobedient arm. “What in blue blazes is the matter with you?”

  Omigod, I think he’s having a stroke! “Leo, sit down now. Let me have a look at you.”

  The giant dog raised its head and howled loud and long, a dismal ululation that vibrated her very bones. At the same moment, Leo’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Morgan’s cell phone tumbled through the bleachers to the ground below as she made a frantic grab for her friend.

  On the battlement of the central tower of the castle, Rhys and his teammates had their hands in the air, shouting in triumph. It was a perfect moment, with the entire crowd below hollering and waving at them. Better than anything was the purely male satisfaction of knowing that the woman he loved was in the stands and that she had witnessed his victory.

  An unearthly howl sliced through the noise of the crowd like a sword’s edge through paper.