Heddas Sword.jpg

by Hedda's Sword (lit)

  He tried not to make his victories look too easy.

  Decades of teaching archery at the elven warrior academy stood him in good stead there, garnering a crowd of admirers. He hit stationary and moving targets at greater and greater distances, releasing three arrows for every one of the humans' and never missing.

  The men laughed when Cianan led Kikeona into the yard. Shielded by the seeming as she was, he knew what they saw when they looked at her – a rawboned grey nag of uncertain breeding, with a blocky head and lop ears.

  "She looks like a mule," one man commented.

  "Do not mind them," Cianan reassured her. "I know you are beautiful."

  She sniffed with disdain and snapped at one of them, for the fun of watching him jump back. "As if I care what these barbarians think."

  Cianan swung into the saddle.

  "Forget yer bridle?" one merc asked.

  "Bet he hocked it," another suggested.

  Cianan smiled. "Never use one. Watch first. Judge after." He went through a simple warm up drill. Walk, trot, canter, simple lead changes, side-pass, passage, piaffe and levade. He urged her to a gallop, slid to a stop, spun on both forehand and hindquarters.

  "She sure moves better'n she looks." This from the man who had called her a mule.

  Cianan put her through the advanced battle moves none but the strongest, most senior war mares ever accomplished. She reared into a courbette, hopping toward the viewers on her hind legs while slashing with her front hooves in a mezair. Cianan found a cleared area big enough for a single capriole. Kikeona leapt straight up into the air and kicked out with both hind legs, a move known to crush, or remove, a man's head.

  Cianan dismounted and patted her neck. "You enjoyed that rather too much, I think."

  She tossed her head. "I missed them, did I not?"

  The men were silent after the display. The sergeant was not. "Don' look like much, but she sure can move. She's not e'en breathin' hard."

  "You should know better," Cianan retorted. "Judging by appearance gets you killed."

  "True enough." The captain came forward. "I'll warrant you're qualified, son. Pay your dues, get your stamp and sign the contract."

  "I have one stipulation," Cianan stated. "I have always been a free-merc. I wish right of refusal added afore I sign."

  The sergeant frowned. "Ye enjoy starvin', boy?"

  "Some jobs are more trouble than the pay is worth."

  "Ye wanna live forever?"

  "What, shall you not answer, champion?" Kikeona's amusement was a palpable warmth in the back of Cianan's mind.

  "Dealers are the ones with coin enough to hire in the off-season," the captain warned.

  "An' th' motivation." The sergeant laughed. "With what's been goin' on this past month, they're hirin' more'n ever. At three times th' goin' rate, fer all th' good it's done 'em."

  Every sense went on alert. "What has been happening?"

  "Someone's taking out the dealers," the captain replied. "Raiding caravans, destroying drugs, freeing slaves and stealing cargoes, even outright assassination. Queen Sunniva's pissed at losing her cut. Forty percent of nothing's nothing. We've been busy, but it's like chasing a ghost. We could use a man like you, but not my problem if you choose to starve."

  The word ghost triggered a warning in the back of his mind. Short pale blonde hair, aquamarine eyes, and fair skin – the woman in his visions appeared nigh pale as a ghost.

  Cianan's first two opponents stepped forward. "Mrow an' me could put him up at th' Broken Blade fer a month, in exchange for lessons. Give him time t' find his way about." The stockier of the two held out a hand to Cianan. "Name's Ain."

  "Broken Blade's where many guild stay long-term. Tell Cary I sent ye," Mrow added.

  Cianan gripped Ain's forearm. "Done."

  The captain sighed. "Dealer work's good money, but I guess you've held off starving for a bit." He scribbled in the addition and presented the parchment contract.

  Cianan handed him the joining fee and looked the contract over. "Wonder who their ghost is?" He signed his name, left-handed, with extra flourish.

  "Someone I want to meet. Sounds like our kind of trouble."

  "But is he a true hero or an ambitious, stronger dealer?"

  Kikeona snorted. "You are such an optimist."

  The captain took the signed contract and the sergeant came forward with the stamp, a nasty-looking handheld device, patterned with dozens of tiny ink-dipped needles. Cianan gritted his teeth and braced himself, but stood unflinching as the sergeant tattooed the guild's bear claws mark into the inside of his right arm, elbow to wrist in a single, hard strike.

  Kikeona flattened her ears. "Nasty barbaric custom. Are you all right?"

  "Bee sting." Cianan took a deep breath and rolled his sleeve back down over the bloody new mark. It would be prudent to wear long sleeves for a week or so. The wound would heal in minutes, leaving the tattoo itself. The last thing he needed was questions.

  Too bad self-healing did not work on gating-induced headaches. "I want to meet this ghost. Anyone against the local dealers has to be a friend."

  "The enemy of my enemy?"

  "One can hope. I wish Lord Elio was here. I would love to get his impression of this place." Cianan swung up into her saddle. "Head for the Broken Blade. Then it is time for ghost-hunting."

  Chapter Two

  Entering the Broken Blade, Maleta let her eyes adjust and scanned the flickering shadows for Black Wolf breastplates. No sign of her contact yet. The heat from the fireplace and smoking torches felt like a furnace after the breath-stealing cold night outside. Wood smoke, pipe smoke and the scent of burning tallow tickled her nose and stung her eyes. Wearied to the bone, she rolled her bandaged shoulder, testing the repair to her quilted jerkin.

  It had been slashed in her strike against the late, unlamented dealer, Rigel. The combined monies of the bounty and what Rigel himself had carried would hold Mother Tam and Nerthus' Abbey for several weeks. It still amazed her that a peaceful goddess like Nerthus, Goddess of family, of hearth and home, would deal with Hedda's Own. Hedda's assassin.

  She reached up to squeeze the rainwater out of her short blonde hair. It had grown out almost long enough to curl around her fingers. Time to cut it. It would never again be used as a weapon against her. Thoughts of rough hands tangled in her once-long hair flooded her mind, making her skin crawl. She banished the images to her nightmares, away from the here-and-now where she needed all her wits about her.

  She sat in a corner, her back to the soot-stained wall so she could see both exits. She tested the sticky wooden table. It wobbled. With effort, she could tip it over if someone attempted to trap her, but it was sturdy enough to shield her should she need cover.

  She wrapped herself more tightly in the grey woolen cloak she'd worn over tunic, breeches and boots. She'd hidden her setting-sun breastplate in a safe place, and her broadsword as well. Both were made of gleaming Goddess-metal, impervious to rust and the elements. If any here discovered her association with Hedda, the great equalizer, she'd be lucky to escape with her life. None but her prey and those she rescued knew Maleta's true identity as Hedda's Own. The former were dead. The latter owed her their lives and would take her secret to their graves.

  Her close-cropped hair, blackened eye and scarred cheek were all dead giveaways to the other mercs in the room of her own shield-maiden status. Women mercs were rare, but not unknown. In fact, she spotted Gayle in a corner. The rangy brunette raised her tankard in a salute and went back to dealing cards.

  A barmaid took her order, returning in minutes with honey mead, half a roast chicken and a medley of roasted root vegetables. Maleta held her breath as the woman, reeking of old sweat and sex, leaned in to take the copper coins. Maleta sipped her mead and considered what drew her here. She awaited someone she'd been told could arrange for her to face the Black Wolf, alone. That's why she'd come, to gain access to the man who'd killed her family and destroyed her humanity. Tears burned he
r eyes. Her heart ached. Only when the Wolf lay dead, and her family thus avenged, could she hope to live again.

  The door opened, and an unremarkable man in Wolf gear strode in. Blinking away the tears to clear her eyes, Maleta tensed at his approach, felt for the reassuring weight of the double-edged dirk strapped to her right thigh. Her gaze wanted to slide away from him, dismiss him as unimportant. That made her edgy and she focused on him all the more. He scanned the room. His gaze came to rest on Maleta for a long moment. He made his way to the bar, grabbed a tankard from the barkeep and walked over to her.

  The barmaid intercepted him halfway across the floor. He murmured something to her and sent her off with a scattering of copper coins on her tray and a slap to her hip. He closed the distance to Maleta's table.

  "'Ow's th' chicken?" he asked.

  She shrugged. Her heartbeat quickened as she only just remembered to use her much-practiced lower-class accent. "'Ad worse."

  He held out a hand. "Name's Lucan."

  Sure it was. "Sonja." Killed during their first rescue mission, Sonja would understand the tribute. Maleta took his hand in hers, ignoring how it made her skin crawl. She noted the scribe's callus on his forefinger. If she faced the Wolf's clerk, her bribes were well spent. "Ye've info?"

  "Aye." He sat across from her, both hands on the table. They waited while the barmaid served him roast chicken and brown bread, remaining silent until the woman went away. "Th' Wolf's comin' here, t' Soto. 'E'll be travelin' alone, cross-country through th' woods 'tween Delph an' Lann." He tore into his chicken like he'd not eaten in a week. "Ye 'ave my money?"

  Nasty little rat. "Under th' table." She handed him a leather bag with the agreed-upon amount and took another sip of her mead, running the Shamari map betwixt Delph and Lann through her mind's eye. Rocky wooded coulees and kettle moraines, with a thousand places to hide. Perfect for ambush.

  "Sonja, been a pleasure." He gathered his money and meal and moved to another table.

  Maleta sighed and speared a chunk of carrot. This place gave her the creepers. Too many hired killers with dark auras. She rolled her stiffening shoulder again.

  The door flung open, and three more men entered with the wind. "Heyla, Cary," the tallest one called to the barkeep. "Any hot cider left?"

  "Still whinin' 'bout th' cold, pup?" Cary poured three dippers of steaming cider into a tankard and slid it down the bar. "Ye ain't e'en seen cold yet."

  The men in the room laughed, a sound of camaraderie, not mockery. Maleta stared at the newcomer. His aura shone different from the others, the gold of a pure soul blinding in the surrounding darkness. That's all she needed! What was a paladin doing in a place like this?

  His head snapped around as if he could feel her probe. She cursed her curiosity as his piercing cobalt gaze locked with hers. Something shifted in his appearance, a mask of the mind that she couldn't see past. Almost as if her eyes saw one thing and her mind another. Meal or nay, now she had the information she sought, she should move on.

  Too late. He strode toward her with the fluid swing of a lifelong horseman, tankard cradled in both hands as if warming them. The body of a sinner on a saint. Her breath caught in her throat. As he approached, she realized how tall he was. There were few men who could look her in the eye. She'd come up to this man's chin.

  Goawaygoawaygoaway. She tensed as he stopped on the other side of the table. Unable to tear her gaze from the unwavering intensity of his, she trembled as his scent, like fresh-cut fir boughs with a warm hint of musk, surrounded her. Who was this man? Trouble, that's what, in more than the obvious. Why did he single her out?

  "Heyla, shield-maiden," he began in a voice as rich and smooth as rare drenieval whiskey. The underlying lethal heat in his voice could rob the unwary of their senses. "I have not seen you here afore." He held out a hand. "My name is Cianan."

  She eyed that hand, unwilling to touch him, sensing it would give him too much knowledge, too much power. Long musician's fingers, with an archer's calluses. Even without their hands touching, the truth of his name pierced the shadows around her soul, the shadows of lies and pretext that were her new identity. She stared up at him, helpless not to.

  Those eyes drew her in, promising things she couldn't even comprehend. They were not the eyes of a saint. Too blue, too knowing. Long raven hair glinted blue-black in the firelight. Foreign accent, not one she recognized, with a lilt she couldn't place. Charm she trusted not at all. She focused on slowing her pounding heart, forced herself to breathe. "What d'ye want?"

  His lips quirked in a smile. "Many things, lady, but I would begin with your name."

  "An' why should I be givin' that out?"

  He just smiled, but his eyes studied her. Watchful. Probing. Aware.

  Too aware. Time to end this. "My name an' business are mine." She stood.

  He raised a hand. "Nay, finish eating. I shall go. But tell me your name first."

  "Sonja."

  Knowledge of the lie flashed in his eyes, and she curled her fists with impotent fury. Damn paladin. What game was this? "I bid you a good evening, Sonja." He dipped his head and returned to his friends at the bar.

  So much for getting a room for the night here. She downed the rest of her meal, gathered her pack and fled the tavern. The cold air cleared her head. It wouldn't be the first time she'd been forced to camp out in the open. She didn't enjoy it, but she'd survive. She always did. Please, Hedda, don't let him follow.

  * * * *

  She was the woman in his visions! The Lady of Light had led him here.

  Elingrena. The other half of his heart, his soul. The urgency, enough to risk gating, made sense now. Cianan took a deep breath and fought the urge to charge after her. He still reeled. He knew she was beautiful from his visions, but he had not expected her effect on him to be so immediate, so intense and profound. No wonder Loren went barmy when he met Dara.

  "Sonja" was everything he had imagined and more – everything he needed to make him whole. He struggled to clear her warmth, her scent, from his mind. Glowing skin and flushed cheeks, the short flaxen hair that drew attention to aquamarine eyes, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw. That sultry voice sent a flash of heat straight through him. Her lush, full lips begged to be kissed, in direct contrast to the frost in her eyes.

  Well, the frost and the fear, he amended. He had thought it fear of men at first, but it was not. It was fear of discovery. He burned at the recall of her voice, forming words pronounced with the careful ease of long practice, not the carelessness of life-long use. She was not what she seemed, a bundle of contradictions, but he meant to discover her secrets and soothe her fears.

  "Well, that was interesting," Kikeona commented.

  The serving girl brought Cianan's dinner with a smile and a flash of cleavage. He smiled back at her, but shook his head. Whores were not to his taste, but there was no need to be rude or insulting. He wrapped flatbread around a chunk of peppered beef and took a bite. "What did you make of her, partner?" He trusted in Kikeona's Goddess-granted power to sense a person's intentions, as much as his own power to sense a lie. "Sonja" was layers of lie-upon-lie.

  "Goddess-sworn, on a mission. Dark past, but of the Light."

  "Sonja" had vibrated with hostility. "Can you track her?"

  The mare considered. "Nay. Not with her shields."

  "Cary! Who was she? The woman who left?"

  Cary shrugged. "Dunno, pup. Ne'er seen her afore."

  Cianan thought that telling. There were not many female mercs in Soto, and Cary knew them all. Cianan eyed the brunette in the corner. Gayle, a woman whose appetites blurred the lines betwixt sex and combat. He had turned her down the first night he had arrived at the Broken Blade, on Cary's advice. The former merc had a gut instinct Cianan found worthy of attention.

  "How did she strike you?" Cianan asked.

  Cary grimaced. "Ice. Killer's eyes. Full of hate, secrets and judgment."

  Judgment. That rang in the back of Cianan's mind. Had
he missed something? "Kikeona?"

  "I have no idea. I am as new at this as you are."

  Cianan closed his eyes and opened his mind and heart. Lady of Light, guide me now. Heart of ice, eyes of a killer, Goddess-sworn to whom? Was there a Goddess of judgment? Of justice? That was one of the three powers of the elven high king – truth, justice and mercy. But here? Judgment... Her eyes had haunted his dreams. Pale, clear aquamarine – cold, sad, vengeful, desperate. Was she the ghost he sought?

  "Someone's taking out the dealers." Light. Dark. Action. Reaction. Balance... balance to... equality. Equality, equalizing... equalizer. The great equalizer.

  He opened his eyes. "Cary?"

  "Yeah, pup?"

  "Do the words 'great equalizer' mean anything to you?"

  A hush hung in the air. The men around him all took a step back as Cary froze. There was that whiff of fear again, a shadow of guilt. "We don' speak of Her, pup," the barkeep growled. "Where'd ye hear that name bandied about?"

  "Is She a goddess?"

  Cary ground his teeth and nodded. "Aye, pup, an' a dark one, Hedda is. Goddess of death and judgment. 'Tis She who weighs a soul, who decides Light or darkness."

  "Interesting," Kikeona commented. "Wonder if She has servants to help those souls on their way?"

  "Like a beautiful ghost?" Cianan took a sip of his cooling cider, not expecting an answer. The men around him relaxed and went back to their conversations. Cianan returned to his now-cold meal, which still tasted better than anything he attempted to cook himself.

  "Considering how much blood they have on their hands, these men would consider the guardian of the gateways dark, even though She would be grey and neutral."

  Cianan sighed. "We shall look for her in the morning. Wonder what her real name is?"

  "Ask her again, the next time we see her."

  Wind whistled through the door and a huge brute of a night watchman strode in. Every merc in the room froze. Cary raised the sole voice of protest. "Hey, now! Ye know th' rules. Go back t' th' Green Lady or th' Plowman. This place is off-limits t' th' watch."

  The blond giant, as broad as the door itself, turned lethal green eyes on the former merc. "I go where I please, little man." He fingered the throwing ax at his side. "I'm here fer th' easterner."