The Kinshield Legacy

by K. C. May

  The ryna fought harder. It came at her with the claws of its remaining paw, teeth snapping. It leapt forward. Claws flayed open her thigh.

  Brawna chopped her sword at the elusive beast. Her mind screamed, Kill it! Kill it! Her body groped for the battling instinct honed through training. The thing slashed repeatedly with its claws. It sliced open the outside of her thumb, then her forearm, then her wrist.

  Brawna’s foot slipped in the grass. She went down. At once, the beast leapt upon her. She brought her left arm up to protect her face. It took her forearm in its jaws and whipped its head from side to side. Her arm was on fire. She couldn’t get her sword up. She was going to die. The judges ran toward her, raising their short bows to fire on the ryna and end the trial.

  Daia! Help me!

  A fluttery sensation started in her gut, then flowed into her like someone pouring warm water into a cup. Suddenly she felt more powerful than she’d ever felt in her life. She let go of her sword, and with her fist she struck the beyonder as hard as she could.

  The ryna squealed. Its gray form flew through the air and landed hard. While it twisted around and scrambled to its feet, Brawna did the same, snatching up her sword again. It rushed her.

  Brawna turned her blade and stepped in. She swung. The ryna screeched. Black blood sprayed from the wound in its neck. With one strong thrust, Brawna drove her blade into its chest so deeply that it went through the creature’s body and emerged from its belly. It collapsed to the ground and lay still.

  The audience cheered. Brawna’s chest heaved as she gasped for breath. Her left arm hung, shredded, by her side while blood dripped from her fingertips into the grass. She staggered to one knee and bowed her head.

  Two of the judges converged on the battler. One bent to ensure the ryna was dead while the other sent a surge of warm healing magic into Brawna’s body, sealing the wounds. Her clothes, white only minutes before, were now drenched with blood. Brawna remained in a reverential bow while the judges huddled to confer.

  She trembled with weariness and remorse. The ryna had beaten her horribly. She failed her trial. She just knew it. They were going to dismiss her and she would have to earn her living as a bar maid or washerwoman, her lifelong dream of being a Viragon Sister stamped out forever.

  At last, Lilalian strode forward. Brawna climbed to her feet with her head hung low. This was it. Time to say good-bye.

  “We all thought you were finished,” Lilalian said softly. “But Yrys must have had His hand on your shoulder. Congratulations.”

  Brawna’s head snapped up. “I didn’t fail?”

  Lilalian smiled. “Raise your arms.”

  Exhilaration streaked through Brawna like lightning, energizing her entire body. She wanted to jump up and down in joy, but she stood with her arms out while Lilalian untied the blue sash at her waist and dropped it onto the grass. From within her tunic, Lilalian drew a new green sash and wrapped it around Brawna’s waist, then knotted it. She bowed.

  Smiling broadly, Brawna bowed in return, then bowed to the other battlers on her panel. The captain of the Viragon Sisterhood turned to the audience and shouted, “Offer your congratulations to our newest green sash battler.”

  Most of the women in the audience gathered in the center to shake Brawna’s hand. “Brawna the Blade,” someone called her. The women laughed and patted her back and shoulders and ruffled her wet hair.

  “Your new nickname.” “That’s what we’ll call you from now on.” “How fitting.”

  When Daia stepped forward, Brawna dipped one knee slightly. “Thanks to you, m’lady,” she said.

  Daia shook her hand. “You did splendidly. I knew you would.” They shared a knowing smile and Daia backed away. The other girls swarmed in to offer their congratulations.

  “Daia, wait.” Brawna rose onto her toes to look over the heads of the other women. “I want to go on your...” She tried to spot her friend, but Daia had gone. “...next mission,” she finished to herself. She would just have to find Daia tomorrow and ask.

  Chapter 6

  After a fitful night’s sleep at the Good Knight Inn, Gavin rose early and called for the stable-hand to bring his horse and gear. While he waited, he gathered his belongings and stuffed them into his leather satchel, and filled two flasks at the inn’s well. By the time he finished, his warhorse stood in the road dressed in leather armor, while the stable-hand tightened the straps of the saddle under the gelding’s dappled gray belly.

  “How now, Golam,” Gavin said, stroking the horse’s huge face. He cast a glance toward the lobby, hoping the innkeeper wouldn’t notice him leaving. He’d promised to fix the door in exchange for board, but that could wait. Calewen’s Pendant could not. The longer he delayed, the farther away it would get.

  “Listen,” Gavin told the stable-hand. “Tell Trayev I got to go somewhere. I’ll be back in a week, and I’ll fix the door then.” After tying his gear to the saddle with a few leather thongs, he tucked his leather glove under the front of the saddle and mounted. With a click of his tongue, he leaned forward, and Golam started off. From the corner of his eye, Gavin saw Trayev come outside, calling and waving his only hand. He pretended not to notice, and nudged Golam a little faster. He felt badly about breaking his promise, but he would make up for it. As soon as he returned with the pendant.

  He walked Golam through Ambryce, stopping just long enough to buy a small loaf of bread and a few boiled eggs. He ate as he rode, not wanting to waste time sitting for a meal. As he neared the bridge crossing the Flint River north of the city, the rushing of water grew louder. A uniformed man-at-arms in service to the Lordover Ambryce stood on the narrow road and signaled Gavin to stop.

  “The bridge is out,” the armsman said. “You can circle to the west and cross there.”

  “I don’t mind a swim.” Gavin started to guide Golam through the trees toward the river.

  “I wouldn’t advise it. The water’s icy, and the current’s strong. We’ve got a lot of run-off from the Superstitions.”

  “We’ll manage,” Gavin called back.

  The warhorse picked his way down the rocky bank, but balked at the water’s edge, reluctant to go forward.

  “We have to cross this way, Golam.”

  Golam tossed his huge gray head and refused to take another step.

  “Mule,” Gavin muttered, jamming his heels harder into the horse’s sides.

  Golam took a couple steps into the water and neighed his protest.

  “Quit whining.” Gavin kicked again, and the horse started across.

  As Golam waded deeper, the water soaked into Gavin’s boots and wet his trousers to his knees. It was damned cold. The current pressed hard against his calf, and he thanked Golam with a pat for being so large and strong.

  A whoop, faint over the loud rushing of the river, caught his attention. That didn’t sound like any bird he knew. Gavin turned in the saddle. A girl tumbled end over end as the water swept her downstream toward him.

  “Seven hells!”

  Gavin eyed the girl in the water to judge her speed and route. He aligned Golam’s path with hers, bent over, reached for her pink dress. His grip was unsure. The current ripped the fabric from his grasp. Damn it!

  Gavin urged Golam downstream after her. He hung his scabbard and cuirass on the saddle and dived into the water.

  The icy water made him gasp when he surfaced. He flung the dripping hair from his eyes. There! Pink fabric peeked over the surface. He swam after her. The water’s temperature numbed his muscles, and he swam barely faster than the current. No one could last long in this cold. As he neared the girl, he reached out, caught her dress. Got her.

  His head slammed into a rock. The pain was dizzying. Then he was under the water, his voice gurgling and bubbles flittering past his eyes. Something was bunched in his hand and tugged at his grasp in the strong current, struggling to be freed. He found the surface and gasped for a breath, then looked down at what he held in his hand. Pink cloth. The girl! He
wrapped an arm around her waist, clutched her body to him. He tilted her head back against his shoulder, out of the water. Kicking toward the eastern bank, he whistled to his horse. Golam came quickly, now unmindful of the cold. With his free hand, Gavin grabbed the reins. The mighty gray surged up the bank. Gavin hauled himself and the girl out of the river.

  Climbing up the embankment, Gavin saw that she was not a child but a full grown Farthan woman, whose people lived in the lands far beyond the SuperstitionMountains to the east. She couldn’t have weighed more than seventy pounds, even soaked. Standing, she would be no taller than an eight-year-old girl. But now she lay completely still in his arms.

  Her skin felt cold, but she had a pulse. He laid her on her stomach in the grass and pressed on her back to drain the water out of her lungs. He turned her over, but she did not move. He put an ear to her mouth. No breath. He tried pushing on her abdomen. Still she did not breathe. “Come on,” he whispered. His heart pounded, and he shivered so violently that his hands shook and his teeth chattered. He covered her mouth with his own and breathed life in. Her chest rose and fell. Her body jerked as she gasped.

  “There now,” Gavin said, raising her head with a cupped hand. “You’ll be all right. Just sit up a bit.” He hoped she knew his language.

  She sat up, coughing violently, and vomited water. For a few minutes, she could do no more than cough and gasp. He saw terror in her eyes as she looked around, no doubt realizing she’d nearly died. “My...” she choked.

  “Don’t try to talk yet. Just let your body work the water out o’your lungs.” Gavin patted her back to help her regain her breath.

  She pushed her black hair back with a tiny hand. Droplets streamed from dark brown, almond-shaped eyes as she hugged her knees to her chest. Her coughing spasms grew further apart, and she began to shiver. The pale pink dress clung to her legs and dripped, forming a puddle around her.

  “How’d you end up in the river?” he asked as he untied his bedroll.

  “Slipped,” she said shyly, averting her eyes.

  Gavin pressed his lips together. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he knew from the way she leaned away that his appearance frightened her. “Here. Let’s wrap you up in this.” He flapped open the bedroll and draped it around her shoulders. She pulled it tightly around her.

  Something rustled in the brush upstream. Gavin put a finger to his lips, then motioned the woman to stay there. He yanked the leather glove tucked under Golam’s saddle and pulled it onto his left hand. Quietly, he drew the sword from its scabbard. He crept as silently as he could through the thicket.

  A brown donkey stopped short, its eyes widening in fear. Its lead rope dragged the ground, and a leather pack straddled its back. It snorted and stepped away from him. “Easy, fellah.” Gavin approached slowly and reached for the lead rope, then led the animal back to where the woman waited with Golam.

  “Is this yours?” he asked the Farthan woman.

  “Oh! Yes.” She began to laugh. “Yes, yes! It is my donkey. Then I am not dead and you are not angel of Yrys?” She looked up at him.

  “Hardly,” Gavin said as he tied the donkey’s lead to a nearby tree.

  “Oh, your head.” Concern wrinkled her forehead. “You are injure.”

  Gavin reached up and touched his head, realizing then that it hurt like hell. His hand came away bloody.

  “You need healer.”

  “I don’t need a healer. It’s only a scratch.”

  “You are injure because of saving me, so now I can help you,” she said. “Bend down so I will reach you.”

  “No need.” He peeled off his cold, wet shirt, wrung the water out, then dabbed his forehead with it. Soon, no more blood seeped from the wound. He scowled, bewildered yet not terribly surprised. A week ago, he’d cut himself while sharpening his dagger, and the wound had closed almost as he watched it.

  “Magic healing, that is,” she said.

  No, that wasn’t possible. He had no magic ability. There must have been some other explanation for it. Healthy food, too little ale. Something.

  Gavin considered what to do next. Putting the woman on the jackass and sending her off was out of the question. She’d nearly died in that river. He needed to see her home to make sure she didn’t faint on the way. Besides, a few more coins in his purse as valour-gild wouldn’t be unwelcome.

  “Can you stand?” he asked, offering her his arm. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Yes.” She gripped Gavin’s forearm, her hand small against the vast width of his arm. He lifted her onto Golam’s back and, after tying the donkey’s lead rope to his saddle, climbed up behind her. He wrapped the bedroll around them both. She leaned into the warmth of his body and dozed while they rode back to the city.

  The gems! They might have fallen into the river. He reached to pat his pocket, careful not to wake the woman with a touch she might misinterpret. His fingers felt the shapes within the pouch and he breathed his relief. He needed to find a safe place to keep them. Soon.

  As they rode, he wondered about his instantaneous healing. Something unnatural had happened, but what? And why? Maybe after he returned with the pendant, he would visit a mystic to find out what it was about.

  When they reached the northern border of the city, Gavin roused the Farthan for directions to her home. She directed him to the nearest market district, only another mile away.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “I am Arlet Stronghammer. My husband is blacksmith, Risan. Of Stronghammer Blades.” She broke into tears. “…almost die… never see him again… owe you everything…”

  “There now, you’re all right,” he said, clumsily patting her shoulder. Despite years of saving people from death and terror, he felt awkward comforting the distraught. Children were easier – his three years as a father had awakened an instinct within him for that.

  Arlet took a moment to compose herself and dabbed her tears with her wet sleeve. “I never met hero before,” she said. “What you are call?”

  “Gavin Kinshield,” he said. He knew what her next question would be.

  “Oh! You are relation to champion of King Arek?” she asked.

  “My great, great grandfather’s great, great grandfather.”

  Arlet tilted her head to look up at him. “Now I see. You have blood of hero.”

  Gavin sighed. Why did people forget that Ronor Kinshield had failed to protect the king? That had hardly made him a hero.

  She directed him through the market and down a side street, then pointed to a short but sturdy man kneeling on the front stoop of a clean, white cottage. “There is Risan on front of our house.”

  Riding up with the man’s wife in his arms wouldn’t be the best start to a new friendship. Gavin had received more than one bloodied nose from misunderstandings and hasty conclusions. He started to dismount so that he could lead Golam by the reins, but then Risan turned his head toward them. Oh hell. Too late.

  As Golam approached the house and stopped, the Farthan man rose and shielded the sun from his eyes with the flat of his hand. He spit out the nails he was holding in his mouth. “What is going on?”

  Gavin couldn’t tell whether Risan was angry or concerned. “Hail, good sir,” he called, dismounting. He wished he didn’t have to handle the man’s wife while he looked on, but Golam was too tall for her to climb down unassisted. Gavin made sure to lift her down in the most gentlemanly way possible.

  “What hell is it? What is wrong?” Risan asked, stepping forward.

  Arlet went to her husband’s side, and he put his arm around her and held her protectively, maybe possessively. “This is Hero Kinshield,” she said through chattering teeth. “He saved my life.”

  Gavin offered his hand. “It’s Gavin.”

  “Saved…?” Risan took Gavin’s hand absently. “By Yrys! How? What happened?”

  “I almost drowned in river,” Arlet said. “Let us go inside and warm up with tea by fire, and I will tell you story of rescue.” She w
ent into the house.

  “You have my deep gratitude, Gavin Kinshield,” Risan said, gripping Gavin’s hand more firmly. “I am Risan Stronghammer. Welcome to my home. Let me take your horse to backyard while both you put on some dry and warm things.”

  Gavin inclined his head. “I just wanted to make sure Arlet arrived home safely. I’ll be on my way now.”

  “Nonsense,” Risan said. He pulled Golam’s reins down and looped them around the tree in the front yard. “You saved my wife. At least let me offer you warm drink and meal. You would not do less if you wear my boots.” He gestured to the door to show Gavin inside.

  The home smelled of fresh mint, prompting a memory so strong, Gavin expected his grandmother to walk through the kitchen door with tray of warm tarts and homemade jelly. A squat table and two small couches, their covers patched with mismatched cloth, took up most of the greatroom. An assortment of bladed weapons covered the walls, their edges and surfaces stained with evidence of heavy use. Ahead sat a round dining table with three chairs, and to its left, a doorway to what Gavin assumed was the kitchen. Behind a closed door on the right, Arlet’s voice called, “Risan, get blanket for Gavin from other room.”

  “Of course,” Risan said. He ducked into a small room beside the closed door and emerged with a patchwork quilt, which he handed to Gavin. “You can take off wet clothes in there. I will see to your horse while you get dry.”

  Gavin slipped into the room and peeled off his wet clothes, then wrapped the blanket around his waist. He was setting his boots on the hearth and laying his wet clothes in front of the dying embers when Risan came in.

  Risan put a log in the fireplace, arranged it in the coals, and encouraged it to light with a pair of bellows. The log began to smoke and a fire rose on one end. Then he knocked on the closed door. “Do you need help, chishen?”

  “No, I am fine,” Arlet called. “Would you bring us some tea?”

  “Please have seat,“ Risan said to Gavin. ”I have hot water on stove.” He scurried to the kitchen.