by Sally Slater
Sam refused to believe that the High Commander could not be swayed. “Maybe if you just get Sander back—”
“No,” Tristan said. “Sander is not the only man who keeps his promises. Whatever else I might think of him or the Uriel, I am in his debt. I cannot in good conscience bring Sander before the High Commander in chains when I can’t predict the outcome. I will not be responsible for his death.”
“What then?” Braeden asked. “You said our lives would be forfeit, but what does that mean?”
“My life, not yours,” Tristan said. “Your lives are only forfeit if you choose not to leave. I imagine it means he’ll put a price on my head.”
“So what will you do? Hide?” Braeden asked.
“There’s no hiding from the High Commander,” Tristan said bitterly. “I never thought I’d have to.”
“So don’t,” Sam said. “Confront him! Make him understand.”
Tristan slumped in his saddle, despair written across his face. Sam had never seen him look so utterly hopeless. “What makes you think he’ll believe me? I would have though the ten years I spent in his company would have afforded me the benefit of the doubt.”
Sam drew herself up. “We’ll support you,” she said. “Braeden and I, we’ll confront the High Commander with you.”
Tristan turned his horse so he could stare her full in the face. His gaze was furious. “Don’t be a fool, Sam. That’s signing your own death warrants.” He gestured at Braeden. “Talk some sense into him. The Gods know he’s never listened to me before.” He smirked without humor. “And now neither of you have to. Perhaps they’ll assign Sagar as your new mentor. He showed a keen interest in overseeing Sam’s corruption.”
Suddenly, Sam was mad. Irate, even. She looked at Tristan with a glare that was every bit as furious as his. “How dare you,” she seethed. “How dare you presume so little of us. I don’t want Sagar as my mentor. I want you. I don’t care if you are Paladin Lyons or just plain Tristan. You’re the only man in this whole forsaken kingdom who can beat me with a sword.”
“Speaking of presumptuous,” Tristan murmured.
She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Shut up, you. You’re part of the reason I became a Paladin in the first place. Sander might have saved your life, but you saved mine.”
Tristan blinked. “When did I save your life?”
Shite! Of course he wouldn’t remember his gallant rescue of her in Haywood’s forest. She backpedaled quickly. “Never you mind. The point is we aren’t going to desert you. Right, Braeden?”
“I go where you go,” he said simply.
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected—and she didn’t have the luxury of thinking on it right then—but it would do for now. Sam crossed her arms over her chest. “So there you have it. We aren’t leaving.”
Tristan threw up his arms in exasperation. “Suicidal fools, the both of you.” After a moment, he added quietly, “Thank you.”
Sam had reached her limit on sentimentality. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “What now, Tristan?”
Tristan straightened his shoulders and said with renewed steel, “We continue on to the Diamond Coast. I have a few words to say to the High Commander.”
Sam shook her head. “Not you, we,” she said. “We have a few words to say to the High Commander.”
CHAPTER 37
The wind tried to wrest Sam’s cloak from her shoulders as she stole her first glimpse of the legendary Diamond Coast. A thousand years ago, Hartwin the Brave and the Twelve had fought and won on this very land, bringing the Age of Shadows to an end. They had sealed the worst of the demons away with magic they’d learned from the Gods. And thus had begun the Paladins’ legacy.
In the great tomes in her father’s library, Sam had read that long before man or demon walked the earth, the Diamond Coast had been dominated by a massive volcano. One day, the earth moved and the volcano erupted with such force that the entire mountain upturned and crumbled, burying itself in layers of ash and molten rock.
Over the millennia, the lava hardened and the wind swept the ash away, leaving behind smooth and square-topped hills the color of onyx. Deposits of blue-black rock rose in stacks from the basaltic ground and surrounding sea, glittering with diamonds. A man could spend a day harvesting the gems and make a lifetime’s fortune. But few would risk the journey to come so far west; the Diamond Coast was uninhabitable, with no vegetation or fresh water for many miles. The nearest village was more than three leagues away.
Tristan shielded his eyes with his hand, bracing against the wind. “There are others afoot.”
“People?” Sam peered into the distance, squinting. “I don’t see anybody.”
“There, ahead,” he said, pointing. “Do you see that heap of rocks by the beach?” Sam followed his finger to a cobbled pyramid of rusted-over granite. “That’s a shelter, if a crude one.”
She gulped. “Do you think the High Commander is here?”
“Not yet,” Tristan said. “We made good time after Sander left. We must be at least a few days ahead of him.”
“So who is there now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Tristan said, “but we’ll find out soon enough.”
The loose, slippery rock near the beach was treacherous to the horses, so Sam, Braeden, and Tristan tethered their mounts to stakes in the ground and scrambled towards the shelter on foot. A gap in the rock pyramid made for a doorway just wide enough for one person. Tristan went first to make sure it was safe. “You can come in!” he called out. “No one is here.”
“After you,” Braeden said to Sam, and she squeezed her way through the narrow entry. Braeden followed behind her.
The inside was dark but airy. Light crept in through the spaces between the rocks, creating a speckled mosaic on the ground. A copper pot was strung over a small fire pit and rumpled blankets lined the perimeter of the shelter.
Tristan ran his thumb along the bottom of the fire pit. The pad of his thumb came back dusted with black coal. “Someone’s been here recently.”
“Aye, we have.”
Sam jumped at the sound of the new voice. No, not new—she recognized that deep, rumbling timbre.
“Sagar,” Tristan said. His expression was blank; only his rigid posture betrayed his shock.
The Paladin wedged his broad shoulders through the tight entrance and stepped into the shelter. “Lyons,” Sagar said coldly. Acknowledging them separately, he said, “Braeden, Sam. I see there are only three of you.”
“Just us three,” Tristan confirmed, his mouth pinched into a tight line.
“And where is Sander Branimir?”
Tristan shrugged. “In Luca, perhaps? We have not been in recent contact.”
Sander regarded him with a mixture of resignation and regret. “Did you even make an effort?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.
“To recapture him? Sagar, the man saved my life. If you would only listen—”
“I have my orders,” Sagar said stiffly. “And unlike you, I will follow them, however distasteful I find them.”
“Orders?” Tristan asked. “What orders?”
Sagar sighed and put his fist to the hollow between his brows. “The High Commander gave you one week to retrieve Sander. Tristan, it’s been a fortnight. What did you expect when you showed up here without him? You know what I’ve been ordered to do.”
Tristan’s laughter held an edge of bitterness. “What, the High Commander couldn’t be bothered to do it himself? You’re to be my executioner?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I won’t give up without a fight, and you haven’t a prayer of defeating me.”
Sagar flushed a dull, angry red, his cheeks matching the shade of his beard. “I’m well aware who the superior swordsman is between us, Lyons. But I didn’t come to the Diamond Coast alone.” He turned to Sam and Braeden. “If you two leave now, the High Commander will forgive you everything.” When they didn’t move, he added, more sharply, “Don’t throw your futures away out
of some misguided notion of friendship.”
“Is that what you did, Paladin?” Sam asked, enraged on Tristan’s behalf. She marched right up to the Paladin, shoving her face in front of his. “Throw however many years of friendship away because of one man’s order? And in the time you’ve known Tristan, has he ever been disloyal or anything less than a Paladin should be? Has he?”
Sagar’s face grew darker. “D’you think I want to do this? I was perfectly happy in Catania, minding my own business. Then out of nowhere, the High Commander sends me a missive ordering me to the Diamond Coast. No explanation, but it’s the High Commander, so I go. Then, I get here, and I’m told that Lyons is colluding with the enemy, and I’m to see him punished for it. Have you seen Tristan with a sword? I’ve no wish to die.”
“Sagar?” a man’s voice called out. “Sagar? Are you in there?”
“Aye, I’ve got Lyons here, too!” he shouted back. Sam couldn’t hear the man’s muffled response.
Sagar returned his attention to Sam and Braeden. “This is your last chance,” he warned them. “No? Then the grace period is over. I hope your friendship warms your graves at night.” With that parting remark, he unsheathed his sword and backed slowly out of the shelter.
A tense silence filled the small room. Tristan’s face was set in stone. “You should go,” he said. “They’ll still forgive you if you leave now.”
“I already told you, we’re not going anywhere,” Sam said.
“You might die out there,” Tristan said. “Fighting a man—fighting a Paladin—is nothing like fighting a demon.”
Sam drew her sword from its scabbard. She grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry. I learned from the best.”
A long knife slipped into Braeden’s right hand and he undid the ties of his robe with the other, letting the empty sleeves flutter to his waist. He slid the dagger into his heart, all the way to the hilt, and pulled it out with a grimace. His crimson eyes burned bright.
“Can’t say I didn’t try,” Tristan said, shaking his head. He lifted his own sword from his hip, a long, two-handed claymore. “I’ll go first. Hold your weapons out in front of you as you leave. We don’t know what’s waiting for us on the other side. Be ready for anything.”
They exited the shelter single file, Tristan at the head. Four paladins, weapons at the ready, waited for them. Only one was a stranger to Sam: an enormous giant of a man with a shaved head and a gold hoop earring dangling from his left ear. She had no trouble placing the other two men: Paladin Parsall and Paladin Boyle from Westergo. While Sagar may have been drafted to carry out the High Commander’s threat, Sam suspected Parsall and Boyle had volunteered for the opportunity.
“Oh, good,” Tristan said. “There are only four of you. For a moment, I was worried.”
“There are four of us and three of you,” Boyle sneered. “You’re outnumbered. I did warn you you’d get your comeuppance one day. And I’m going to be the one to hand it to you.”
A snort of air escaped through his nose. “That’s as likely to happen as the sun falling out of the sky. You couldn’t touch a hair on my head if you tried.”
Boyle scowled and bent his front knee. “You have an inflated ego, Lyons. Allow me to cut it down to size.” He charged, aiming straight for Tristan’s heart.
Sam took that as her cue. “The big one’s mine,” she snarled, and ran at him with her sword.
The giant met her sword with a heavy battle axe, and her teeth chattered as the vibration ran up her arm. The giant laughed. “I am a god, little boy. You will die today.”
Oh, please. Sam flicked her sword against his arm. Red spilled from a shallow cut. “Some god,” she taunted. “You bleed like a man.”
The giant bared his teeth and swung his axe. She danced out of range, just barely. He was unnaturally quick for a man of his size, and his axe whooshed through the air before she had recovered from his first swing. She threw up her sword to block the axe from plowing into her neck. The impact of his weapon against hers knocked the blade from her hands, sending it spinning to the ground.
Shite. She reached for her sword, but he stepped on the flat of the blade, pinning it beneath him. She tugged at the handle, but he was too heavy. He laughed again. “Over so soon. How disappointing.”
Sam grabbed a knife from her belt and jabbed it into the top of his foot. He howled, and then the weight on the blade was gone. She snatched up her sword and thrust, catching him under his armpit. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it would hurt.
Enraged, the giant roared and drove his fist into her belly. Sam doubled over in pain, holding onto her sword for balance. He elbowed her in the face, hard. A searing pain spread across her cheek and dark spots bloomed across her vision.
His axe cleaved through the air. She ducked, the bit slicing through strands of her hair. Too close for comfort. She shifted onto her toes and attacked, nicking his side. She had to stay on the offensive for as long as she could; he was too strong for her to parry his ripostes. Every time he struck first, it was a battle just to hold on to her weapon.
Sweat dripped from every pore, and her tunic clung to her like a second skin. Dimly, Sam wondered how Braeden and Tristan were faring with their opponents, but she had no time to worry about them as the giant took advantage of even that momentary distraction and struck her across the knuckles with the knob of his axe. Bone crunched, and her blade dropped to her feet. He kicked it out of the way, sending the sword skittering across the ground and out of reach. “No weapon, little boy,” he growled. “You’re mine now.” He raised his axe high above his shoulders, ready to deliver the final blow.
Sam threw her knife into his throat. “You forgot my other weapon,” she said, watching the blood gurgle from his mouth. His axe fell harmlessly from his grip, and he sank to his knees, clutching at the blade in his neck. He shot her a final, hateful glare, and then his eyes glazed over with death.
Sam picked up her discarded sword and poked him with it to make sure he was dead. He fell to his side, unmoving, his blood dripping onto the cold rock.
Sam went down on all fours and vomited. Tristan had been right: fighting a man was nothing like fighting a demon. And killing a man . . . She felt no glory, only deep self-disgust. When she had traded in her silk gowns for a sword, this was not what she had imagined.
After she recovered enough to stand, she surveyed the battlefield. Paladin Boyle was dead, and Paladin Parsall lay nursing a fatal wound. Braeden had split him open from chest to naval, and Parsall was holding his own intestines in his hands. Sagar was at the end of Tristan’s sword, begging for his life.
“Please, Tristan, have mercy,” he sobbed. He was bleeding from several places, and as he shook his head back and forth, Sam could see he was missing an ear. Had anything remained in her stomach, she would have retched.
Tristan’s voice was ice. “Like you showed mercy on me, friend?”
Sagar’s sobs turned into hysterical wailing. “Please, Tristan, please. Oh Gods, I don’t want to die.”
Sam staggered to her feet. “Let him go, Tristan.”
Tristan’s gaze didn’t leave Sagar. “Why should I? He would have killed us all if he were halfway decent with a sword.”
“Because if you kill him, then we’re the monsters that they are,” Braeden said softly. He crouched beside Paladin Parsall and stared into his pain-filled eyes. “May the Gods have mercy on your soul,” he said, and slit the Paladin’s throat.
“Fine,” Tristan growled. He dropped his blade from Sagar’s neck. “Hand over your weapon and I’ll let you go.”
Sagar began blubbering. “But Tristan, what about demons? How am I to defend myself?”
“Braeden, come here,” Tristan ordered. Braeden obeyed, walking to Tristan’s side. “Do you have an extra knife?” Braeden produced a short dagger from his robes.
“Here,” Tristan said, thrusting the knife at Sagar. “That’s all the mercy you’ll get from me. Don’t let me see you again. Ever.”
Sagar
opened his mouth as though he were going to plead for something else, and then thought better of it. He nodded instead, tucked the knife into his trousers, and limped off down the rocky beach.
“Do you think he’ll survive?” Sam asked once Sagar was a fair distance away.
Braeden sniffed the air. “The smell of blood is strong,” he said, “and Sagar is injured. If he can make it to his horse, and his horse is fast, maybe.” He shivered, and the skin on his bare arms rippled. “Then again, maybe not.”
CHAPTER 38
Sam, Braeden, and Tristan huddled together in the small rock shelter. The Diamond Coast was crawling with demons, and had they wanted to, they could have fought well into the morning. But they needed to sleep to survive, and the shelter was as good a place as any to rest.
They took turns keeping watch, and after her watch was over, Sam made a nest for herself out of the blankets in the shelter and drew a sheet up around her neck. With the Paladins’ deaths weighing heavily on her mind, Sam fought off sleep, fearful of the nightmares that awaited her. But exhaustion won out, and she finally drifted off and into dream.
The flame in the fire pit had died and the moonlight was too weak to penetrate the rock walls, plunging the shelter into darkness. Sam sat up, her bone weariness gone as though it had never been.
The fire roared back to life, a high, flickering blaze, sending shadows dancing across the room. Braeden knelt beside the fire pit, tending to the coals. He looked up at her, his slit pupils reflecting the orange of the flame. “Sam,” he said. The way he said her name sounded strange, though she couldn’t pinpoint what was strange about it.
“Is it still Tristan’s watch?” she asked.
“Aye.” Braeden threw another coal into the fire pit, and the flame sparked and flared. “Are you tired?”
Sam shook her head. She felt energized, like she was going to burst out of her skin.