"Good. My nephew's sword needs a new grip before we reach the capital. He is to train with Malgreer,” Klee added, his voice dropping as if he confided a secret. Through half-lidded eyes, Andrixine watched the girl look her over, the first real interest on her face.
"He's over-young for warrior braids, m'lord. Is he that good? And blue cord for holy service besides?"
Andrixine fought not to finger a braid bound with silver and blue cord. Had that been a foolish step, proclaiming her holy calling and rank? Brother Klee had given her the cords himself at her vowing; she had to trust him to know best.
"Drixus was called to service almost from the cradle. And yes, he's very good. The pride of our line.” He chuckled and slapped Andrixine's shoulder affectionately.
"Yes, m'lord. If you like, I'll run across the way and warn Brick you'll need his services."
"Do that.” He pressed a coin into her hand and settled back in his seat as the tavern girl stepped outside.
"I need a sword before I can have it repaired,” Andrixine said under her breath.
"And you shall have one. Brick is renowned for his armor work. He's a friend, but I can't go openly to him without fabricating a story to explain our actions. When his sweetheart describes us, he'll know why I am here, and he will be ready."
"How many years did you spend in retreat, Uncle?” She sipped cold beer to hide her smile.
"More than a man's allotted span. They were years of peace and rest and a measure of forgetting.” He paused to look into his mug. Wrinkles appeared around his eyes and mouth, reflections of sadness. “They were not wasted years,” he continued after a few seconds of quiet. He looked up, a gentle smile wiping away the wrinkles. “Brick's father and grandfather were my friends. I taught them many old secrets of weapon design and craft, so someone would be ready for this moment. The only sword kept at Snowy Mount was the Spirit Sword. However, we cannot set out on your proving journey without proper provisions, can we, nephew?"
"You are my master, as well as my teacher and beloved uncle,” she answered, lifting her mug in a shallow toast.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood in the back room of Brick's shop, inspecting an array of weapons in many different styles and nationalities. Andrixine lifted one sword after another, impressed by the variety and craftsmanship.
Brick watched her with bright, quick eyes, and she wondered if he saw through her disguise. There was an intensity to his gaze that unsettled her. He struck her as a little thin for a blacksmith, though his muscles strained his tunic and his calloused hand had swallowed hers when they were introduced. Andrixine knew she compared him to the smith at Faxinor, who was nearly a giant. Brick was tall, broad-shouldered, his thatch of hair unruly, the red faded to gold by the sun. She liked him, except for the piercing quality of his small blue eyes.
"I think this one,” she said, keeping her voice low. She picked up a shorter sword, better for stabbing than slashing. The blade glowed from a fine polishing that made it a mirror. She would regret using the sword and dulling the bright metal.
"A good choice, young sir.” Brick reached into the rack hanging from the ceiling. He brought down a scabbard of naturally colored leather with bright copper bindings and handed it to her. “Will you send the king's warriors to me, perhaps, to be outfitted when the war begins?"
"Brick has little modesty and lofty dreams. I admit, his handiwork gives him good reason for pride,” Brother Klee said with a mocking growl. He clouted the young blacksmith on the shoulder and nodded. “Yes, a good choice, boy. Find yourself a crossbow. Not all the fighting we face will be close."
"Yes, Uncle.” Andrixine sheathed the sword and hung it at her belt. It felt odd hanging there, competing with the memory of the Spirit Sword at her hip. She followed him down to the end of the room where crossbows and longbows hung from the wall. “He knows about the sword?” she whispered when she thought they were out of the cocky young man's hearing.
"He would rather slit his throat than betray me. He is rather counting on the business we will bring him.” Brother Klee brought down a pretty little crossbow with blue-dyed strings and hawks carved into its golden wood. “Fancy, but well-made. Did you make this when you were laid up with that broken leg?” he said, raising his voice and turning to face their host.
"A happier sick time I never had.” Brick shrugged, his face taking on a faint blush in the shadows. “I made some designs my father dreamed up but never tried. This will shoot further and faster than crossbows twice its size."
"How does it feel, nephew?” He handed it to her.
Andrixine obediently hefted it, sighted, raised and lowered her arm several times to get the feel of the weapon.
"Well balanced and light. I like it.” She imagined shooting the villains who had taken her mother, and shuddered. She wondered why beauty combined so well with deadliness.
"Good, we will take that as well. Choose your bolts while I pick my own weapons.” He strode away, leaving Andrixine to sort through the bin of arrows and bolts.
She chose four times as many as she thought necessary. There would be fighting, even with her father's soldiers to help, and a chance she couldn't stop and retrieve her missiles. Andrixine understood Brother Klee's references to being forewarned, forearmed and triply prepared.
When they rode from the village, Andrixine felt strangely dissatisfied. No one had looked twice at her. No one had challenged her possession of Grennel or her warrior braids. Perhaps it was the presence of Brother Klee even before he strapped on a sword. Dressed in his scholar's robe but armed with a silver-bound staff, wide shoulders thrown back and voice booming, he was an imposing presence. She didn't know whether to be glad of the safety his company created, or disappointed. She was supposed to be proving herself, was she not?
Then she looked at the sword bobbing softly at her hip, the new crossbow tied to her saddle, and knew she was being foolish. How could she have fought off anyone without weapons? Her ability to dodge, to hit vulnerable spots with fists and feet, would only stand her in good stead for a short time.
* * * *
THEY REACHED THE site of the burned inn with dusk's shadows. Andrixine heard voices through the quiet of the forest, muted as if the bitter stink of burning still in the air muffled all sound and movement. Brother Klee raised his hand to signal a stop, and she complied. A prickle of warning raced up her back, silencing her before she could question him. Those were likely Faxinor soldiers up ahead. Or were they? Could the kidnappers have returned to find the man she killed?
Brother Klee closed his eyes a moment, face placid but for the hard, flat line of his mouth. Did the Spirit Sword show him what lay ahead in the violated clearing? She wanted to reach back and touch the cloth-wrapped sword, then shuddered at the blasphemy of demanding a vision. She was the servant of Yomnian's will. The sword was not given to her as a tool, but to lead her in service to Yomnian, King Rafnar and Reshor.
Brother Klee dismounted, and she followed immediately. Andrixine stroked Grennel's muzzle, signaling him to silence, and crept after her teacher through the shadows.
They were indeed soldiers stomping around the clearing, picking through the burned rubble of the inn, poking through the pile of ashes and stones and burned bones. Andrixine felt her mouth stretch into a grin, then stopped with a hand reaching out to touch Brother Klee's shoulder.
Those weren't Faxinor soldiers. She could tell by their ragged gait and stooped shoulders and a shuffle that was almost furtive. Their voices were all cracked, rough, spewing curses and coarse laughter as they examined the scene of tragedy. Kangan, Captain of the Guard for Faxinor, would never hire men who acted that way. Or if he did, he would soon drill it out of them.
Andrixine drew her sword without thinking as she finally made out the crest on the shoulder of one uniform: the rampant lion of Henchvery. These men had come from her Uncle Maxil.
"That's it, lads,” the leader called, wiping his ash-smeared hands on the tails of his ragged coat. “Glad tha
t filthy task is over. Let's hie it back to our last campsite. You couldn't pay me to stay here for the night."
"Lord Maxil will pay us enough, though, eh, Gurnen?” a rumpled excuse for a soldier called from the shadows, and spat for emphasis. The other men chuckled.
Brother Klee caught Andrixine's elbow and led her back the way they had come. She let him as her mind raced.
Her Uncle Maxil had somehow convinced her father to send his soldiers to escort them home, instead of Faxinor's. Why?
"We can't expect any help from my father's men unless we ride home,” she said, after she and Brother Klee had mounted and returned up the path. “And worse—” She choked.
"There may be treachery inside your own castle walls,” the holy man murmured. “The timing is too convenient."
"Could my own uncle have caused all this? Why?"
"You said yourself, he wants Faxinor. If you would not marry his son, then he must remove you. Your sister Lorien is next in line, yes? Would she accept his son?"
"Lori mooned after Feril, but not once he started trying to catch me in dark hallways.” Andrixine shuddered, remembering times her hulking cousin had tried to steal kisses—and worse.
"Then all he need do is convince her that his heart is hers while she grieves and her status as heir is new and frightening."
"Father wouldn't permit it. He'd make Lori wait until the three months of mourning ended before they spoke the betrothal vows.” Andrixine nodded, eyes narrowed as she stared unseeing at the trail ahead. “We have time to rescue my mother, then."
"Secrecy, nephew.” The holy man spared her a wintry smile she could barely see in the darkness. “While your uncle believes you dead, he will not resort to harsher measures."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seven
"FORGIVE ME.” BROTHER Klee's words startled her as they dismounted in the empty inn courtyard at Worland's Forge the next evening. “For the sake of your disguise, you must tend to the horses.” He shrugged as he lifted the bundles of their possessions off both saddles and slung them over his shoulder.
"That's all right, Uncle.” Andrixine took hold of the reins of both horses. “For the sake of a bed and hot food cooked by another, I would willingly do dirtier work than this."
They had ridden late and slept only a few hours under the stars, then rode hard all that day to make up for the time lost at the burned inn. She ached in spots, and her muscles felt heavy, still not fully recovered. Though the weather was pleasant and warm, she welcomed having someone else do the cooking and a roof over her head.
"Be careful what you say, nephew. More rash promises than yours have been accepted as challenge.” His eyes twinkled as he stepped inside the inn to arrange for their night's lodgings.
Andrixine nodded, understanding the warning on many levels. She smiled just the same.
The inn was a combination of tavern, inn, local stables, and from the smoke and tang of iron in the air, the blacksmith's hut. The courtyard was of packed dirt; roots and bits of stubborn tree trunks poked above ground in places. Cobblestone paving only appeared near the doorway. The odors coming from the stables were pleasant, clean horse. The aroma of dinner wafting on the breeze made her mouth water. She smelled spicy meat stew and bread, and Andrixine hoped she didn't imagine the warmed apple cider that sweetened the air. If the state of the stables was any indicator, the inn was clean and comfortable even if rough. That was all she cared about.
Brother Klee's sorrel gelding, Sand, was as finely-bred and well-mannered as Grennel. Both horses were a joy to look after. Andrixine took pains not to spend more time on one than the other, and finished by refilling their water buckets. Grennel snorted at her, swishing his tail in farewell. She laughed, reaching over the stall door to slap his flank before stepping outside. Pausing in the doorway, Andrixine raised her face to the darkening sky and laughed again, exulting in the faint ache of weary muscles and the good feel of hunger that made her glad to be alive.
"Hah! Listen to the frog,” a cracked male voice called. Three gangly young men in rough-spun, patched clothes stepped around the corner of the stables.
Her first impulse was to explain the illness that had ruined her voice. Andrixine thought better of it, catching a nasty gleam in their eyes. They were like her brothers when they had mischief afoot, yet unlike them because she saw no humor in their faces. They were brothers or cousins, all blond with wide faces and the same heavy brows over tiny, close-set eyes. The speaker stood in the middle. He had the most intelligence in his face and carried a long stick carved into a semblance of a sword. The one to his left had a throwing stone, the tangle cords knotted and stained from much bad use and mending. The one on his right carried no weapon. The hunching of his wide shoulders and the dullness of his eyes suggested he relied on brute strength alone.
"Good evening to you,” Andrixine said, deciding courtesy might slow them enough to allow her a strategic retreat.
"The voice is a frog, but the manners are a girl's. Must come from those braids.” The leader guffawed like a donkey braying. “Did you get them from a horse's tail?"
"No, from a jackass,” the left-hand one said, snorting in delight at his wit. The other two laughed loudly.
Andrixine winced. At home, such raucous laughter would have brought someone running, demanding to know what animal was being tortured.
"The fancy little lordling doesn't like us.” The leader stepped closer, tossing his crude wooden sword from hand to hand. Andrixine wished Brother Klee hadn't taken their weapons with him. A real sword in her hand might have frightened them away before they decided to torment her.
After another look at the three blocking her way, she decided otherwise. They would have rushed her already if they thought she had a chance against them.
"I wish no arguments with anyone,” she said. “My uncle and I are merely passing through."
"Your uncle?” The leader snorted and spat. “Didn't know they let little boy priests grow their hair so long.” He reached out too quickly to be blocked and yanked hard on one braid.
Andrixine swallowed a yelp, refusing to give him any satisfaction. She caught his hand and dug in her nails until he let go. She spun away, releasing his arm at the last moment, enough to twist it painfully without doing any damage.
"So you can fight,” he growled stepping back, rubbing his injured hand. He shifted the mock sword between his hands a few times, glancing at his companions. And leaped.
Andrixine stepped aside, bringing both hands together down on his neck. He bellowed and dropped the wooden sword. She snatched it up and leaped away as the one with the throwing stone flung his weapon at her. He didn't have time to wind up momentum. The stone clattered harmlessly against the stable wall.
The brute lunged at her. So perfectly timed was the attack sequence, she knew they had done this often. Likely to other unsuspecting visitors to the inn. Her disgust grew. Some bodily pain would be good for their souls.
She neatly sidestepped the brute and brought the sword down with a whistling slap against the back of his neck. He roared like a stuck bear and fell to his knees. A swing like that with a real sword would have cost him his head. Her breath came harder, surprising her. She hadn't been aware of any effort.
A faint whistling in the air alerted her and she ducked. The throwing stone sailed over her head, one string brushing her hair. If she hadn't ducked, it might have wrapped her throat, smashing her face and strangling her.
She let out a war cry that turned into a cracking roar. Three hard, fast, whistling swings with the stick. Three shouts of pain. She spun out of the way before any could touch her.
A blur in the corner of her eye made her leap. The throwing stone caught on her left foot, cracking against the side of her ankle and tangling. Two strings caught on a root pushing through the dirt of the courtyard.
A shout of triumph broke from the leader, and he leaped at her. Andrixine twisted out of his way, going to her knees. Her ankle twinged
painfully. She swung up with the stick, catching him between his legs. His shout shattered, and agony cracked his face. He fell to his knees, choking.
"Enough!” a man bellowed.
The stone thrower ran. The brute growled and threw himself at Andrixine. She smashed him across his face with the stick sword, splitting lip and cheek. Blood spattered. Men appeared, captured the screaming, cursing youth and dragged him away.
Andrixine dropped back on her haunches, stick raised in defense. Her heart thudded in her ears. Sweat blinded her.
"And who might you be?” the same voice asked as a shadow towered over her from behind.
Andrixine moved as far as her trapped ankle permitted and looked up at the widest, tallest, hairiest, reddest man she had ever seen in her life. His thick leather belt would have been enough for all her brothers, and enough left for slippers for Alysyn and Lorien. His baggy, faded clean clothes were dark blue, accenting the red of his hair. He scowled at her while she struggled for breath enough to answer. When he offered his hand, she hesitated.
"No fear, lad,” he said, his expression softening. “I saw enough of the fight. It was most unfair—the fight usually is, with those three.” A grin broke across his face as he lifted her to her feet. “This time, the imbalance was on your side."
"I don't wear these braids in vain, sir,” she said stiffly, between slowing gasps.
"Indeed, you do not. Well done, boy.” Brother Klee slipped through the ring of onlookers. His mouth was a flat line of worry, changing to a smile of approval a moment later.
"Your companion?” the big man asked when he saw the blue starburst pin indicating holy service on Brother Klee's robe.
"My great-nephew. He will train with Malgreer, if he survives the journey."
"Oh, he will. And now young sons of travelers will survive their passage through our village because of him. We've never been able to catch those three at their games, only suspected who to blame. Until now, thanks to your boy.” The big man glanced at the inn. “Will you let me buy your dinners, sir?"
Heir of Fain [Faxinor Chronicles #1] Page 8