Sword's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  All three of the older boys looked at him, astonishment written in their expressions. They’d comprehended the complexity of the spell over the castle.

  “That is a great deal of power,” Dagonet mused.

  “It will not be a problem,” Lord Varthan said, but his tone called for the shade’s opinion.

  “No, my lord,” Dagonet said. “It’ll take effort and strategy to break through it, but I don’t see that it’s impossible.”

  Lucan looked Dagonet up and down. The older boy was almost as powerful as him.

  What would it take for their master to consider him as invaluable as Lord Varthan currently saw Lucan?

  He was envious that Dagonet could get away from their master as he saw fit.

  “Athas, did you see a proper inn?” Lord Varthan glanced away from Lucan and Dagonet.

  “Yes, deserted, of course, but not far from here.”

  “Lead the way.” Varthan kicked his horse.

  “Milord?” Dagonet inquired.

  “We will need to rest before you take the spell down,” Varthan growled. Their master did not like to be questioned.

  The older boy gave a curt nod.

  Lucan urged his horse to follow, saying nothing and making sure he was between Dagonet and their master so Athas couldn’t have open access to him.

  No shade other than Dagonet actually questioned Lord Varthan and escaped punishment.

  He glanced over his shoulder to find Dagonet’s hazel eyes steadily regarding him.

  Lucan looked away, shifting in his saddle.

  He was relieved their master was allowing them to rest. Although he’d not gotten anywhere when he’d probed for magic, exhaustion from the energy he’d expended was paramount. And their master was well aware magic was stronger if a body was rested.

  Lord Varthan had pressed the shades hard to get to Tarvis, and they all could use a hearty meal and a real bed.

  Not that Lucan ever complained, but he would be happy to lay his head on a real pillow. It’d been quite a while.

  Hopefully his master would let him have his own room.

  Or at least a room away from Athas.

  “There will be no people there, milord,” Athas said.

  “Less coin to pay for the room.” Lord Varthan gave a humorless laugh.

  Markus and Athas exchanged a nervous glance and Lucan gulped.

  Dagonet was the only one that seemed unbothered, but that just made Lucan shift in his saddle even more.

  ****

  Braedon rode hard.

  He was worried he was asking too much of Roan, for his stallion was rather elderly. He had to get there.

  Patting the horse named for his color, he urged him to greater speed.

  If he pushed Roan, he risked taking longer; the old stallion wouldn’t survive injury, but he didn’t want to stop. He was a good hard three days’ ride away from the center of the call’s location.

  “I’m sorry, lad, but we’ve a call to answer. It’s important, I promise.” He leaned closer to Roan’s neck to ease his horse.

  The stallion was dear to him. His horse was two turns older than his son and had accompanied him when he’d fled Aramour.

  Roan was the only sense of home that remained with Braedon every day.

  When he’d left his family, he’d honestly believed he would never see them again. His heart beat faster. He’d see his son, after all these turns.

  He kicked himself for questioning the call for two days.

  Dreams had continued to haunt him, so Braedon had blamed it on that. Meditating to clear his mind, he’d seen it. Like a slap in the face. Obvious. And Braedon was an idiot.

  Very clearly . . . three magical auras . . . calling to him.

  The first was familiar. Hadrian, his mentor and very old friend.

  The second had a magical trail not so different from his own. Jorrin had to be at the center of the call.

  Braedon wasn’t familiar with the third, but the call was being simulcast, so it couldn’t be hostile magic.

  The desperation in the call was palpable.

  What in the Blessed Spirit’s Name could be wrong?

  He needed to get there now.

  The call didn’t come from Aramour. It was from somewhere due east—near Berat the best he could figure.

  Why aren’t they in Aramour?

  He hadn’t been that far east in turns.

  Braedon had learned how to mask his trail with more skill than Hadrian had ever been able to teach him.

  The first spell covered his trail for almost two turns. Then they’d found him again, but hadn’t caught him.

  He’d improvised even more with his magic afterward, learning to devise even more powerful masking spells. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have survived.

  Braedon had tried to cast an answer to let them know he was on his way, but the magic was closed, a signal only.

  The call was surrounded in a protection spell that carried the signature of the first presence. Hadrian had left considerable power in it, not even friendly magic could enter.

  Generally if magic was closed, it was so dark magic couldn’t intercept the energy or harm the sender.

  Nature of the spell mattered not.

  Is Hadrian afraid of dark magic?

  The situation had to be dire, because his old friend was usually not afraid to open cast.

  Why had they left Aramour?

  Was Vanora with them?

  Was she all right?

  Was Jorrin?

  His heart thundered in time with Roan’s hoof beats.

  What the hell could be going on?

  Chapter Nine

  Jorrin was waiting.

  Blessed Spirit, he was sick of it.

  Four days since they’d simulcasted the spell to call his father.

  Braedon hadn’t turned up.

  Hadrian assured him Braedon would sense it; that he’d come to find them, but how could they be sure?

  Less than three days before they would have to recast. He’d have to dig deep to muster the energy. Getting over the initial disappointment was hard enough.

  Avery had also been disappointed. Each morning with no sign of Jorrin’s father, Cera’s cousin withered even more.

  Cera wasn’t taking the waiting any better, but at least he hadn’t had to witness any more tears. He didn’t want to think about her tears. Didn’t want to remember what it was like to hold her, and definitely banished the memory of her kiss. Especially the last one.

  Damn, he’d botched things with her.

  He’d not tried to kiss her again. Nor had they discussed it. Both were striving for normal. And although Jorrin ached every time he looked at her, he was dealing with it . . . pretending he’d not drowned against her sweet lips, felt her luscious body against his, and melted into her gorgeous gray eyes.

  Liar.

  Jorrin couldn’t get her out of his head. Or his dreams.

  With a heavy sigh, he dropped Hadrian’s axe.

  He’d been helping the elf wizard by halving firewood logs. Bigger and stronger than Hadrian, he could accomplish twice what the wizard could in about half the time.

  Jorrin smiled to himself, remembering Cera’s shock that Hadrian didn’t have some magic spell to do it for him.

  “He’s got something for everything else,” she’d remarked, eyes wide.

  The redhead had laughed out loud when the elf had told her that magic for chopping wood just wasn’t practical.

  “But it is for doing dishes?” she’d asked.

  Jorrin laughed just as he had earlier. Obviously, she’d no idea Hadrian was pulling her leg.

  “Almost done?” Her sweet voice pulled him from his memory.

  He looked up, meeting Cera’s gray eyes. She smiled and his sense of gloom dissipated.

  “I guess so.” He surveyed the neat stack of firewood he’d made for the elf wizard. “This should last him quite some t
ime, so I can probably stop.”

  She looked him up and down. “You look hot. Want some water?”

  He was suddenly hot all right, but it had little to do with his chopping wood. Heat crept up his neck. Jorrin ordered his body not to respond any further to that stare of hers. “Nah, I’m all right.” He swallowed hard, glancing over his work again, desperately needing a distraction.

  Cera hadn’t acknowledged his dismissal. She disappeared into the cabin.

  “Here you go.” She handed over a large mug of iced spice tea. “It’s not water, though. Avery fixed it, it’s my favorite.”

  “Then you drink it.” Jorrin shook his head and attempted to hand the mug back to her.

  She put her palm up. “No, it’s for you. C’mon, Avery would be upset.”

  He studied her for a moment, stomach fluttering.

  She was reaching out to him?

  Maybe normal wasn’t so bad if she’d talk to him, spend time with him.

  Had she made the drink?

  Cera was being awfully insistent with him.

  “Well, Lady Ryhan, you shouldn’t be serving me, a lowly half-elf. It should be the other way around.”

  Making a face, she stuck her tongue out.

  He laughed. “That was very un-lady like.”

  “It was?” She giggled. “Then I shan’t do it again.” Her tone and manner were haughty. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Weren’t you going to serve me?” She bowed gracefully.

  Somehow, it looked wrong since she was clad in breeches, and not the long skirts a lady would normally wear, but then again, she was not like any highborn lady Jorrin had ever met.

  He chuckled and gestured to a log big enough for a seat, not far from the chopping block. “By all means, my lady, have a seat.”

  She sat on the log, overacting, but still graceful. “Not the best accommodations for a lady of my rank, I have to mention,” she said in the same haughty tone, and then looked away from him.

  Their eyes met after a moment and they both laughed.

  His heart ached. Jorrin wanted more with her. He pushed the thoughts away, clinging to what he had with her at the moment.

  Not nearly enough, but it would have to do.

  For now.

  But the banter was a welcome distraction from the seriousness of their situation.

  Before he’d met Cera, life held a simplicity he’d been missing lately. On the other hand, his purpose had been lacking.

  Which did he prefer more?

  No purpose at all, or one that affected the very lives of people—people he was starting to care a great deal about?

  Nothing he’d asked for, but a role that could fulfill his greatest desires and his greatest fears at the same time.

  “Thank the Blessed Spirit you’re not really like that.” Jorrin ignored his train of thought.

  It’s for the better.

  She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to stand myself. Though I know many a lady who really is.”

  “I wouldn’t like you half as much as I do.”

  Why had he said that?

  How was he supposed to qualify his comment?

  Her cheeks reddened, but she locked her gaze with his.

  Jorrin’s heart skipped a beat. He cleared his throat. “Actually, I care about you . . . a great deal.” It was more than that, but if he told her, Cera would shove him away. And he already wasn’t fond of being at arms’ length.

  Besides, he wanted to gauge her reaction to his lesser confession.

  Her eyes widened and her blush deepened. “Oh,” she whispered.

  Oh.

  Oh?

  She said oh?

  He blinked.

  Jorrin’s head reeled and his chest burned, heart tearing in two.

  They stared at each other.

  He put his hand to his forehead, and turned away. Jorrin shook his head, and when he glanced back at Cera, she stood up, taking a step toward him.

  “Jorrin, I . . . I’m . . .”

  Hadrian appeared in his home’s cabin’s doorway. “Braedon’s coming!”

  The interruption was like Avery’s the other night, when she’d put the first dent in his heart. Now his heart pounded for a different reason.

  His father was coming?

  Cera looked at the wizard, then back at him.

  Jorrin swallowed hard, torn. Ordering himself to get it together, he smiled at Hadrian and walked past her without another word.

  She looked down, and his magic tingled as he caught her rush of pain, but Jorrin ignored his answering guilt.

  She’d just crushed him after all.

  Why did she feel bad?

  “Did you hear what I said, lass?” Hadrian stared at Cera.

  Jorrin ignored both the wizard and Trikser, who rushed past him on his way to his mistress.

  He headed to the cabin, stepping inside and refusing to meet Avery’s gray eyes as he slipped into a seat at Hadrian’s table.

  “Something wrong?” the younger man asked, the brilliant smile on his face falling off a bit.

  “No,” Jorrin mumbled. “My father’s coming?”

  “Aye, let me show you, Hadrian said.

  Jorrin forced another smile and ignored Avery’s curious expression. He couldn’t meet Cera’s eyes as she came to the small table as well.

  ****

  Braedon turned off the road, plunging into the woods. They’d slowed from their grueling pace for the past several hours. His old stallion’s energy had returned, but Roan was still breathing heavier than he liked.

  “Almost there, my friend.” He patted the horse’s neck.

  The center of the call radiated just ahead. It was so strong it made his magical senses leap, causing him to squint. Not a light exactly, but it had the bright trail of the same three auras he’d sensed when he’d first realized what it was.

  The spell was fading, no longer at the height of its power; he could feel it wane.

  Braedon was glad he’d not answered the call when it had been first cast. Coming this close would have certainly knocked him off Roan.

  Smiling at the image in his head, he ducked as his stallion went under the low hanging branch of a tree. Maybe he would get knocked off his horse, yet.

  “Are you upset with me, my friend?” Braedon asked with a low chuckle.

  They came to a clearing.

  He sighed when he saw the small cabin, which looked as tired as he felt. Smoke drifted from the undersized chimney, so someone had to be home, but he could see little proof of that outside.

  Roan gave a whinny that was answered by the rapid clopping of hooves and an aggressive snort. A nervous stallion.

  Braedon looked in the direction of the din and saw three horses. One black, another white and the last dappled several shades of gray. They were tied along a small fence at the opposite end of the clearing, and it even looked decrepit.

  Which horse was the stallion was a mystery, but if all three horses pulled away at the same time, the rotted posts would pull the fence right out of the ground.

  Good thing they wanted to stay put. None were saddled, and a small barn stood to the left of them at the edge of the woods. It was in better shape than the cabin.

  Another horse’s whinny took his attention. A very skinny animal, grayish in color, small in stature, was tied to another post in front of the cabin. The poor wretch had to be older than Roan, and looked like it hadn’t eaten in months.

  Who would treat an animal that way?

  Surely not Hadrian, for his old friend and wizard’s strongest magic was related to animals. If the horse was the elf’s, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as it looked at a distance.

  He walked Roan into the clearing slowly, instinct making him keep his guard up. Deep down, he doubted he was being led into a trap, but from what he’d known over the turns, one could never be too cautious.

  A wol
f came flying toward him out of nowhere, fangs bared and growling, hackles standing on end.

  Braedon discarded the idea of drawing his sword and attempted to steady Roan. The horse’s muscles rippled under his thighs as his stallion pranced. The wolf lunged, and he shifted his weight to maintain his seat.

  The beast wasn’t making contact; it was only pushing them back, trying to keep him out of the clearing.

  He was about to say a spell to force the wolf away from them when a young woman with curly dark red hair appeared in front of the cabin. He didn’t focus on her. He couldn’t allow the distraction; he wanted the wolf away from his horse.

  “Trikser, no!” She raised her hand, beckoning him. “Stop.”

  He stared as the wolf obeyed; the whining beast moved to her, tail plastered between its legs. Sitting beside her, he looked like a peaceful puppy, not the vicious animal Braedon had just seen before him.

  Magic flowed between them. Ah, they were bonded. He’d seen the likes of it before, of course, but not in some time. Smart move, though. Had he a daughter, he’d approve of such a pairing. The girl would have a ferocious protector for life.

  Bonded animals always gained the benefit of living much longer than their normal lifespan. The wolf would survive as long as the girl did. Unfortunately, if one party died, the other usually did not last long, no matter which of the two perished.

  Three more figures appeared behind the girl, the last almost tumbling out of the cabin’s door. The last took Braedon’s attention immediately.

  The last was Jorrin.

  My son.

  He wouldn’t have noticed if the king himself had been one of the others.

  Tears sprung to his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision.

  The smallest of the four figures took a step toward him.

  “Well, are you going to get down from there, or do we have to drag you?” Hadrian demanded, hands on his hips, his head cocked up at him. “I’m short, remember? C’mon, you’re hurting my neck.”

  Braedon chuckled. “Not even a hello, old friend, after all these turns?” He dismounted.

  Hadrian grinned, his clear blue eyes sparkling as Braedon landed beside him. “Of course, where are my manners?” The elf wizard embraced him, not quite coming up to Braedon’s chest.

  They both smiled, then shook hands as they stood back to survey each other.