Sword's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  It was probably a blessing the travesty had occurred while he was away on a recruiting mission for Varthan. He wouldn’t have been able to endure the slaughter of his mentor and his family. He’d have revealed himself that night, made an attempt on Varthan’s life.

  Dagonet had managed to maintain detached control all this time, and he couldn’t throw it all away now. He’d love to be the one to thrust the sword into Varthan’s heart, but the king had claimed that honor.

  Lord Lenore was sprawled on his side sleeping, thankfully appearing in a somewhat peaceful slumber. Each time Varthan injured him, Dagonet healed what bruises he could; each time the man awoke, the bastard beat him senseless again.

  Dagonet had been ordered to leave the duke bruised and broken, but he’d heal Lord Lenore little by little, wishing he could force Lord Lenore into a state of unconsciousness to protect him. There was a way to force a deep sleep, but it was prone to produce long-term harm. Still, Dagonet did everything possible.

  So far the evil man hadn’t noticed Lord Lenore didn’t look quite so black and blue.

  His heart was sick over the death of the lord’s personal guard. He’d done what he could to end pain and suffering quickly, but Dagonet couldn’t save any of them from Markus and Athas.

  Dagonet had dealt no death blows, only eased pain at the end. Varthan had been distracted with Lord Lenore, and he’d been lucky to have escaped detection by the other two shades.

  To be caught would mean death, after slow torture. He couldn’t allow Varthan to discover his true identity. Dagonet had to protect all those he cared about and conceal the king’s plan.

  Lucan jumped again.

  Dagonet glanced at Varthan, who was sleeping soundly in Lord Lenore’s chair. He gestured the lad to come to him, instead of repeating a verbal command.

  Would Lucan obey?

  Varthan was a notorious light sleeper, and if he awoke, Lucan would be punished.

  “What do you sense?” Dagonet kept his voice low.

  The boy’s face flushed. “I . . . I don’t know,” Lucan sputtered.

  “Come now, Lucan. I won’t tell Varthan, you have my word,” Dagonet said, his tone gentle. Damn, he’d forgotten to call Varthan lord.

  Had Lucan noticed?

  Would the lad comment?

  Lucan looked him up and down, visibly hesitating.

  Even if he did succeed in getting him away from Varthan, how would Lucan ever be able to trust again? The boy was barely more than a child. Much too young to have endured what he’d already been through.

  “It’s like the day I sensed them coming to Tarvis. They were there and then they were gone. I felt the same tingle.”

  “A masking spell.” Dagonet sighed. His gut told him who’d cast the spell. He murmured a curse.

  The healer bit back a cringe as he caught Lucan’s wide leaf-green eyes. His expression confirmed the lad had caught his sigh, as well as reference to Varthan without his former honorific.

  Double damn.

  The boy was sharp.

  “Dagonet?”

  “Aye?” His heart hammered and it ordered it to calm.

  “Never mind.” Lucan shook his head.

  Dagonet stared. “What is it, Lucan?”

  Will he finally open up?

  Lucan shook his head again, this time vigorously. “I think we have company. Even though I can’t say for sure, I think someone’s here.”

  What could Dagonet say?

  He didn’t like that the youngest shade was probably correct.

  Shifting on his feet, Dagonet averted his eyes from Lucan’s much, much too insightful gaze. The lad was evaluating him, his unusual clear green eyes showing great maturity for their turns.

  “Tristan . . .” Lucan whispered.

  Dagonet planted his feet to stave off the stagger, fighting for composure.

  Lucan knew.

  Blanching, Tristan hesitantly met Lucan’s eyes.

  What should he say?

  No denying it, not with the reaction he’d just given.

  How had the boy known his real name?

  Tristan had never seen Lucan before being accepted as one of Varthan’s best.

  “Your name isn’t Dagonet.” Lucan spoke so low that Tristan had to strain his ears to hear.

  He didn’t want to harm Lucan, but just how far did the tremulous trust between them extend?

  His instincts shouted Tristan still needed to protect the lad.

  How much he could reveal safely to Lucan?

  What will it take to get the boy to turn on Varthan?

  Tristan would keep protecting him from the evil man as much as he could without being detected. “No, it’s not,” he admitted finally, forcing a breath.

  “Who are you?”

  “Tristan Dagget.” He prayed to the Blessed Spirit he could trust this lad.

  “As in Lord Dagget of Berat?”

  “He’s my father. I’m the third son.”

  Tristan latched onto Lucan’s arm as the boy’s knees buckled. The youngest shade looked up at him. He’d no idea he’d lost his balance.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Only shocked. You could’ve been killed, you know. Will be if they find out.” Lucan’s green eyes were wide, dark hair mussed.

  “I’m well aware of that. He has to be stopped, Lucan, and I’ll get you away from this.” Tristan made a vow to Lucan.

  The look on the boy’s face told him he’d recognized it.

  Good.

  “How can I help?”

  Tristan fought a gape.

  He can’t be serious . . .

  “I’m not a betrayer. I . . . only want out. I’ve never been his, not truly.”

  “I’ve never thought ill of you, Lucan. I sensed your fear of him the first day.”

  “Thank you,” the boy whispered.

  Tristan smiled, wanting to drag Lucan into his arms.

  Had he even ever been hugged?

  Touched with a gentle hand instead of a kick or a punch?

  With the affection of an older brother, or a father? Even his mother?

  He’d not known him very long, but Tristan could easily see the lad as a younger brother.

  Lucan’s eyes shone with unshed tears. He sniffled and wiped at his nose.

  Tristan said nothing, even Lucan had his pride.

  Given what the boy had been through, he could probably fill a lake with tears and rightly so, but Lucan was stronger than he knew.

  Tristan squeezed his shoulder gently and Lucan smiled.

  Even one smile from the lad’s a start.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Markus growled, rubbing his throbbing head.

  The bitch was here.

  She’d kept him from his conquest.

  Stomping his feet as he tried to stand, Markus almost toppled over. He cursed long and hard. Has to grip the side of the nearest stall to keep from falling onto the pile of hay. The spot was supposed to have been where he bedded the pretty little maid.

  The ache in his loins had gone unsatisfied.

  He’d kill that bitch, no matter what his master said.

  Maybe Markus would have some fun with her first, though.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Athas bit at him, striding into the barn. The other shade looked around. “You let her go?” His voice was full of venom.

  Markus met his dark eyes, sneering. “No, you fool. I was stunned . . . by a spell. Don’t you even sense it?”

  “What? By who? What happened?”

  “Ryhan is here.” Markus’s tone was flat.

  Athas’s eyes widened. “We must tell Lord Varthan.”

  “I was on my way to do so.”

  Would his legs work?

  Athas would take great satisfaction at an appearance of weakness.

  Markus would pound the sneer off of his face.

  Later.

  “She t
ook the girl with her.”

  “Before or after?” the other shade asked, dark brow shooting up.

  Markus growled again. He contemplated lying, but even though Athas wasn’t so powerful in magic, he’d always been able to sense lies, his one talent that kept him close to their master.

  “Before.” Markus made a tight fist when his companion laughed.

  “Good. My turn will be the first.”

  Shaking his head, Markus forced a deep breath.

  “Let’s go. We can discuss it later. We must not keep Master waiting on this news, I’ve no idea how long I was out,” Markus admitted, grimacing.

  Athas shot him a look that told him he wouldn’t discuss anything later, but Markus didn’t let it bother him. He already risked a throttling from their master by allowing himself to be knocked out.

  Markus hadn’t even sensed Lady Ryhan’s presence in the stable until the magic was being thrown at him.

  Lord Varthan would be less than pleased.

  Perhaps he and Athas would even be forbidden from wenching.

  “I wonder why she didn’t kill you,” Athas mused.

  The other shade could have no idea exactly what position Markus had been in when he’d been attacked and he wasn’t about to enlighten Athas. “To protect the girl, you fool.”

  “I suppose so . . .” Athas looked far too pensive for his liking.

  He’d flatten him with both fists as soon as he got the chance.

  When they made it to the great hall, Markus spotted Lucan and Dagonet deep in conversation, their heads bent together and tone very low. He sneered, but was curious. Markus didn’t trust either of them, but then again, he didn’t trust Athas either.

  Dagonet was much too quiet for his liking, and Lucan was far too jumpy. He admired all the power contained in the boy’s small frame, but wasn’t fond of his place—Lucan’s closeness, to the man Markus admired most. It cut more that Lucan didn’t want the favored position.

  The two looked up at the same time, Dagonet meeting his eyes. The healer nodded politely, and Markus made himself echo it. He’d no real reason to dislike the other shade, he merely did.

  Markus joined them, suppressing the urge to smack Lucan when he blanched. Athas was on his heels, so perhaps Lucan’s reaction was due to the eldest shade, who had never quite concealed his contempt for the youngster.

  “Ryhan is here,” Markus said.

  Dagonet’s hazel eyes widened, but his instinct told him it was faked. Markus would examine that later. He needed to explain everything to the other two shades before they woke their master.

  “What happened?” Dagonet asked, his tone low.

  “She stunned me in the stable. I have no idea how long I was out.”

  “You were gone over an hour,” Dagonet said.

  Markus nodded understanding. It wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. He exchanged a look with Athas, who said nothing.

  “I wonder why she left you alive,” Dagonet mused.

  Athas laughed. “I said the same thing.”

  “To protect the girl, I would assume. She took her away.” Markus gritted through his teeth, fists clenched.

  “I see . . .” The healer cocked his head to one side.

  Lucan had said nothing, so Markus glared at him. He took a small step closer to Dagonet, and Markus sneered. “What do you have to say?”

  “N-n-nothing . . .” Lucan stammered. “I sensed nothing.”

  Markus looked at Athas to see if he thought the boy lied.

  “He speaks the truth,” Athas said.

  “I also felt nothing,” Dagonet remarked.

  “He won’t like it,” Markus whispered, gesturing to their master.

  “You tell him,” Athas ordered.

  Markus grimaced and clenched both of his fists harder, until his knuckles whitened. He was going to pound Athas into the floor sooner than later.

  He sighed, acquiescing, but Markus would never admit it to Athas.

  Lord Varthan hadn’t struck him in a long while.

  Would that continue, considering the news he had to present?

  Taking a step forward, Markus threw a glare over his shoulder as Athas snickered.

  Dagonet gave him a small smile and though there was no menace in it, Markus glared at him, too.

  “Lord Varthan.”

  The older man’s eyes snapped open, Markus took a step backward.

  “What is it?” the master demanded.

  “Ryhan is here,” Markus said, gulping.

  Had he just stuttered?

  His master’s brows tightened and he sat up taller in the chair. “Tell me what happened,” Lord Varthan ordered.

  “She caught me unaware in the stable.” Heat crept up Markus’s neck.

  Had his master noticed?

  “Unaware?”

  “Yes, she stunned me with a spell and took the maid,” Markus confessed, looking down.

  “Why did she not kill you?”

  Markus didn’t get a chance to answer, but the master shot a glare at Athas’s sudden outburst of laughter. The other shade cut it off immediately.

  “Find her. Lucan stays with me. The rest of you go, now. Don’t harm her and keep your hands to yourself.” The lord gave Markus and Athas both meaningful looks. “We must welcome her to her family’s home.”

  ****

  Cera heard voices and flattened herself against the wall.

  Markus. She remembered his harsh tones from the stable.

  She growled.

  Her plan was still to turn herself in to be taken to Varthan, but she didn’t have to go quietly. They didn’t need to know it was on purpose.

  Inflicting a little damage to the bastards would be fun.

  Bickering.

  Markus was arguing with someone.

  Cera rolled her eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the corridor in front of two shades. She raised her arm, guessing Markus would assume she would try to stun him.

  He was ready and screamed a spell that made a visible shield surrounding him and the other shade.

  Might be handy to learn that one.

  Cera took off running.

  “Dammit,” Markus shouted.

  The pounding of boots echoed as the two shades gave chase. It didn’t take them long to catch up to her and back her into a corner.

  Cera brandished Gamel’s sword.

  Markus laughed and drew his own.

  “She’s mine,” Markus told the other shade, who gave a curt nod.

  She smirked.

  The truth was Markus was hers, he just didn’t know it yet.

  “Don’t hurt her. The master said unharmed.” The dark haired shade leaned against the wall as if he was bored.

  Was this Athas? Or the healing shade?

  His statement gave her a moment’s pause.

  Why would Varthan want her brought to him unharmed?

  She gripped the sword tighter and shifted her stance. Smiling at Markus, Cera put her palm out, beckoning. “Come at me, you bastard. Let me show you what it’s like when a girl can defend herself.”

  He let out another hearty laugh. Markus lunged, and she gracefully deflected his charge. He turned his body, guarding himself well.

  Cera didn’t miss his eyes widening, though.

  Like most men facing a lady, he’d underestimated her.

  It was to her advantage. She was good with a sword; she’d just have to prove it.

  Stalking him, Cera came at him a few times. When she barely missed cutting him the second time, she cursed, but Markus was already reevaluating his strategy.

  “She plays with you, Markus,” the other shade said nonchalantly.

  “Not for long.” Markus didn’t even spare his friend a glance. He growled and charged again.

  Cera grinned; she had him.

  She should just run him through, but she needed them to take her to Varthan. It
was the only way her plan would work. She laughed as her sword slashed through his shirt and upper arm, cutting deeply. She’d gotten a good piece of him.

  Markus dropped his weapon and cursed, grabbing his arm. Blood seeped through his fingers and a starburst stain spread over his white tunic sleeve around his grip.

  Staring, she waited to see what he would do. She didn’t relax her posture.

  He screamed a spellword, and Cera was thrown backward, the air forced out of her as she slid down the wall and landed in a heap on her rear end. Her chest ached as she struggled for breath. She cursed him to hell and back.

  Stalking toward her, fist raised, Markus was filled with rage, his expression menacing, but the other shade grabbed his forearm as he passed.

  Scrambling to her feet, Cera lifted her sword, ready to defend herself again.

  “No, Markus. Lord Varthan said unharmed.”

  “The bitch cut me!”

  “Dagonet can heal you.” He lifted his arm and muttered something.

  Cera cursed aloud as her sword went flying out of her hand. She winced as it clattered to the floor at the dark-haired man’s feet.

  He must be Athas, if he wasn’t the healer. He bent to retrieve her sword, and Cera gasped.

  Athas looked so much like the evil man he could be a younger version of Varthan. He shot her a look, but said nothing.

  He has to be Varthan’s son.

  Did he know?

  If so, why had he said Lord Varthan, not Father?

  Varthan had several children: sons and daughters from all three of his dead wives. Acquainted with none of them personally, she’d never heard he had a child employed as a shade.

  “You grab her, then. I’m too angry.” Markus paced in front of her.

  Cera did a double take.

  His skin was luminescent, his hair looking windblown and an even lighter shade of his already pale blond. He was lit up from magic.

  She ordered herself not to be fascinated. He was a bastard, her enemy. “Oh, does your arm hurt? It’s a pity I didn’t cut you lower. I would’ve loved to have chopped off something smaller,” Cera drawled, smiling sweetly.

  His face reddened, and he glowed even more brightly. Markus marched over to her, but the other shade stepped in front of her, holding his hand up.