Sword's Call Read online

  Sword’s Call

  Book One

  of

  The King’s Riders

  by

  C.A. Szarek

  Sword’s Call

  by

  C.A. Szarek

  Book One of

  The King’s Riders

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © February 14, 2013, C.A. Szarek

  Cover Art Copyright © 2013, Nicole Cadet (http://www.nicolecadet.com/)

  Series Imprint Copyright © 2013, Tatiana Barfod

  Map Copyright © 2013, Matthew Bryant

  Paper Dragon Publishing

  North Richland Hills, TX

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including, but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Paper Dragon Publishing or the Author.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-941151-00-6

  Print book ISBN: 978-1-941151-01-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Second eBook Edition: January, 2014

  Second Print Edition: January 2014

  Other Books by C.A. Szarek

  The King’s Riders—Fantasy Romance

  Love’s Call (Book Two)

  Crossing Forces—Romantic Suspense

  Collision Force (Book One)

  Cole in Her Stocking (A Crossing Forces Christmas)—FREE read!

  Chance Collision (Book Two)

  Calculated Collision (Book Three) Coming June 2014!

  Anthologies

  Deep in the Hearts of Texas—FREE read!

  Story: Promise (A Crossing Forces Companion)

  THE NORTH

  DEDICATION

  For anyone who has ever believed in me. You have all made this possible.

  And you know who you are.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This story always was, and always will be very close to my heart—for many reasons. I met Jorrin and Cera when I was a teen, so I’ve known them for a really long time, and I can’t adequately express how exciting it is to share their story—and the world of the King’s Riders with others.

  There are so many people who have helped me along this journey of chasing my dream!

  To my critique partners, Michelle, Clover, Jen, Gina: Y’all rock! Thanx for helping me make this book what it is! (AWESOME, of course!)

  Susie and Kim, thanx for telling me I’m a good writer when I disagreed!

  Amee, Jo-Anna (‘eh Jo), Alanna, Kerry, Toni, Michelle—you girls are so fantastic I can’t even put it into words!

  JoAnna (y’all Jo), Thanx for buying my book the day we met—LOL! A friend for life! *wink* Thanx for always being there for me!

  To all my FB and Twitter friends who are staunch supporters, promo masters and just all-around made of awesome! Without you, I couldn’t do this!

  Table of Contents

  Sword’s Call

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Heart pounding and fists clenched, Cera sat in the Dragon’s Lair’s darkest corner. By choice, the candle on the table was unlit. The bowl of stew half eaten, food the last thing on her mind.

  The door to the tavern swung open. Her white wolf growled low and deep beside her.

  Cera glanced up, squinting in the sudden flood of sunlight. As the door slammed shut and her eyes adjusted to the renewed murkiness, she took in the newest arrival.

  Then she focused on Trikser. She couldn’t have him going for anyone’s throat.

  “Shhh, Trik, it’s all right.” She ran a hand through his fur, smoothing his hackles along the length of his spine. The big wolf looked up at her and licked her hand. One corner of her mouth lifted and she bit back a sigh.

  The only reason the owner of the tavern even let him in was because no one else was allowed to enter the Dragon’s Lair if she was inside without him.

  No one according to Trikser, that is. He’d almost taken the hand off the last guy who’d tried.

  “What’ll ya have?” Marshek barked, revealing his instant dislike of the newcomer.

  She locked eyes on the bartender. Then she took a closer look at the man sitting in front of him.

  His pointed ears betrayed his heritage, but his height suggested he was not of pure blood.

  Marshek was known to be tolerant of elves, but he hated half-breeds.

  Cera could imagine what the grumpy, middle-aged tavern owner was thinking, and it wasn’t friendly.

  She rose, Trikser also immediately rising, awaiting her move. The white wolf was her bondmate and had been since he was young.

  Relax, she thought-sent.

  Trik sat, but his body was tight, tense. He didn’t respond to her mental order.

  She moved to the bar, her wolf following. He moved in a slight crawl, slinking close to the floor. His belly probably touched the filthy wood planks.

  Cera made a face, but forced a breath.

  Detached control. Show them you don’t care.

  Sliding onto the stool next to the half-elfin man, she was just in time to hear his order. His voice was clear and deep.

  Marshek filled a mug with ale and started to put the jug in its place on the shelf.

  “Wait, Mar,” she said with a wave of her hand, “I’ll have some of that, too.”

  With a curt nod, the older man poured her a mug. She brought it to her lips, glancing nonchalantly at the stranger. His coal black hair brushed the collar of his hooded gray cape, giving him a rather unkempt look, but rugged rather than messy.

  Cera couldn’t see the hue of his eyes from her seat, but his high cheekbones made his profile appealing, his sleek tapered ears adding to the attraction. His powerful jaw line was clean shaven, an oddity in these parts. He was young, not much older than her, and had the stunning beauty of the elves. She could tell he was aware of her perusal.

  His chest heaved, and he finally glanced at her.

  Blue. His eyes were a deep, sapphire blue.

  Her heart skipped a beat, but she ignored it.

  The man said nothing—not that she’d expected him to.

  She set her mug down and swallowed against the liquor burning its way along her throat to her belly. Warmth exploded and her tongue got heavy. Cera bit back a grimace. How could anyone drink the stuff?

  “Rotten, dirty half-breeds,” Marshek mumbled under his breat
h, shoving a wet rag along the top of the weathered bar.

  The half-elf slammed his mug down, his brows tight and jaw clenched.

  Some of the other rustics in the bar shared the bartender’s sentiment, and before she could blink, a man named Herik had seized the stranger by the shoulders.

  The half-elf cursed and tried unsuccessfully to slip out of the bigger man’s grip, his hand missing the grab for the hilt of his sword.

  “For the Blessed Spirit’s sake,” she muttered, rising from the stool. Cera drew the dagger from her belt pouch, but kept it hidden under her cloak.

  There was going to be trouble. She loathed trouble.

  The problem was, lately it seemed to follow her.

  She shouldn’t get involved; should let the man handle the situation on his own, but somehow she couldn’t hold her tongue. She’d do what she could, no matter how little that might be.

  Cera was familiar with the rough men in the tavern. They all lived locally in the slums—Lower Greenwald. His life would truly be in peril if she didn’t step in.

  Herik pulled him off the stool and held him from behind.

  Another man readied himself to inflict violence.

  The half-elf struggled against the hold, but they’d pulled his arms behind his back, pinning him.

  Helpless.

  Dammit.

  “C’mon, Gordo, this one’s not worth it,” Cera said to the tall, but portly dirty blond man—the ringleader of the rustics. Dirty was more than the color of his hair.

  She was grateful that Trikser’s way of slinking to the bar had raised little notice. They still didn’t seem to notice him, even though she could sense him bristling at her side. She sent him a mental command to wait, but he’d react to real trouble without her instructions.

  “I bet his point-ears he is,” Gordo growled, and many of the others nodded agreement. “They would look good above my fireplace.”

  “I don’t think they would, Gordo.” She pulled her dagger into view. Darting forward, Cera pressed the tip into the throat of the man that had seized the stranger.

  “This is none of your concern.” The bartender glared.

  “It is if you want Herik, here, to live,” Cera bit back.

  She sank the tip of her dagger further into the flesh of the man’s throat. Herik sucked in a sharp gulp of air. The scent of his foul breath roiled what little of the stew there was in her stomach.

  No wonder the half-elf looked a bit green; the apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed several times. He probably needed to retch.

  He should aim for Herik’s filthy boots.

  Gordo wrenched her arm to her back, twisting her wrist. White hot pain jolted up her arm. Cera winced, dagger clattering to the floor.

  A snarl erupted as Trikser leapt up in a lightning flash of white, landing on the man’s arm. He screamed and dropped to the floor of the tavern. His hand and forearm hung from an odd angle, even as Gordo tried to cradle it against him. Blood spurted, spraying Trikser’s white coat.

  Cera scowled and snatched her fallen dagger, assuming a more defensive stance. Growling, she gritted her teeth.

  She felt the weight of the half-elf’s gaze, but she had to stop her bond before he killed Gordo.

  “Trikser, no! Just hold him there,” she commanded.

  The wolf obeyed, holding Gordo to the ground, teeth bared and lightly covering the man’s throat.

  Gordo swallowed hard, face as white a sheet, sweat dotting his wide forehead.

  “Anyone else?” She sheathed her dagger and drew her sword. Her grip tightened as it began to glow, its pale aura tangible as the weapon’s magic spread across the tavern, seeking, searching. Her sword had been forged in magic and as the glow intensified, it drew on her own and surrounded Cera with its brightening radiance.

  The half-elf blinked several times, his handsome face contorted. He shifted his feet, tugging against Herik’s hold, as if that was all the resistance he could offer.

  Cera’s heart thumped.

  Could he feel the sword’s magic?

  Did he possess any himself?

  Elves, by nature, were born with magic, and even though he appeared to be half human, he might have some. If he did, no matter the nature of it, he’d know the sword was magic, and that was the last thing she needed.

  She brandished her weapon at each of the men, no one made a move.

  The rustics in the bar, Marshek included, stood shaking and wide-eyed, sweat pouring down their rough-hewn faces. Her sword didn’t find much magic in the tavern, but it was succeeding in leaving great fear in the wake of its probing.

  Silence reigned until the half-elf stomped on Herik’s foot. The man scrambled to maintain his hold, cursing, but the half-elf spun and punched him in the jaw, jumping over as he fell to the floor. He shook his hand as if his knuckles smarted and cursed, but it wasn’t a word she understood.

  He lunged for Cera, grabbing her hand and tugging. She jolted, but didn’t pull away as he made a dash to the door, dragging her along.

  Why was he helping her get away?

  No, don’t question it.

  Cera shoved her still-glowing sword beneath her cloak and called for her bondmate. Together they left the dark tavern.

  Leaping, she landed hard in Ash’s saddle, her thighs smarting. Her black stallion shifted to absorb her weight.

  The half-elf stared, standing next to a dappled horse tied to the public posts. He reached for his horse’s reins, but wasn’t in a hurry.

  “Are you coming?” She frowned. “It won’t take them long to recover and come after us.” Still he made no move. “C’mon, you idiot.”

  ****

  The dark man dismounted the horse, movements tense and jerky. The bitch had been in Greenwald for a fortnight and his shades—mages in his service—hadn’t seen her until she was involved in a scuffle in a rundown tavern.

  He stomped in the dirt, emitting a low growl.

  How could the she-dog have still been in town?

  She’d been hiding out in the open, and no one had seen her.

  Now he had to enter a disreputable establishment to receive a report from an overpaid, inadequate moron.

  The Dragon’s Lair was dim, the air rank. Varthan ignored the turn of his stomach as the heavy odor of sweaty bodies hit his nose. There weren’t many inside, as it was not quite midday, but they would come and the place would stink even more. He weaved his way to the table in the darkest corner.

  “Lord Varthan.” The imbecile bowed.

  Varthan sneered and took a seat. “What progress have you made?” he snarled, waving the bar wench away.

  “None, my lord. She is gone.”

  Varthan growled, throwing his leather riding gloves on the table. “And why is this?”

  “All we know is she left in a hurry, with an elf half-breed. My men pursued as soon as they realized it was her. Her beast ripped my man’s arm off.” Svender’s words were hurried, the apple of his throat bobbing up and down.

  Varthan drew a dagger. His companion’s eyes widened, giving him some silent satisfaction. “I don’t care about that. I need the bitch, and I need her now.”

  Svender’s shoulders shook as he sputtered a response.

  He drove the dagger into the other man’s jugular, shredding Svender’s throat. He backed up as the body collapsed onto the table, head landing with a thud on the top.

  Grabbing a dirty scrap of linen that posed as a napkin, Varthan wiped the blood off his dagger. “I’m sick of excuses.”

  Some of Svender’s low class filthy blood marred his favorite riding gloves. Varthan cursed and threw them to the planked floor, kicking the pair away.

  Useless.

  Why was he in this position? He stared at Svender’s body. He should feel something other than numbness, but he did not. The fault of the large blond man’s death did not lie with Varthan, despite the fact that his dagger had taken the man’s life.
r />   King Nathal had betrayed him. And that bastard Falor Ryhan. If the Duke of Greenwald would’ve kept his mouth shut, Varthan would be in his own castle on his own lands.

  Well, Falor couldn’t speak against him again, could he?

  Oh, how he wished the man would’ve begged for his life. He hadn’t even given Varthan that satisfaction. Too bad he’d died so quickly. And that sweet daughter of his . . . She’d been as lovely as her mother, both with tresses of red flame. He’d had them both naked beneath him before he’d ended their lives.

  The mother had begged him to spare the daughter. In return, of course, she saw her daughter perish before her eyes. It was really a shame he’d not kept the little virgin around. He could’ve taught her how to please a man, but it’d been good anyway. He liked it when they fought and she’d been a screamer. Memories danced into his head, causing a slow smile.

  Varthan met the bartender’s beady eyes, but the other man looked away, busying himself at his scarred counter. There were no Knights of Greenwald alive to report the murder to, though he was in the slums, so a killing at a tavern was often left for the barkeep to tidy up.

  At any rate, not my concern.

  He didn’t linger, meeting two of his shades at the tavern door.

  “My lord?” Dagonet queried.

  “Gather the best,” he barked.

  The younger one, Lucan, blanched.

  “Yes, milord.” Dagonet inclined his head.

  “Meet me at the ruins in an hour.”

  “My lord?”

  Varthan scowled.

  How dare anyone question me?

  “Just do it. I am going after her myself.”

  The boy gave a curt nod, and both rushed off.

  He’d take the elite of his shades, and perhaps when they caught the girl and her companion they’d relieve the population of the half-breed.