Sword's Call Read online

  Varthan should’ve listened to the old adage about getting things done right by doing them oneself.

  Perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have lost the Ryhan magic sword and the little bitch would be in the dungeons of her own castle right now.

  Then he’d be using the weapon to raise his army and take over the king’s throne.

  Chapter Two

  “Where are we going?” Jorrin asked when they were farther south—a safe enough distance from Greenwald Main to slow their exhausting pace.

  His companion’s eyes went wide and her lips parted.

  Surprised.

  His magic tingled.

  “We?” Her mouth tightened, brows furrowed.

  For the first time he took her in; she’d lowered the hood of her gray cloak. Dark auburn hair, curly and past her shoulders, big gray eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips—all features that added to her beauty. She was slender and tall, and he enjoyed her show of temper.

  His heart pounded, but he didn’t focus on it. This woman of his father’s race was lovely. Different from the graceful elfin maidens he was used to, but not in a negative way.

  “I am going to Castle Lenore, in Tarvis. I don’t know where you are going,” she said.

  “With you.”

  Shaking her head, she smirked. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I do. Or have you forgotten about the men we had to outrun? Did you help me for nothing? It pains me to admit it, but you did save me—”

  “I don’t care that you’re grateful. I already have a partner.” She gestured to the white wolf and glanced away from him. “Besides, I only saved you because—” When she turned back to him, she faltered, guarded.

  His magic surged. She was hiding something. She must have powerful mind shields his empathic magic couldn’t penetrate without a deep probe. He got nothing else from her. “Why’d you help me then? I could’ve handled it.”

  She laughed out loud. “Yeah. Sure. You were doing so well. Sorry to have interfered. Good day.” Inclining her head, she kicked her horse. The stallion cantered away, the wolf running close behind.

  His dappled mare, Grayna, jerked her head in surprise and Jorrin cursed. “Hey. Wait!”

  The girl’s fear flickered through a faltering mask of confidence.

  Why?

  And how much of it had to do with that magic sword?

  She’d probably stolen it.

  No. Jorrin shook his head. She wasn’t a thief. Something told him she was highborn and trying hard to hide it.

  He dug his heels into Grayna’s flanks, and his mare bolted forward. Her muscles rippled under his thighs and he leaned into her, gripping the reins tighter.

  When they caught up, the girl yanked her horse to a stop and whirled on him, dagger half drawn.

  His mare neighed in protest as he pulled her up short.

  Jorrin stared as his companion’s chest quaked as if she couldn’t catch her breath. With a sigh, she sheathed her weapon.

  “Oh, it’s only you.” She squared her shoulders, but her voice trembled. “Don’t you know when you’re not wanted? Go away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Well then, stay here. Just don’t follow me. Blessed Spirit, can’t you take a hint?” She cast her eyes upward.

  The white wolf growled, and Jorrin shifted in his saddle, swallowing a gulp at the bared fangs.

  “Trik, it’s all right.” She glanced at the wolf. The beast loosened its stance, but Jorrin didn’t relax. “We just have to convince our friend to find another road.”

  His magic tingled. They were bonded; he felt the magic between them as a tethered rope. Interesting. Since when did a highborn female need an animal bond? It was permanent, not a casual thing. The protection of a devoted beast was handy, but if one party perished, the other would soon follow. The risk wasn’t worth it.

  “Last time I checked, the roads were free to travel. That’s one thing the lord has yet to tax.”

  “They are. Just not with me. Once again, you are not welcome.” She looked him in the eye, her steel gaze haughty.

  She was definitely noble.

  Jorrin scowled. “Listen, you are the one who sat next to me. You are the one who saved my hide . . . and when I want to repay you, you won’t let me.”

  “That’s right. Now get lost, I have a castle to get to, and it’ll be a better journey without you.”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?”

  Her eyes widened and Jorrin couldn’t look away. She shook her head, opening her mouth as if it would help force the words out. Her hands tightened on her reins. “Nothing. You just don’t need to be involved.” She turned away and kneed her horse.

  Once again the magic he sent her way was shut down, rolling between them. Could she see it? Her body and expression were no indication. The magic sword wasn’t visible, but it was there, its powers throbbing. Jorrin had to look away.

  Was the sword what’d rejected the magic feels he’d put out?

  He tried to probe with his senses to no avail. Jorrin forced a breath and turned back to the beautiful girl. “What if I am going to Tarvis, too?”

  She relented with a groan. “Then I suppose this is the road to take.”

  Jorrin smiled and their eyes locked.

  The girl shifted in her saddle, her cheeks crimson.

  His smile slid into a grin, but he said nothing; his heart gave an odd thud like earlier.

  Why the blush? And why did it please him so much?

  “Just stay out of my way,” she muttered and kicked her horse.

  He followed silently, glancing at her profile when their horses where abreast, pace comfortable. Besides the fact she was obviously running from something, he knew nothing about this girl, not even her name. Instinct told him she wouldn’t appreciate him pushing her.

  Slipping into the memory of the sword back in the tavern, Jorrin felt his magical senses tingle again. He’d had to concentrate very hard to ignore the magic, then and focus on the men who’d wanted him dead.

  His body had heated all over with the efforts to overlook it. His limbs had actually ached and shaken. He’d been frozen in place.

  What had broken its hold?

  The sword and its glowing aura—the girl had been surrounded by it, too—had sensed his magic, even called to it. He hadn’t sensed menace from the weapon, more a probing for magic which stopped when it found his.

  What could that mean?

  For what seemed the thousandth time, he wished he’d studied harder to hone his magical abilities.

  And the girl . . . what magic did she have? Humans were not known to naturally possess magic as commonly as elves were, but some were more prone to it than others. Some human mages matched elfin ones.

  She could thought-send—he’d sensed it when she’d spoken to the wolf in the tavern.

  It wasn’t often someone could unconsciously shut out his empathic powers.

  What was this girl about?

  Their eyes met and held.

  “What?” Curiosity was etched in her expression.

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  Silence descended once more, but then she sighed. “Maybe that’s for the better.”

  Jorrin shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’ll be easier if I go first?” When he saw her slight nod, so slight it was almost imperceptible, he continued, “Jorrin Aldern, of Aramour.” He inclined his head, extended his hand, and gave a small bow from the saddle. “And my loyal steed is Grayna.”

  The girl laughed. The sound was even more glorious than her smile.

  Jorrin grinned.

  “Ceralda Ryhan, formerly of Greenwald.” She bowed the same way he had, and then froze in her saddle, her eyes as wide as saucers. “But all my friends call me Cera.” Her added words were rushed, shaky.

  He cocked his head to the side, trying to read her again. Why
the sudden shift in her mood? Jorrin’s magic told him nothing, but the smile was forced and she looked ready to bolt.

  “My stallion is Ash, and my bond, Trikser.” She finished evenly, and he admired her ability to compose herself.

  His curiosity about her slid into obsession. Narrowing his eyes, he stared. “So, he is bonded to you?”

  “Yes, since he was a cub.”

  “Dragons bond to elves or even humans. They say they’re fated to their bondmates. They’re always exactly the same age, down to the day, and have to find each other. The dragons feel longing to begin the search before adulthood. Their intelligence demands it. If the dragon doesn’t find their bondmate, they can die, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Dragons?” she asked, head cocked to one side.

  “Yes. There are many in the mountains of Aramour.”

  “I’ve never seen a dragon.”

  “I have only seen them from afar, but they are majestic nonetheless.”

  “I can imagine.” Cera smiled, and he ignored how his stomach jumped. “Just what did you do in Aramour?”

  “I grew up. I left to look for my father . . . he disappeared when I was very small, but in the last few turns, I have been . . . an occasional mercenary of sorts . . . I suppose.”

  “Your father disappeared? I’m sorry.”

  Why did she have to zero in on that?

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ll find him.” His heart sped, unwanted emotion hitting him in a wave. Jorrin shut down his magic and straightened.

  “A mercenary?” Cera’s expression was thoughtful.

  Jorrin nodded. Mercenary was a loose accuracy, really. He’d taken a few jobs where he’d been one of several guards to escort haughty highborn ladies to market in the Provinces he’d visited, but he’d still been a hired sword, and he knew how to use it.

  However, the Dragon’s Lair incident certainly didn’t speak highly of his prowess. Those damned morons had taken him completely by surprise, and his sword had stayed sheathed under his cloak.

  A female saved him.

  How embarrassing was that?

  “And I can track, so I’ve picked up some gold doing that. What about you?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just a girl.”

  For the first time, his magic gained emotion from her. Sadness and regret rolled off her in waves.

  He wanted to reach for her, comfort her in some way, but instinct kept his hands on his reins, to himself.

  Cera said nothing more, and he didn’t press.

  Jorrin would get her to open up to him in time.

  She cleared her throat. “There’s a small town about twenty miles from here. We can get a bite to eat, and perhaps find an inn.”

  And then what?

  Jorrin left unsaid, but the thought was palpable between them.

  ****

  Varthan growled, slamming his fist on the table. The young shade jumped, but even that didn’t give him any satisfaction. The boy could tell him nothing he didn’t already know. It’d been a waste of time to leave Greenwald without a more definitive plan.

  He’d been content in Castle Ryhan for the last two months, since he’d seized it with his best shades and killed the Ryhans. He’d been running the Province as he saw fit.

  It was a dump really; the castle much smaller than his own former lavish home on lands in Terraquist—stolen by the damned king when he’d been stripped of his title of archduke.

  The only comfort had been killing every last wretch that was loyal to the former Duke of Greenwald.

  Oh, and bedding every maid he’d left alive. His shades had enjoyed themselves as well.

  But no one would tell him where the duke’s eldest daughter was.

  No matter what forms of persuasion he’d used—fist, weapon, or magic—not one of the blasted servants would confess her location. On the other hand, it was a relief to discover she lived, because he’d first thought he’d killed all the Ryhans.

  He needed the little bitch, because the day he’d killed Falor Ryhan one of his shades had warned him against touching Ryhan’s sword—his sword—because of a deadly spell.

  Before he’d lost the damned thing because of that steward.

  Though the man had paid with his life, his death gave Varthan no satisfaction.

  Pity, really. Killing something—someone—ususally made him feel better.

  The shade Lucan, his youngest and most powerful, was certain only a true Ryhan could touch the weapon without coming to harm.

  The eldest daughter would help him break the spell.

  Then Varthan would have his revenge on King Nathal. He’d look into the king’s pale blue eyes as he ran him through with Falor’s magic sword.

  I can’t wait.

  They’d already lost almost two full days because of the rain.

  “We’ll go to Tarvis,” he said more to himself than to Lucan. “The bitch has family there, and we’ll reach them before she does.”

  His companions nodded and the oldest, Athas, went to settle the bill. The other two, Markus and Dagonet, left the inn to ready the horses.

  At least they could sense his mood and didn’t question him.

  All his shades had different gifts, which two elf wizards longtime in his employ had honed and grown in his secret compound . . . until they were ready to use their magic at his behest.

  Most of the boys had come to him as children. He’d clothed them, raised them and provided for them. They were all indebted to him.

  Varthan was their god.

  Though the name fit, he hadn’t named the boy-mages shades. They’d earned the name from the king’s knights for all their escapes from the king’s justice. Not even one of his shades was in the penal territory in Dalunas, the Southeastern-most Province of the continent.

  Moving their compound was an irritant he’d had to endure at least once a turn for the last several.

  Expensive, but they’d yet to be discovered.

  Before the king’s betrayal, they hadn’t been tied to him, either.

  He scowled at Lucan, who stood at his side shaking. He resisted the urge to strike the boy, proud of his self-control.

  “Let’s go.”

  The boy nodded and fell into step after him as he rose from the table and headed out of the putrid, shabby inn.

  He made a face. Castle Lenore had better have more comfortable beds than the one he’d slept in the previous night. A backache always put him in a sour mood.

  ****

  They left the small village late, in the pouring rain. Cera covered her head with the hood of her cloak. Jorrin should have enough sense to do the same.

  She cursed as the rain pelted down on them.

  So much for a warm bed in a cozy inn.

  Would they get into a fight in every tavern they entered?

  Jorrin had drawn his sword, prepared to fight, but she’d grabbed his hand and urged him to run, as they had from Marshek’s tavern. Taking the time for a real fight wasn’t worth the risk. Someone had seen her magic sword again. She could have hugged the half-elf for not asking questions.

  Should she be concerned or relieved that he had been a mercenary?

  If he was skilled with his sword it could be handy, but she should’ve never let him accompany her. Hired swords usually weren’t the most reputable of people, either.

  Cera stared at him for a moment, dismissing any worries. She was in no danger from Jorrin. Not physically, anyway. Getting lost in his sapphire eyes was another matter entirely. Her heart skipped a beat, and she promptly ignored it.

  Why the hell had she told him where she was headed?

  For that matter, why had she told him her real last name on the road the day they’d met?

  Thank the Blessed Spirit he’d not recognized it.

  She cursed. It was too dangerous to involve anyone else, even a handsome stranger. If anything, this most recent bar scuffle proved that.


  Jorrin had tried to blend in; he’d pulled up the hood of his cape. He’d been antagonized into action. The men who had pushed them had to be Varthan’s hired thugs. Maybe their descriptions were already out and the brutes had been trying to confirm their identities.

  If she kept drawing the sword, the bastard would have an easily laid trail to find them. No telling how far his eyes could see.

  She glanced over her shoulder. No one was following them yet, but they hadn’t much time. Cera looked for Trikser and slumped with relief when she spotted him. Matted wet fur could be dried, but her bondmate couldn’t be replaced.

  Nor would she survive if she lost him—literally. The magic that bonded them was permanent, and both their lives depended on each other. In turn, if she died, so would her wolf.

  The village was the fourth they’d visited since Cera had saved Jorrin’s hide in Lower Greenwald. They were in Berat now, but wouldn’t be able to ride all night. With the mounting rain, mud was everywhere, splattered a foot high on the stone buildings. Large puddles widened the unpaved road and made for an even rougher ride.

  The harder they rode, the more they risked a slip or fall injury. Cera wasn’t willing to chance Ash breaking a leg, and Jorrin no doubt would feel the same about his dappled horse.

  There look to be a few caves over there. We should check them out. It took her a moment to discern Jorrin’s voice was in her head, not in her ears.

  It was the first time he’d thought-sent to her.

  How did he know she had the ability?

  They hadn’t taken a moment to discuss magic, but he obviously had some. Not all humans could send and receive thoughts, so Jorrin must have sensed her speaking mentally to Trik.

  Great. She had no desire for a little magic talk. She had to protect the sword at all costs—even her life—until she could get to Uncle Everett and Aunt Em, and get word to the king.

  Let’s go for it, Cera responded with a thought-send, pushing away the dread closing in on her.

  They rode into the cave’s wide mouth, its size admitting their horses with ease.

  She shivered against the dank air, but it would work for the night. At least the ground looked dry. No place to tie the horses, but they were far enough inside the cave that worry wasn’t necessary. Ash wouldn’t wander far anyway.