Sword's Call Page 22

  He’d brought his four most skilled mages.

  They were ready for anything.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The noise behind Varthan distracted his latest tirade against Cera.

  With a growl he drew his sword. “We have company.” He nodded at his other two shades as they followed suit and drew their weapons. “Markus, keep Lenore where he is. This shouldn’t take long. If it does, kill him.”

  Markus laughed, and Cera glared.

  She wanted to wipe the arrogant look off his face.

  Cera’s heart leapt when she saw Jorrin, Avery, Hadrian and Trikser rush into the great hall. How had they gotten there?

  No.

  She shook her head.

  They shouldn’t be here, this was her fight.

  Where was Braedon?

  Come to think of it, she didn’t see the little shade either.

  Her mouth went dry when she heard Jorrin shout a battle cry that had to be Aramourian, because she couldn’t interpret his bellow.

  Varthan gave a maniacal laugh and turned toward her love.

  Just like my dream.

  The evil bastard advanced on Jorrin with a sword.

  He was primed to receive the blow, but Cera’s mind rejected what she was about to see.

  Trikser snarled beside Jorrin, waiting to strike.

  “No!” Cera yanked away from the chair.

  The ropes fell to the ground with a shuffling sound.

  So she could trust Dagonet after all, but had probably just put him in danger, revealing her bindings were rigged.

  “You,” Markus yelled. He let his spell go; her uncle crumpled to the ground, lying much too still for her liking.

  Cera couldn’t focus on him.

  Markus was furious. His body’s bright glow, pale hair standing on end, looked far more angry than after she’d cut him in the corridor.

  He wasn’t stalking over to her, but to Dagonet.

  Her heart dropped, and she froze by the chair.

  “You betrayed us, you filth.” The fair-haired shade whipped his arm up almost too fast for Cera to see.

  Dagonet was thrown backwards, hitting the dais with a resounding thud.

  Markus drew his sword and rushed the healer.

  The healer struggled to wobbly legs, drawing the sword at his waist. Blood trickled down his temple. He must’ve hit his head.

  She felt a stab of guilt. Needed to get her sword and help Dagonet. He’d risked himself for her more than once.

  “She cares for the filthy half-breed, milord,” Athas shouted as he stalked toward her.

  Cera sprang away from him, grabbing the sword Gamel had given her from the floor.

  Athas swore, and pointed his own at her. “I will cut you down, bitch.”

  Varthan didn’t acknowledge Athas’s shout, for he was fighting with Jorrin in earnest.

  Jorrin was holding his own at the moment, anyway. He knew his way around a sword.

  The evil ex-lord’s lookalike was just as furious as Markus.

  Turning to Athas, Cera steeled herself.

  She couldn’t lose to him.

  The shade would rely on physical strength rather than magic; she could sense Athas wasn’t as strong in magic as the others, but he was big, almost as tall as Jorrin, and Cera had a feeling he was skilled with the sword he brandished at her.

  His sword was much bigger than her own.

  Backing up, Cera made herself focus on her foe and not the other two battles going on.

  Trikser would help Jorrin, and Avery or Hadrian could help the healer, if he needed it.

  Cera risked a hasty glance over her shoulder when the clash of swords rang in her ears. Markus and Dagonet were locked together in battle. Dagonet struggled to maintain control, and she was hit with another pang of guilt.

  Allowing the distraction was a mistake. She barely escaped Athas’s first charge.

  Losing her footing, Cera stumbled. She hit the ground hard and rolled away just in time to dodge his attempt to stomp her.

  Someone screamed her name.

  Her shoulder bumped into the chair she’d been bound to. Cera grabbed and hurled the thing as hard as she could at the shade.

  Athas grunted as he scooted away, but the chair grazed his side, taking him off-balance.

  It was enough to allow time for Cera to get to her feet. She didn’t have to do more. As she readied herself for her own strike, a flash of white crossed her vision.

  Trikser threw himself into Athas.

  She said nothing to her wolf as he pinned Athas to the floor and ripped out his throat.

  Cera squeezed her eyes shut at the shocked, gurgling sound Athas made.

  Blood spurted everywhere. Her stomach roiled and she swallowed hard as life faded from Athas’s dark eyes.

  Trikser returned to her side and she pushed away revulsion at the sight of all the blood marring his muzzle and white coat. She couldn’t touch him, but Cera sent thoughts of thanks and love for saving her life.

  His response was equal parts love and reproach for leaving him behind. His amber gaze burned her as Cera promised her bondmate she’d never leave him to run into danger again.

  “No!” Varthan’s shout dripped raw emotion. “You’ve killed my son, you bitch.”

  Gasping, she was barely ready as he left Jorrin and rushed her.

  Trik slid in front of her, baring teeth, but Jorrin leapt out of nowhere, intercepting the ex-archduke and slamming his sword into Varthan’s.

  Cera jumped back.

  Jorrin rushed him again and again, their swords locking as he pushed Varthan away from her.

  She watched the fight, fascinated. She’d never seen Jorrin swordfight before, but he was good, very good.

  He was strong and graceful as he blocked and lunged with ease. So far, neither of them had drawn blood.

  If Jorrin could maintain his advantage, he could kill Varthan.

  Even though she’d made the vow repeatedly to do the deed herself, it was a relief to think of someone else killing the evil man—even Jorrin.

  Sucking in a breath, Cera surveyed the room.

  Uncle Everett!

  Avery already knelt next to his father, and they exchanged a glance as Cera rushed over. They both helped him into a sitting position.

  Uncle Everett groaned and opened his eyes.

  “Father, are you all right?” Avery asked.

  Everett blinked his golden brown eyes into focus. “Avery?”

  “Yes, Father, it’s me.”

  “See to your Mother. I don’t know if she’s all right.”

  “She is, Father. Mother’s safe in her rooms. And it’s almost over,” Avery said.

  Cera’s heart raced, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat when her uncle looked at her and smiled.

  “I’m proud of you, niece. You didn’t tell him where the sword is.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Everett.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  “Nonsense, child,” Uncle Everett croaked.

  “Father?” Avery exchanged a worried look with Cera.

  “I’m all right, son.” Her uncle let his eyes slip closed.

  “The healer, Avery. He’ll help.” Her voice urgent, Cera looked at the young man fighting for his life.

  “If he survives,” Avery said.

  Uncle Everett had slipped into unconsciousness.

  Placing her hand on his neck, Cera sighed. “His pulse is strong, cousin. I think he’s just asleep. He’ll be fine.”

  Avery nodded.

  “Jorrin won’t last forever, Varthan is strong. I’ll see if I can help.” Avery jumped to his feet and drew the sword he’d sheathed only to check on his father.

  Nodding, Cera watched the fight between Markus and Dagonet. She shot a glance to her uncle, begging silent forgiveness for leaving him.

  Trikser growled.

  Dagonet wa
s struggling. Wavering on his feet, each sword strike was a bit wider and obviously weaker than the last.

  Markus threw spell after spell at him, and the healer was barely able to block or deflect each with one of his own.

  Cera rushed forward, her sword ready and waiting for an opening.

  Trikser was on her heels, but she ordered him to wait for her word. Even fighting, Markus could kill her bondmate with magic.

  Then Cera’s death would follow.

  But Varthan gave a loud growl of frustration, and she glanced in his direction.

  Hadrian, Avery and Jorrin were closing in on him.

  She threw a look of regret to Dagonet. He’d have to hold his own. He’d understand her need to get to Varthan.

  “C’mon, Trik,” she told her wolf.

  Her grip on the borrowed sword tightened.

  Cera joined the circle around Varthan.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lucan stopped struggling against the large man who had seized him, but he needed to get back into the great hall.

  The man would have to understand he wanted to help.

  Why hadn’t his magical senses warned him before very large strong arms had enclosed him from behind?

  Suddenly he was free and he whirled on his captor, holding up his hand and flinging a spell to repel the man.

  The man was ready for his attack, yelling a spellword.

  When their magic met between them it stalled, disappearing after bursting into a bright light that caused them both to squint.

  Lucan looked up at the tall man, glaring into his amber eyes. “I have to get back.” He extended his hands so he could strike if necessary.

  “I don’t think so, lad.”

  Why hadn’t the man stunned him?

  Lucan gasped.

  “You don’t understand. I need to help Tristan. If Markus finds out he’s not really a shade, he’ll kill him. And the girl. I have to help the girl.”

  His stare intense, the man’s brows drew together tightly.

  Lucan’s magical senses perked awake.

  This man believed him.

  This man was an empath and knew he was telling the truth.

  His magic told him the man was a very powerful empath.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Lucan.” He looked him up and down.

  The man meant him no harm, but he wanted to convince him he could be a help, not a hindrance. Lucan’s open mind would show the empath he spoke the truth.

  How had the man been able to grab him without a magical alert?

  “I cast a masking spell.”

  “A masking spell that I cannot sense,” Lucan said, more to himself than to the man.

  “It took me turns to perfect it, and yes, it’s usually totally safe from all magical detection,” the empath said. “It is possible to shield your thoughts, lad.”

  “I know. I will as soon as I’m convinced you believe me. I need to get back and help. Markus becomes more powerful the angrier he gets; It’s part of his magic. Athas can detect lies and knows many spells, even if he doesn’t have the power I do, but he’s excellent with a sword and he doesn’t fight fair. The same is true of Lord Varthan. I have to help Tristan.” Lucan took a breath. That was the most he’d spoken at once, probably ever.

  “I believe you, lad.”

  “I need to go. Now.”

  “Braedon, you’re needed!”

  The accented shout took Lucan’s attention from the tall man. He gasped when he saw the elf. His magical senses surged. This elf was more powerful than the teachers at the shade compound.

  Head throbbing with power, Lucan’s hands tingled, his body starting to warm. Soon his skin would glow if he didn’t shut his magic down. Just probing the elf gave his own magic a jolt of energy, and the elf wasn’t even all that close to him.

  He wasn’t very large.

  Lucan, small for his age, was probably taller, but he didn’t get time to observe the elf because the elf had soon disappeared into the secret passageway, wild white hair flying about his form as he ran.

  ****

  Braedon swore. He should’ve convinced Jorrin to take the lad, but his son wouldn’t be deterred from joining Cera.

  The shade was staring at him with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.

  A child indeed.

  As soon as Braedon had closed his arms around him he knew the lad wasn’t evil. He was possibly the most powerful being he had ever encountered. The youngest shade’s magical aura radiated bright light.

  Did Lucan even know what he was capable of?

  He had little doubt this one could shatter the spell on Cera’s sword without breaking a sweat.

  Braedon gave him a long look. “I feel you speak the truth, but if somehow your magic is tricking me into believing a lie, you’ll not be spared, despite your youth.”

  Lucan squared his shoulders and stood taller. “I’m not lying. I’ll help you and I’ll help Tristan. He promised to get me out of this, but I don’t think he can do it alone.”

  Braedon gave a curt nod and guided Lucan in front of him.

  The moment they reentered the great hall, the lad screamed with rage and ran away from him.

  The dark-haired healer was in a fight for his life, a fight full of magic and swords, with the fair-haired shade they’d seen torturing Cera’s uncle.

  Lucan ran forward without a care for himself and shouted a spell so fast Braedon couldn’t have understood the words if he’d tried.

  The fair-haired shade flew into the air at break-neck speed, and then was hurled down, slamming to the floor so hard his head bounced.

  Dead instantly.

  Braedon winced.

  The littlest shade was seething, shaking hard and gasping for breath.

  Braedon went to him and slipped his hands onto the lad’s shoulders to calm him.

  Lucan said nothing. The lad had never killed before, no matter how long he’d been a shade. Large green eyes locked onto his, unshed tears shining, threatening to spill over. The lad trembled, but didn’t push Braedon’s hands away.

  The healer dropped his sword and collapsed, exhausted, but mostly unharmed.

  “You betraying little whelp. I will kill you,” Varthan shouted.

  The fact the evil man was surrounded by Cera, Avery, Jorrin, Hadrian and Trikser didn’t seem to dim his anger.

  Varthan brandished his sword, but made no move away from his would-be captors, eyeing the white wolf more than the others.

  Hadrian cast a containment bubble, but the elf was tired, pale and panting. It wouldn’t last long.

  “No, I will kill you!” Lucan glared, shoving Braedon’s hands off his shoulders and rushing forward.

  The lad lifted his arm, hand already glowing.

  He slipped into a concentration.

  Braedon took a step back, squinting against Lucan’s magic.

  Chanting, the lad shined more brightly with each passing second.

  ****

  Everything happened at once.

  Varthan leapt forward, crashing through Hadrian’s bubble spell as the doors to the great hall were thrown open. The elf wizard tumbled to his rear end, but cursed and scrambled to his feet again, wiping his bushy brow and yanking his dark brown tunic straight.

  Armed men, all holding swords at the ready, poured into the vast room.

  Avery was knocked to the ground, shouting in pain and gripping his arm.

  Varthan’s blind strike had sliced Avery’s upper arm. Cera’s cousin rolled out of the way of stomping feet and uttered a curse.

  Varthan whirled, his sword ready, looking about to see who would fight him next.

  When everyone seemed too stunned to move, he continued his stalk toward the youngest shade.

  “Varthan,” someone shouted.

  Cera’s jaw dropped open when she saw King Nathal, his sword drawn and pointed at Varthan. He didn’t have a helmet o
n; his tawny hair framed his face like a lion’s mane. His pale blue eyes flashed; his large chest was covered in mail and armor, breeches the bright blue of Terraquist, and a shield on his arm. It depicted a roaring lion and a blue flag, the seal of the capital.

  She couldn’t move for a moment, but then chided herself for allowing a distraction and refocused on Varthan.

  He was free of their circle now, but wouldn’t go far.

  The king’s men encircled the room, and all exits were blocked.

  But Varthan was desperate and aware his own mortality was staring him in the face. He changed direction and charged Cera with an angry shout.

  She was barely able to meet his strike. Her arms shook from the energy needed to block his sword, and she sensed Trikser’s bristle from somewhere behind her.

  Her wolf’s growl was low and steady, but she couldn’t focus on him. Nor could her bondmate save her this time, because there was too much risk of harming her.

  Varthan’s body was too close.

  The evil bastard cursed as he pushed her back, sword locked against hers.

  How much longer could Cera’s arms hold him away from her body?

  “You bitch. You’ve ruined everything. You’ve killed my son.”

  She was amazed at his physical strength. Cera couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to, panting with the effort to stay on her feet.

  “Get away from her,” the little shade bellowed, throwing his arm up and screaming a spell.

  Varthan’s body whipped up and away, his dark eyes wide, face paling as his arms and legs scrambled for purchase and only flapped in the air. His sword clattered to the tiled floor of the great hall.

  Cera stumbled backward, losing her footing and tumbling to the floor. She winced as her sword went flying and pain radiated in her rear end.

  She looked up at Varthan, suspended in the air much as her uncle had been; limbs involuntarily spread wide, and then glanced at the boy.

  The tiny shade wasn’t fearful like when Varthan had ordered him to probe her mind.

  He wasn’t weak, either.

  His clear green eyes flashed with pent-up rage.

  The boy would kill Varthan if no one stopped him. He’d already taken one life.