Sword's Call (27 page)

“Lady Lenore is in her rooms. There’s a spell suppressing her magic and locking her inside. I can break through it easily, even from here, but not without notice. She’s not alone in the room, though I cannot be sure how many are with her. No magic is there. The rest of the magic is in the great hall, including the good magic,” Rory said, each word steadier as he recovered from the probing.

“That’s all we can sense from here,” Edana finished, wiping sweat from her brow.

“The good magic is in the great hall?” Nathal asked. “Are they battling?”

“No. There’s not much magical activity at the moment. The more the magic, the more of a beacon for me to see. That isn’t the case now. I see magical auras, both good and evil. I sense no spells other than the one containing Lady Lenore and, as I’d mentioned, it is not very strong,” Rory said.

“What of the sword?” Lord Gallard asked.

“It’s not in the great hall.”

“I see it elsewhere. I believe it is safe for now,” Edana said.

Her brother shot her a sharp look.

Nathal shifted in his saddle. If Rory hadn’t sensed something his sister had, it could be bad news. Especially regarding Falor’s magic sword. “Do you know where it is?”

“Inside the castle.” Edana’s voice was emphatic.

“Nothing more specific?” Dugald asked.

“It’s safe for now,” Edana reiterated, saying nothing more.

Rory gave her a long look, and then smiled. “Then it is safe.” He looked first at Nathal and then at the two dukes. “Trust my sister, my lords.”

“You know I do. I trust you both. Implicitly. Thank you.” Nathal inclined his head to his mages.

The twins nodded understanding at their dismissal. They headed back to the army camp, hidden in a clearing and surrounded by woods.

“What now, your Highness?” Leargan asked.

“We attack. I want to look that bastard in the eyes when I run him through,” Nathal growled.

Leargan gave a brusque nod.

Nathal had forty-odd men with him, not including the men Dugald and Paxton had brought. Not even that number should be necessary to bring down Varthan and three, no two shades, if the twins’ assessments were correct.

He’d learned the hard way never to underestimate magic, so he could only pray his men and his four mages were enough. If he had his way, everyone save Varthan and his shades would make it back to their homes alive.

Nathal couldn’t blindly count on the other sources of good magic his half-elfin mages had sensed in the castle. Perhaps they had unknown allies, but he had to focus on solid facts.

When word of Falor’s death had reached him, he’d named Lady Ceralda Ryhan the sole heir to Greenwald.

Immediately.

Publicly.

He would
not
have any of the other lords squabbling for the territory, particularly taking the horror of Ascova from nearly twenty turns ago into consideration. Civil war had split the Province into two, North and South Ascova, though the Gallard family ruled over it all peaceably now. Nathal’s first battle as the king of the continent, he’d barely been out of boyhood.

Like Ascova had with the Gallards, Greenwald would remain in the Ryhan family, whether Cera decided to marry or not.

It was Nathal’s rightful place to find a match for her as her king— especially now, since she had no living male blood relative—but he wouldn’t push her into anything she didn’t want, after all she’d been through. If Cera wanted to remain a Senior Rider, Nathal would send someone to hold Greenwald until she felt otherwise. Dugald’s younger brother, Roald, would suffice.

As the second son, Roald Gallard held a castle in South Ascova, but it wouldn’t take much convincing to move his large family to Greenwald. He could even raise his horses there. The duke’s brother was widely known for his skills as a breeder. Destroyer came from fine Ascovan stock.

Nathal had contemplated appointing Everett as Cera’s guardian, but she needed no guardian. One and twenty was an acceptable age for an unmarried lady still to have a guardian, but Nathal knew Cera.

She was strong and independent, and she could run Greenwald on her own if she wished. Nathal would place someone to advise her at Greenwald and make sure Castle Ryhan was fully staffed. He wouldn’t pressure her into much else.

No forcing her to court or parading suitors in front of her. Nathal owed Falor that much, at least. Perhaps he’d even lend her Leargan to lead her men-at-arms or personal guard. The young knight was more than capable, though he’d miss having him at his side.

Varthan’s betrayal still stung every time he thought about it, but he’d never be a victim again. All the turns he’d disputed—quite publicly—the rumors floating around about brutalities, rapes, kidnappings, and murders at the hands of Varthan disgusted him.

Nathal had been a fool.

He’d never forgive himself; wouldn’t blame Cera if she held him responsible for the death of her family . . . Falor . . . beautiful Evie and their younger daughter.

Falor had worked to convince him of Varthan’s black heart.

Nathal regretted not heeding his friend. His heart ached. He should’ve listened the first time the Duke of Greenwald had begged Nathal to look more closely at Varthan’s doings.

If he had, maybe Falor wouldn’t have taken it all on himself, ultimately causing the bastard to target his family.

When he’d been exposed and punished, Varthan had taken being stripped of his lands and title as a personal affront at Falor’s hands. If Nathal had listened just three months prior to what Falor had been trying to convince him of, the duke and his family might still be alive.

Heart heavy, Nathal sighed. It was too late now. Falor was gone and all the regret in the world wouldn’t change it.

So he had to take the next step to be rid of the problem. It was the only way he could make things up to Cera. And to the rest of her family, Blessed Spirit rest their souls.

“I’m sorry I believed you too late, my friend,” Nathal whispered.

Perhaps Falor would hear and forgive him, wherever the afterlife had taken him.

“Did you say something, Majesty?” Leargan asked.

Nathal met his dark brown eyes, smiling when he saw the concern there. “Just feeling sorry for myself, lad.”

One corner of Leargan’s mouth lifted. “It won’t be much longer now, Highness.”

“Aye, I know it.”

When they rejoined the small army, Nathal sent Leargan to ready the men so he could address them. Efforts would be specifically coordinated.

He’d split them into four groups; each guarded by a mage upon their approach, so they’d be protected by magic and take the castle by surprise.

Nathal didn’t expect real resistance until they made it inside.

A magical assault worried him more than swordplay.

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.