The King's Sword Page 3

  Ronan glanced at Keegan, wondering if the warning should be taken seriously.

  * * *

  That night, Keegan had them set up camp in the trees, just deep enough that the road was still visible. Ronan, despite the witch’s warning, had no choice but to trust the horseman’s decision. He did, however, station himself directly across from Keegan just in case the man meant to do any of them harm. It would be easier to keep an eye on him that way.

  Ula, as before, went off in search of food to prepare, leaving the men to build a fire and tend the horses. She returned within thirty minutes to Ronan’s surprise with a few rabbits. He wondered at what kind of hunting technique she used but forgot to ask as he watched her begin to clean and prepare the beasts for food.

  She pulled a tiny blade from a pocket of her dress just large enough to slip beneath the animal’s skin but sharp enough to cut a clean line in the fur. The witch then, using fingers and knife, began peeling back the skin, exposing the muscle and fat of the small beast.

  Ronan shook his head as she continued stripping the skin away. She was every man’s dream woman wrapped in the ugliest body possible and given a sharp tongue that could make him almost hate her. In moments, she was placing the rabbits on a spit over the flames and the aroma of meat cooking filled the air around them.

  “Maybe after this is all over, we can keep her on,” Arien suggested, his eyes following her every movement as she starting shaking her bag of herbs over the meat. “I could grow used to her cooking.”

  “What good would a fat apprentice be to me?” Ronan slanted a gaze at Arien and smiled. The boy had taken to Ula as quickly as he had the blacksmith. Ronan suspected without any family that it was natural for Arien to seek those kinds of relationships with whomever he could. Ronan already felt somewhat like a father to the boy. And the way Ula had watched after Arien during the day, he could easily tell that she was feeling some parental responsibility for him too.

  “Besides, I have no interest in waking each morning with a rat toe in my face.” Ronan saw Ula’s head turn slightly so she could look back at him. He’d quickly grown accustomed to her odd ways and it unnerved him a bit at how easy it had been to poke fun at her. He’d noticed that she did not take offense and almost seemed to enjoy his light jabs. Perhaps, like Arien, the woman was searching for a place to fit in.

  Ronan glanced at the horseman to find him watching the three of them. Keegan Yore was one who never had to worry of fitting in anywhere. He was the kind people would make a place for. Ronan guessed him close to his own age, but Keegan had a more worldly air about him that sparked jealousy within Ronan. He didn’t like it.

  “Someone’s on the road.” Keegan interrupted Ronan’s observations causing him to glance at Ahearn. The horse’s head was up, his eyes alert and cast toward the road. Without thinking, Ronan’s hand touched the leather that wrapped the King’s Sword.

  “Be still,” Keegan hissed as if the blacksmith had no sense. Ronan frowned at the commanding tone that the horseman used. He might only be a blacksmith, and perhaps not a leader, but he wasn’t a follower either. Ronan stood, refusing to cower from whatever lurked in the growing shadows of the trees.

  “Keep close to the sword, protect it at all costs,” Ronan threw over his shoulder at Ula and Arien. They both hurried forward. Ronan looked back at them when Ula planted her body atop the wrapped weapon, folding her arms. He smiled, imagining it would take an army to move her. Arien remained standing at her side.

  When Ahearn began to stomp his front hooves on the ground, his breath snorting heavily from his nose, Ronan withdrew a dagger from his boot. He might not know a lot about horses and magic but he knew that every living beast reacted on instinct. He wasn’t going to be taken by surprise just because he didn’t pay attention to the instincts of that powerful horse.

  “I thought you knew nothing of using weapons.” Keegan produced a larger blade and stepped to Ronan’s side.

  Ronan ignored him and took a step forward, still unsure if he could trust Keegan Yore but hoping the man would stand at his side to face whatever was beyond the circle of light cast from their fire.

  His heart thudded in his chest. Keegan didn’t call out. He didn’t move and Ronan realized the horseman was waiting for him to do what he would.

  “Show yourself!” Ronan bellowed, surprising himself with how threatening he sounded. A shadow moved, darted through the trees and then grew still again. Ronan glanced back at the others and then stared. All four horses had placed themselves around Ula and Arien. They were protecting the weakest two of the group.

  “Remind me that even a blacksmith needs a good horse when this is over.” Ronan followed Ahearn’s gaze and stepped in that direction. Keegan followed without answering.

  “As guard to the King of Meris, I command you to show yourself at once. If you don’t, you shall not be given another chance at freedom and I’ll sentence you to death.” Ronan prayed that he did not sound like an idiot. He’d heard in a tale as a boy of a guard having the power to sentence those who went against the King’s business. He’d hoped there had been enough truth in the tale to make his threat believable.

  “Don’t kill me!” A head of snow-white hair poked out from behind a tree. “I have no weapons! I mean no harm!”

  Ronan squinted as the figure emerged completely from behind the tree. He stood no taller than four feet, thinned, and his large odd colored eyes caused Ronan to scowl. A changeling.

  “Then why are you sneaking about and hiding in the dark?” Keegan called.

  “Who are you?” Ronan demanded when the changeling didn’t answer.

  “Mikel the Hort.” The creature answered quickly as he held up his hands. “I…I smelled your food. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten in days.” He stepped forward into the firelight and the golden tint around the skin of his neck told Ronan that the changeling was in natural form. He breathed out slightly.

  Changelings were sneaky and sometimes dangerous masters of disguise and until he’d seen the tell-tale gold ring, he hadn’t been certain the little man hadn’t been a façade to throw off their guard. But if this was his natural form and he hadn’t changed, then there was little to worry about.

  “Heyyyyy,” The changeling’s purple eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are no royal guard. You can’t sentence me.”

  “He is and he can. And I would help him do it.” Keegan spoke from behind Ronan before the blacksmith could answer.

  The creature took a step back and Ronan couldn’t blame him. Keegan Yore was built like a bull and intimidating as hell. Ronan glanced toward the horses to find their movements had settled. He watched Ahearn closely and finally the horse, after a long stare at the stranger, moved back out toward the grass he’d been first chewing on. The other three horses followed suit.

  “He’s just a bit of thing. We can spare a few pieces of meat to him if a meal is all he is after,” Ula called and Ronan frowned. It seemed she always spoke when he’d rather her keep quiet.

  “You will eat and then you will be on your way,” Ronan added in a low voice when the changeling darted forward at the invitation. Mikel, licking his lips, nodded quickly that he understood.

  “What do you think?” Keegan put away his blade and stepped to Ronan’s side.

  “I think neither of us will get much sleep tonight,” Ronan answered, returning to his spot near the fire. He watched Mikel ease down next to Ula, his purple eyes round as fat began to drip from the meat to hiss into the flames. Arien said nothing for a change, eyes locked on the little man. Ronan could read the suspicion in the boy’s eyes easily and he smiled. The boy had the instincts of a wild thing, and Ronan supposed that being on his own for so many years had made Arien a bit wild anyway.

  Mikel the Hort proved a pretty nervous little fellow. If he wasn’t moving his hands, his foot was wiggling. He fidgeted, smoothed back his hair, straightened his clothes, and looked about him with wide eyes at every little sound the trees offered in the darkness.
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  “Not many changelings wandering around in this area.” Keegan did not sit, but stood slightly away from the others. “Are you lost?”

  “No.” Mikel shook his head, gaze darting to Ronan. “I would tell you my story if that one wasn’t a guard.”

  “It is a temporary title,” Ronan offered and it seemed to satisfy Mikel.

  “I’m a loner. I brave the world on my own. I live off the fat of others and make my way where I please.” Mikel beamed as if proud of who he was.

  “So you are a thief.” Keegan did not look impressed.

  “A very good one.” Mikel nodded, small chest puffing up with pride. “I know of no other who as good as I am.”

  “Steal from us you shall not have to worry at how good you are for I shall cut you open,” Ronan warned, thinking that the threat sounded ridiculous in his voice. The changeling, however, seemed to take the warning very seriously. He nodded, crossing his hands in his lap, as if to keep them in view of everyone. And he made haste to leave after eating his fill just as he was told.

  When Ronan finally lay down to sleep, tucking the King’s Sword beneath his arm, he contemplated the fear he’d seen in the changeling’s eyes. He did not like making others afraid of him. It had been the title of guard, he reasoned silently. No one dare go against one of the King’s guards. They were the enforcement of law, the ones who could take whatever was yours away, including your freedom.

  Closing his eyes, Ronan desperately wished that no one had ever heard of his handiwork, that he’d never been selected to make the weapon in the first place.

  * * *

  The thin blade arched up and sliced through the night, metal whistling against the darkness. Fiona’s fingers loosened and then tightened on the leather grip of the hilt and she swung the weapon again. Her body glided around, following the movement of the blade, so that it seemed as if they were one, each led by the other.

  “Your skill improves, Fiona,” Diato observed in a low silken voice that made the Serpentine Warrior’s skin ripple with disgust. Slowly the woman turned to face the captain of the Merisgale guards. He leaned against the trunk of a tree, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. She’d long sensed him there but hadn’t looked in his direction, hoping he would leave if ignored long enough.

  “What do you want?” She gritted her teeth when a thin black brow arched. Yes, she knew what he wanted. It’s what he had always wanted from her. But she would not give it to him. Not ever again. Slowly, he straightened and stepped toward her, eyes never wavering from hers.

  “I must ready myself for the journey, Diato. I have no time for your silly games.” She felt like slapping him when his gaze finally lowered to sweep over the length of her body. Still, she felt her insides grow warm and cursed herself for the reaction her body betrayed her with. When his gaze lingered on the slight gold coloring that circled her throat, she swallowed. She remembered all too well the way he’d traced that ring with his tongue.

  “It shall be an easy enough task for you, easier than most you’ve done for a King before.” Diato’s hand reached out, fingertips grazing the bared skin of the warrior’s stomach but he jerked it back quickly enough when her forked tongue darted out to sting his knuckle.

  “You would do well to remember your place, warrior,” he warned rubbing his knuckle, eyes hardening for a moment.

  Fiona inclined her head. “Of course, Captain,” she answered acidly. It was like him to command her when it was convenient for him.

  Diato’s frown deepened. “You were not so spiteful before, Fiona. As I recall you were eager for my touch.”

  Fiona had no control when the color of her skin darkened and divided into black, yellow, and red stripes. His words were more lethal than any bite she could deliver him. They cut to the heart of her.

  “That was before I found you with your touch in the belly of another.” She narrowed her large yellow eyes dangerously. Diato laughed but took a step back. At least he was not stupid. Fiona was a Serpentine Warrior, a breed of changelings that were trained to kill. And they were good at it. Fiona was one of the best.

  “I treated you poorly, it is true. But it does not change my affection for you. And I believe there is something left in that snake heart of yours, Fiona. Could we not begin again? Start anew?” His voice wove pain around her and her color shifted again, returning to the normal sun darkened tone of her natural body. She tossed her ink black curls, cutting her eyes at Diato’s handsome face. She wished suddenly that she were a mammal changeling where she could grow claws and scratch out his silver eyes.

  “There is nothing new for us, Diato. And I have no time for you now.” She saw him wince but he did not press her. Instead he sighed and turned on his heel, leaving her to continue her practice.

  She watched his shadow slowly disappear into the others that surrounded the castle of Merisgale. She wanted to call after him but she bit into her lips instead. He would bring her nothing but pain. She knew that.

  Whatever had been between Fiona and Diato should be left in the past. It had been his mysterious nature that had drawn her to him but it was that same secretiveness that really drove them apart. Well, Fiona amended silently, that and the fact he’d bedded nearly every maid of the King’s court.

  Life was easier with no relationships. She was a warrior. She had obligations that ran deeper than any silly infatuation. And that is really all it had been. He was good looking and had not slighted her because she was a changeling. Not to mention he’d been a fine bed partner. But there had been no more than that. She’d bared her soul but he’d kept himself reserved, allowing her only a part of himself. She had realized after six month of being away from Merisgale Castle that she had never truly known who Diato Gostle truly was.

  He had not completely left, she realized. He was out of sight but she could smell him lingering and feel him watching her from the shadows. Bastard. Her slender fingers gripped the hilt once he was truly gone and with a deep grunt, she heaved the weapon and sliced through the air. She did not want to think of him any more. Instead, she forced her thoughts to why she had been called to Merisgale to begin with.

  The dark forces had been busy. The guards sent to retrieve the King’s Sword had been killed. Now, a blacksmith carried the weapon toward Merisgale. She would meet him in Fullerk and escort him the rest of the journey.

  “Would it not be easier just to obtain the sword and come back alone?” Fiona had asked the wizard who was to be the next King.

  “No,” Thestian had replied. “Ronan Culley would not just hand it over to you anyway if he means to follow through with this mission.” Fiona had offered no argument. A wizard knew best. She would do as he bid of her. Diato had told her that the young wizard had dreamed of the blacksmith and his taking on the journey two days prior. A wizard’s dream could well be marked in stone as truth.

  “How will I know him?”

  Thestian had smiled softly. “He is a big fellow, strong in shoulders and hands. He keeps a short, dark beard that he peeks out over with gentle brown eyes. He is not a mean spirited man, more gentle than most with a heart that reaches out to those he can help. He carries the sword protectively at his side.” Fiona locked away the mental picture he’d drawn for her.

  She’d been surprised when she met the wizard named to be king. He’d been young and with a kind face and wise eyes. He’d shown her more respect than most of the Kings of the past, spoken to her as he would one of his own guards. It had filled her with hope that he might bring about a shift in how changelings were viewed.

  “You practice alone.” As if summoned by her thoughts, Thestian was suddenly there, at her side, causing her to start. It surprised her that she’d not sensed him before he approached. She let the hand holding the sword fall to her side as she knelt respectively.

  Thestian waved her back to her feet, the movement causing his white robe to ripple impressively around him. “I could have Diato give you a challenge.” The young wizard flicked his wrist
and Diato instantly stepped forward from the shadows causing Fiona’s jaw to tighten.

  “I need no challenge, sir.” Fiona glared at Diato who smiled smugly back at her.

  “But it would please me to see exactly who is responsible for bringing me my sword,” Thestian insisted in a soft voice. “I’ve heard you are one of the best of the Serpentines. I’d like to see if that rumor holds truth.”

  Fiona’s frown deepened but she inclined her head. She didn’t dare go against the wishes of the wizard who was to be king. Diato moved forward.

  “This was your suggestion?” She didn’t bother lowering her voice or hiding her irritation when Diato placed himself across from her. His sword slid loudly through the air as he unsheathed it. But he was a guard, Fiona told herself nearly smiling, and not a warrior. He had to know that he was at her mercy the moment the wizard had motioned for him to practice with her.

  “It was not.” Diato shook his head as the wizard backed out of the way. “This does not please you? This chance at swinging that sword of yours at my head? I could feel your hatred for me, Fiona. I am hurt by it.”

  “Save your feigned pain for women who have yet to know how you function, Diato. And if I wanted to cut off your head, I would have done it six months ago when I found you rutting about with Saline like the mammal you are.” She knew it injured his pride for her to mention his habit in front of the wizard and she smiled with the shift of power that her words claimed. She channeled all of her pain and resentment into the words the followed.

  “Perhaps it is she you should be challenging, Diato. As I have heard, she gave you a bit of run that night anyway.” She cut her eyes to Thestian to find him looking back and forth between her and Diato as they spoke.

  “Bite me,” Diato growled, obviously irritated with her words. A dark stain crept over her body. Ink black with an adder’s zigzag pattern of a gold and yellow along her back, arms and legs. Her eyes glittered as they narrowed to yellow slits and her long locks transformed into tiny silver scales that made shiny circles around her eyes and features.