The King's Sword Page 7

  “There will be no killings today if I can help it,” Ronan said between chuckles and relief washed Mikel’s face. “And we appreciate your generosity.” The changeling had obviously been more intimidated on their last meeting than Ronan had suspected. Poor, little fellow. He couldn’t help but to feel sorry for the nervous changeling. He reminded Ronan very much of a frightened mouse.

  “I thought you were more picky about who you took across the river, Grayson.” Keegan frowned down at the old man. He was clearly not as at ease with the changeling as Ronan. And he did nothing to hide his dislike for the little man.

  “Not many traveling round or wanting to cross lately.” The old man looked at Ronan, “I believe you are to blame for that, Yore. You and your blacksmith.” Keegan’s frown deepened as his eyes narrowed on the guilty expression of the changeling and Ronan almost laughed. So Mikel had been running his mouth.

  “I didn’t tell that many people,” the changeling defended himself quickly. “Just the few I came across along the way. Two were old and are probably dead by now.” Ronan laughed again causing Mikel’s mouth to curve a little.

  “No doubt a centaur or two as well,” Keegan growled as he kicked his horse forward onto the raft.

  “Horses cost a bit more.” Grayson waited and Mikel reluctantly gave him a few more pieces before hurrying to step onto the raft along with the others.

  “I saw no centaurs.” The changeling shook his head but Keegan didn’t look as if he believed him. “I swear it.”

  “The word of a thief?” Keegan snorted. Ronan wanted to tell the horseman to give the changeling a chance but opted to keep quiet. It was best to let him do what he thought was best. There had been times when Keegan’s judgment was better than his own. Ronan remembered the bridge.

  “I steal. I don’t lie,” Mikel snapped, and then darted around the horses, positioning himself as far away from the horseman as he could.

  Ronan reached over and steadied Ula’s horse when he danced nervously on the wood planks of the raft. “I don’t like this,” the woman murmured. Ronan gave her hand a pat, wishing to reassure her.

  “It only takes fifteen minutes, remember? Then it will be over,” he offered. But his words didn’t seem to console her. Instead she looked ill and her shoulders slumped.

  “You don’t know this river, Sir Culley. But you soon will find out. The river is dangerous,” she whispered. Ronan studied her for a moment. She’d been so powerful before. Now she appeared almost child-like, frightened and cowering.

  His eyes drifted to the water. It looked like any other river he’d ever seen. Nothing special. Glancing back, Ronan squinted toward the woods. He could barely make out Bryan’s outline. The rest were gone. Only one centaur remained to follow. He wondered why but was thankful. One would be easier to deal with than five. And there was something oddly comforting about Bryan’s presence. It made him feel truly protected.

  “Heyyyyyy.” The changeling reached up to touch Ronan’s leg but in an instant Keegan had drawn his sword and pressed it to the little man’s throat. Ronan stared at the hard look in Keegan’s eyes, surprised at his reaction.

  “Do not touch him.” Keegan’s voice was dangerously low.

  Mikel gave a little squeak as his eyes rounded and his hand snapped back. “I…I just wanted to see the sword. I never saw a King’s Sword before. Don’t kill me.” The poor changeling was quaking where he stood. Ronan shook his head slightly at Keegan and the man let the point of his sword drop from Mikel’s neck. But his eyes remained hard.

  Something had happened. There had been an obvious shift in all those that traveled with him. It was something more than just respect and it scared Ronan. Keegan Yore had started out a suspicious horseman. Now he stood like the solid guard to a blacksmith he’d known little more than a week. And Arien, once the overeager apprentice had taken to leading the group, riding ahead at times to scout for more trouble from the centaurs. Ronan’s eyes dropped to Ula. She’d become more to him than the crazed witch he’d first thought her. She tended his wounds, fed him, made certain he was comfortable…like a maidservant, or, he corrected silently, a mother figure.

  Ronan started to reach for the sword, but Ula’s breath sucked in and she laid her hand on his, stopping him. “No, not here. Wait until we are across. The river has too much power. It can make you do things.”

  “What things?” Ronan asked glancing at the man who pushed the raft away from shore with a long pole.

  “Dangerous things,” Ula answered as they glided out into the waters. Almost immediately Ronan was struck by the river’s magic and he nearly fell backward off of his horse. The river disappeared. So did the horse beneath him. Everything around him did, though he still felt Ula’s hand upon his. Turning his wrist, he grasped her invisible fingers and held on, uncertain of what was happening or what to expect next.

  At first he felt like he was drowning. He could feel the coolness of water filling his lungs, surrounding him. The sound of moving water grew louder in his ears. It almost felt comforting to him. But if he forced his vision to clear, he could see the end of the raft moving along. When he ceased his strain however, the world around him rippled and changed again.

  He blinked and took a breath. He was home! He stood at the road looking toward his cottage. He squeezed Ula’s hand as fear tore through him, bringing him back to the raft and he looked at the others aboard.

  “What is this that is in my head?” Ronan waited for Ula to explain as he struggled to control his mind but it was Mikel the Hort who answered.

  “It’s the river, Sir. It gets in your mind.” He trembled with his own words, eyes clouded. Ronan’s head pounded with the sound of the rushing water while he looked at each of the faces. They were all far away in their own minds. All but the old man.

  “The river spares me its magic so I can keep folks crossing over,” the old man explained when he looked up at Ronan. “It’s better not to fight it. Just don’t give in to it, either. Remember it’s the river you are seeing. Nothing more.” Ronan nodded, thankful for the advice. He breathed out slowly and released his control on the present, easing the pain throbbing at his temple.

  Again he found himself standing at the road of his home. The fence was mended and almost looked like new. He saw the mule peeking out from the stables at him, thinner than she had been when he last saw her. And the building he used to make weapons in wasn’t even there. Instead a garden of vegetables stood surrounded by a small wooden fence.

  He looked back at the cottage as the aroma of baking bread and fried meat tickled at him and his stomach growled loudly. Someone was moving around inside but he did not feel afraid. Oddly, everything felt right.

  The food summoned to him again. “Ula?” Ronan shouted with joy when the door opened. His mother stepped out carrying a basket of clothes. She smiled and lifted a hand to wave.

  He had a sudden urge to run forward and embrace the vibrant woman that was his mother but Ronan didn’t move, afraid she would disappear as quickly as she had appeared. He just stood there watching her. She looked beautiful, golden hair catching the rays of the sun. She moved gracefully, full of life, as if nothing tragic had happened. He could hear her voice as she began to sing, draping the wet clothes over a line that pulled from the stable to the cottage. Tears stung Ronan’s eyes.

  But the door of the cottage opened again and when Ronan looked, he went to his knees. Kneeling there, he watched the man’s burly body move through the doorway into the sunshine. Father. The man lifted his eyes in Ronan’s direction and he smiled. Ronan was crying, deep sobs vibrating from his chest. It was better now. Everything was as it was supposed to be. When the man raised a hand and motioned for his son to join him, Ronan was on his feet instantly.

  It isn’t real. The words came out of nowhere. Still, he stepped forward and the atmosphere changed again, like ripples in water. He was standing in a room…her room. The one he’d longed locked off from the rest of his house. It held too many memories, mem
ories that haunted him at night.

  Slowly his eyes slid across the dusty top of the bureau. The material that draped over its corner and on the rotting chair in the corner had long been stained by time. Mice skittered across the floor along with other crawly things. Ronan had heard them behind the locked door but had left the room sealed anyway. It had been locked for nearly twenty years. No need to open that pain in his heart again. Let the mice eat it away, he had told himself.

  The scent of something old and dead filled his nose. He turned his face, shielding his nose against the scent with his arm. What was that smell?

  “Ronan.”

  His eyes darted to the bed and a cry strangled in his throat. Weak and fragile, she stared up at him from the dirtied moth eaten sheets. Her eyes pleaded for him to do something to ease the pain. He forgot the foul stench and reached for her hand.

  “Mother.” The word found his lips. This isn’t real. The warning came again and Ronan frowned with irritation at the interruption.

  “Help me, Ronan. Help me. Make this hunger go away.” Ronan eased down beside her. He looked at their hands. His were smooth, large for his age. Hers were withered and skeletal. That was one of the images that had always haunted him.

  “I don’t know how,” Ronan whispered, feeling very much like the boy he had been, helpless and lost. “I tried but you wouldn’t eat.”

  “Don’t let me die this time.” His mother’s voice tore at his heart. “You know what to do. Put me out of my misery, Ronan. You couldn’t do it before but you are a man now. You can do it.” His mother smiled weakly and gave him a nod. He looked at their hands again. His fingers were large, calloused. Years of smithing had hardened him. Don’t listen.

  “Be silent,” Ronan growled. It isn’t real. But his mother was smiling at him. She wasn’t crying the way she had when she had died before. She’d been crying and her eyes had reflected her disappointment in him. She’d begged him to end her suffering but he couldn’t.

  “I will do it this time, Mother. I will not make you suffer.” Ronan felt tears on his cheeks, running into his beard. “I swear it. I can save you.”

  “No, Ronan. Just end it. You can do it. You love me enough now. If you ever loved me, you can do it.”

  Ronan stood and took a step backward. Someone was holding him, trying to still him. He would not fail her this time. He would not. He released the invisible hand he had been holding and heard someone shout in the distance but he ignored it. The hilt of a sword was suddenly in his palm. He looked at the sword. It was the best he had ever made.

  A sound brought his eyes to the window. Outside Ahearn stood at the road, staring at him. It isn’t real. He turned away from those dark eyes. It was real enough for Ronan. It was real enough he could make it right this time. No! Yes.

  More hands pulled at him, grabbed his arm when he raised it, but his mother was smiling at him. She didn’t look sick any more. Starvation hadn’t claimed her body. And he wasn’t a skinny boy. He was a man. She nodded for him to set her free. Ronan knew what he had to do. He shrugged at the hands but they held him fast. He struggled, and his mother’s face began to wither again.

  “No!” His voice bellowed shook the world around him. “Mother, wait! I can do it!” This wasn’t real. Ahearn was right. But it felt real. He had to make it stop. The river was sucking him in. Light exploded and the hands that held him dropped away instantly. He was alone.

  “Don’t let me die like this again! Ronan, please…”

  The images rippled and Ronan fought to return to her but he was back at the river, laying face down on the raft. The rough wood timbers irritated the cut above his brow. He had the taste of the river on his lips, the water sloshing up through the planks and dampening his face.

  “Sir Culley?” Arien’s voice sounded uncertain and Ronan turned, looked up at those gathered about him. He coughed and sat up with embarrassment. No one reached to help him when he rose to his feet. Instead, they all moved out of his way.

  He shook the memory that the river had made raw from his mind. The river preyed on old wounds, reopened them and made them bleed anew. But Ronan had relived his nightmares on his own. He could walk away from this one too.

  “Are we across?” He looked out to find that they were indeed at the other side of the river. It had felt like days had passed rather than minutes and Ronan had a desperate urge to tell the man to push him off into the waters again.

  “You were right, Ula.” Ronan reached back for Sorcha’s reins and stepped from the platform. “That river is dangerous.”

  She didn’t answer and he looked back. No one else had moved. They were still staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. He looked down. The King’s Sword was gripped in his hand.

  “Mikel the Hort, you wanted to see this sword. Here it is.” Ronan watched the little man cautiously step forward, curiosity obviously overriding whatever fear he had.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mikel whispered, reaching to touch the metal but then his eyes lifted and his hand froze, waiting to see if Ronan would give him permission to touch the weapon.

  “Don’t. He could be someone trying to use it for darkness,” Keegan called. Ronan looked down at the changeling for a long moment then turned the hilt toward him. Mikel’s eyes widened.

  Ronan looked at Keegan when the horseman took a step forward, hand dropping to his own sword. He shook his head as Mikel gripped the leather bound hilt and Ronan released it to him. The tip hit the ground heavily.

  “It still feels warm.” Mikel looked back at the other without blinking, expression filled with amazement. “You can feel the magic’s heat.” Ronan frowned. What was he talking about? What magic?

  “Thank you, Sir Culley. I…I’m just a little guy. I would have never known what it was like to hold such a fine instrument.” The changeling held the sword back for Ronan to take. Ronan heard Keegan and Arien breathe out. But he’d known that little Mikel really didn’t mean any harm. He was a thief and not a very dangerous one.

  One by one the others rode their horses from the platform. Ahearn was cutting his eyes at Ronan as he passed and the blacksmith sent him a little wink. Tucking the sword away, he swung atop Sorcha’s back and then held down his hand. Mikel the Hort looked at it for a second before allowing Ronan to lift him to sit behind him.

  “You are not bringing him too?” Keegan interjected, staring at Ronan.

  “He paid our fare.” Ronan nodded. “And I believe him when he says it was not he that told the centaurs of the sword.” Keegan’s eyes narrowed on the changeling that peeked around Ronan’s shoulder.

  “I’m not worried about his mouth. It’s his fingers that concern me most. He is a self proclaimed thief.” Keegan dropped his gaze to the leather wrapped weapon.

  “He couldn’t even lift it. How could he steal it?” Ronan argued.

  Keegan looked at Mikel, pointing a finger at him. “I’m watching you. One step in the wrong direction and I will chop off your head,” Keegan warned. The changeling nodded and ducked behind Ronan.

  “The let us get going. I want to reach Fullerk before nightfall.” Ronan kicked his horse forward.

  Keegan glanced at Ronan several times, and then finally rode his horse alongside Sorcha. “How do you feel? Are you well?”

  It was an odd question but Ronan just shrugged. “I feel fine. I’ll feel better once there is some distance between us and the centaurs.” Keegan nodded and did not press. Ronan watched him ride ahead with Arien.

  “You don’t remember do you, Sir?” Mikel whispered from behind him. “And they are too afraid to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  * * *

  Bryan waited for the old man to come back across the river with his raft. The centaur had remained in the trees until he heard the blacksmith’s shout. It had been filled with agony. The River Blanch had gotten into his head and Bryan could only imagine what memory had made that sound of anguish find the man.

  He’d continued to shout until
they’d almost reached the other side. The bright light had come down from the sky and those around the blacksmith had parted.

  It had scared Bryan. He’d thought the witch had cast some curse and without thinking had galloped right out into the water. It taken all Bryan was made of to fight the water’s power. But he kept his eyes locked on the blacksmith, wishing he could see more of what was going on.

  For a moment the power of the river ceased and had changed colors. Then the blacksmith collapsed and the water recharged angrily, forcing Bryan back to the shore.

  When the old man brought the raft back, Bryan stepped aboard ignoring the scowl from the man. “No beasts this way.”

  “The bridge is out. There is no other way.”

  “Then build a new bridge,” Grayson snapped.

  “You will take me across or I shall kick the life from your head,” Bryan threatened menacingly. “And do not attempt to swindle me as you did that changeling. He paid you enough that my fare should be waived.” Grayson’s jaw tightened but he nodded and pushed off again, obviously wanting no trouble from the half-beast. Bryan smirked. Some good came out of being discriminated against. Ignorance bred fear.

  “What happened to that blacksmith?” Bryan gritted his teeth against the ache that began to throb again in his temples. But it wasn’t nearly as forceful as it had been when he’d waded out into it. And he’d traveled across the river many times, usually by bridge. It would have been an easier crossing. He could do it at a run. Now he had to wait while the old man pushed them across with his long stick.

  “Used that sword to calm the water. Never saw anything like that before and I’ve been doing this for many years,” Grayson said quietly.

  Bryan frowned. “Used the sword?”

  “Only a wizard could have done what he did. He was lost in the magic of the water. Then he called the sun and just lifted that sword. He put it right down into the river.” Grayson’s voice dropped to a whisper, “He used the magic of the white metal.” Bryan stared at the old man, then looked to the opposite shore. The small band of travelers had disappeared from sight, moving along toward Fullerk.